A Red-Rose Chain

“I don’t know. He’s your squire, and you’re pretty good with the willful ignorance. He’s learning from the best, is all I’m saying.” She paused as we passed the wardrobe, taking her arm away long enough to open it and pull out a clean blouse, bra, and panties. “Let’s at least try not to scandalize the poor boy. He’s having a hard enough time figuring out what he wants without you flashing your boobies all over the place.”


She was trying hard to cheer me up. I recognized that, even as part of me balked at her needing to. She had spent the day trying to gather information and discovering just how messed-up Silences really was; she had barely slept. She deserved better than to have me clinging to her arm like some fainting heroine in a bad gothic romance . . . but I didn’t let go, and when she started for the bathroom, I let her lead the way without fighting. It was easier.

I needed a little easy.

The bathroom was large enough to contain an old-fashioned copper bathtub, complete with clawed feet that dug into the tiled floor like they were declaring war on the plumbing. There was plumbing, which was a bit of a relief: I’d been half afraid we were going to need to fetch buckets or boil our own water. Instead, May turned on the taps, beginning to fill the tub with steaming water.

“I brought bubble bath, on the assumption that you were going to need to scrub blood off yourself at some point; I guess this is a similar situation,” she said, indicating a bunch of bottles arranged on the sill of the room’s single window. The glass was cloudy with particulates, but judging by the green on the other side, it looked out on a garden of some sort. We were on the second floor. Make that “it looked out on the trees growing in the garden.”

May grabbed two bottles, uncapped them with her thumbs, and sniffed their contents before announcing, “You’re going to be the most perfumed princess at the party,” and dumping a healthy amount of both liquids into the bath. The water promptly foamed up, smelling of peppermint and rosemary.

I blinked at May. Then, slowly, understanding dawned, and I smiled. She wanted to remove the temptation. With two strong herbs scenting the air, there would be virtually no chance of my smelling the traces of goblin fruit still clinging to my skin.

She smiled back, even as she was tipping another vial of Walther’s countercharm into the water. Just in case. “Get in the bath. I need to have you dressed again and ready to go before Tybalt gets back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I stood, stepping out of my shoes, and peeled off my underpants before allowing May to help me into the bathtub. I would have felt weird about that, but the tub was twice as high as the one we had at home, and had clearly been designed for someone with attendants to use. She took her hand away as soon as I was in the water, and leaned over to turn off the taps.

“There,” she said. “Now clean yourself up, and tell me what happened.”

“I’m not sure you really want me to,” I said, sinking down so that the bubbles were up to my chin. Then, and only then, I began to speak.

There wasn’t much to tell, but it took a surprisingly long time to tell it all, especially since May kept asking me to back up and repeat things that she considered important—some of which were seriously odd. She focused less on the goblin fruit juice than she did on the spices in the quiche, for example, and on the seating arrangement of the room.

When I finished, she looked at me, lips pressed into a hard line, and shook her head. “That’s messed up. The etiquette of the room is all off. He’s playing at classy, and falling way short.”

“I don’t know about that, but I know it’s messed up. You didn’t see . . . is the chef a pureblood at least?” Anything to let me believe, however temporarily, that Rhys wasn’t making his changeling servants crush the goblin fruit themselves.