Maia succumbed to her mortification. Despite the pain gnawing in her middle, she rose from the floor. She was nearly as tall as Lady Shilton now, though much more fragile and frail since she had been forbidden to exercise and was still not allowed to walk the grounds. The window of her room had been nailed shut since her last escape, though the crooked piece of broken glass had not been mended.
“Because I have but one gown,” Maia said, defeated and ashamed. With Lady Shilton still clinging to her arm, Maia turned her body and showed the back of her skirt, which was black and stained with blood from her flux. “It came on during the night. I was going to wash it after the servants were abed. Please, Lady Shilton.” She stared hard into her eyes. “Do not make me come downstairs.”
Lady Shilton seemed to see her for the first time. The quivering rage in her lip slowly stilled. The exasperation and violence in her eyes cooled. She was a wicked woman, hurtful and cruel, but she was still a mother deep in her heart. A grandmother too.
“So . . . so often you feign illness,” Lady Shilton muttered, the heat gone from her voice.
“I know,” Maia said softly. “Would you not if you wore rags and lived up here?”
“It is no more than you deserve,” Lady Shilton said, her voice betraying her with a hint of compassion. “You are a bastard.”
Maia stood up as straight as she could. “I am a princess.”
A feeling swept into the room. It was powerful, so powerful that it made Maia’s voice tremble as she uttered the words. It was a truth spoken. Not the defiant tantrum of a disavowed daughter. It was pure, soul-searing truth.
Lady Shilton quailed in front of the young woman in the tattered bloody dress and released her grip. She took an involuntary step backward. A curious feeling coursed through Maia’s veins then. It was a form of power. The truth was a form of power. Was it the Medium? It felt like it.
Maia smoothed her skirts. She had grown a little since being given the servant’s gown, and now the hem did not even reach her ankles. Many of the seams had split and torn and she had been forced to beg for thread and needles to stitch them herself. The split at her elbow had not been fixed yet and Lady Shilton’s tugging at her arm had ripped it even more. The fabric was threadbare in places. Maia felt self-conscious, but she stood erect and proud, a king’s daughter in her heart, though no longer in title.
“I . . . I will not . . . make you come down,” Lady Shilton said, retreating toward the door. “Your flux came on last night?”
Maia nodded and rubbed her temples, which throbbed painfully with her pulse. “I am not hungry. Truly.”
Lady Shilton slipped out the door and shut it behind her. Maia sat on the edge of the bed, weariness sapping her, but she had won something. It was a small victory, but she treasured those the most. Exhausted, she lay back down on the bed and stared at the hole in the window, watching the gray sky and hearing the wind whistle across the eaves.
Maia awoke to the sound of someone mounting the attic steps. She turned her neck and was surprised when Lady Shilton entered again, more solemnly than she had earlier in the day. She was carrying several things—a tray with a washing basin and a half loaf of dark bread, dripping with melted butter. It made Maia’s mouth water just to look at it. Beneath the tray was a bundle of gray-green cloth.
“I have some rags as well,” Lady Shilton said. “I thought you might want to wash.” Maia noticed the small kettle on the tray as Lady Shilton set it down. “The water is still warm.”
Maia stared at her in shock. The woman had never, not once, shown her a kindness. She could hardly believe it.
“Thank you,” Maia said, a tremor in her voice.
Lady Shilton lifted the tray and then unfolded the bundle of fabric. It was a servant’s gown, one from Lady Shilton’s own household. It was what her ladies-in-waiting wore. Maia had fancied the roping on the sleeves and the back of the gown, which cinched the fabric tight. It had always looked elegant and simple. It was a servant’s garb, not a lady’s, but anything was better than the rags she had worn.
“I thought you might want to . . . borrow . . . a gown while the other one . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her lips pursed sourly, her cheek muscle twitching. “Just give me . . . yours.” She swallowed. “I will burn it.” She sniffed and waved her hand impatiently. “Come, child. Off with it. I will burn it.”
Maia was not sure she could trust her. She was afraid of trusting anyone. That she should find a little sympathy from this hard, stern woman—it truly surprised her. Besides, she dared not remove her gown and expose the kystrel or the shadowstain on her breast. “I would rather keep it, Lady Shilton,” Maia said demurely. “For washing days.”
“It is no matter to me what you do with it.” She sniffed again, handing over the bundle. “I called for my apothecary, Mikael Healer. He is a good man, trained in Billerbeck Abbey, and he will bring you some remedies.”