Stewing in the bath, I contemplate Alder's actions till now. He has, by all accounts, behaved as a gentleman should. His gaze does not linger too long. His touch is never more forceful than necessary. Yet, I find myself yearning for more impassioned responses. Earlier, as he wrested me from Nicolin's grasp, I wished for Alder to put Nicolin in his place, to cut his cousin down with either his words or his sword.
Floating my hands through the water, I allow myself to daydream for a few moments longer. Then I snap out of my stupor and pinch myself hard on the thigh. Of course Alder would not go out of his way to defend some common whore. It is not as though I am a noble woman. It is not as though we are engaged. Alder owes nothing to me.
As soon as I step out of the bath, the second servant girl enters. In the hazy light, I could almost mistake her for Byrde. She is taller and slimmer, though her round face preserves a youthful appearance. The girl helps towel my hair. After I am dried, she helps me into a pale blue dress. No servant's frock this time. Still, it is not as elegant as a gown a noble lady might wear. Indeed, if my life had proceeded under normal circumstances these past two years, this soft cotton piece may have been one I purchased for my own wardrobe.
"What's your name, dear?" I ask the servant girl.
"Matylde. And you need not flatter me, you are likely not much older than I." Her voice is flat and serious, unlike Byrde's chipper tone.
"Are you and Byrde..."
"Sisters, yes," Matylde interrupts, finishing my sentence. The restrained malice she shows me is what I had been expecting all along. No servant wants to wait upon someone of the same station. It is a wonder she has agreed to serve me at all.
Still, her rude manner takes me aback. This is a good thing, I decide. Matylde's attitude will help put me in my place, remind me that I am nothing to either Alder or Nicolin. Far below that of a noble woman, I am a mere thing. An object of desire, that's what Madam referred to us girls as. As soon as we started believing ourselves to be something more, she made sure to discipline us. Ego, pride, believing that we deserve better--such feelings were a sure path to misery. There is nothing better for a whore like me.
Stepping out of the bathing room, I make my way down the hall back to Alder's chambers. However, I find that the door is closed. Instead, directly across the hall, I see Alder standing in what must be his study. The desk is piled high with papers and he quickly scans over them, rearranging the sheets into different piles.
Approaching the doorway, I knock gently. Alder turns to me and freezes in place. His eyes are locked onto me. Or perhaps simply my dress, as his gaze does not reach my face. For a moment, I wonder why, until I piece it together. Mirilis. The dress must have belonged to her.
My stomach churns. The fact that Alder is lending me his former lover's clothes must mean that she is... Dead. Else, Alder is a fool of a man for lending a lover's clothes to a mistress.
"Do you need any assistance, master?" I ask, slowly entering the study.
Stiff as a statue, Alder does not even lower the piece of paper he had been reading. His eyes follow my legs, watching the way the fabric ripples and shifts as I reach his desk.
Since he has not protested, I put myself to work, itching for an intellectually stimulating task. Scanning over each correspondence, I learn that Alder is the heir apparent to this castle. His father, the Lord, is of poor health and confined to his chambers, where Alder's mother also spends most of her days caring for the sickly man. A few letters from the Meryld family--a familiar name that I heard my first night here, though I cannot recall the context.
Finally, my eyes land on a report that seizes all the air in my chest. Kitlanya is preparing to go to war with Prenyth, the kingdom to the south. Kitlanya's King has ordered Alder, as de facto head of the Vaisal family, to prepare the defenses for this land. My head spins as I process the information. Kitlanya going to war? And Alder to lead his forces into battle? So many political happenings have developed without my awareness. The greedy nobles of the capital did not once mention an imminent war during my last year at the brothel. Of course, since it is not their own blood that will be shed during such a battle. Their corruption and complacency has always sicked me.
I reach out for this report, aiming to place it with the stack of other papers that seem to be related to military affairs. Alder grabs my wrist in midair, gripping me painfully.
"Master," I gasp in shock. "Apologies, I was only trying to help."
There's a hardness to his expression that I cannot read. Why must he treat me so delicately one moment then scorn me the next? If only he would cast me aside for good, make clear my standing in his eyes. Then I would give up on any fantasy of leveraging him for my freedom. Why show me any kindness at all? Would he go out of his way to provide for any whore that shares his bed? I cannot make heads or tails of it.
"Leave that," Alder hisses, throwing my arm down. He haphazardly tosses the paper in his hand before making his way out of his study. The page glides through the air before landing on the floor.
Stupefied, I stand among his dark wooden bookshelves, the finely lacquered desk. Each day, he moves one step closer to me, then takes two steps back. It will be difficult to gain his affections.
Not knowing what else to do, I turn my attention back to the stacks of papers. For a few hours, I reorganize each letter and report, sorting by subject and implied urgency. The task makes my heart quiver as I recall how I used to do the same thing for my father, when he was still alive. I repress my longing for those days before the accident, before my life was put on this current path. There is no use in dwelling what cannot be changed.
When I am almost done organizing the correspondence, I remember the single page Alder had dropped earlier. It lays on the plush red carpet spread underneath the desk. Bending over to pick it up, I hear a familiar voice grate on my ears.
"Now there is a sight I love to see," Nicolin jeers from the doorway. "A good woman bent over, waiting for me."
I roll my eyes, confident that he cannot see from this angle. Straightening back up, I pretend that I did not hear him. Once the final piece of paper is in the correct pile, I spend an unnecessarily long time adjusting each stack, ensuring that every corner is aligned.
From behind, Nicolin's hands wrap around my hips and I jump. "Poor thing, you must be so bored. Alder's a busy man without much time to play. But worry not, I am here to keep you entertained," he whispers in my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine, the tingle lingering as he begins kissing the nape of my neck. This close, I can smell the wine on his breath. How utterly in-character for him to be drunk by noon.
One of his hands squeezes my ass as the other finds its way to my breasts. He cups one of them, loosely fondling it before shoving his hand down the neckline of my dress. I gasp as his fingers graze bare skin. Strangely, Nicolin's touch feels different from earlier. Softer, more sensual. His fingers linger longer than normal, the pressure less like a predator's claws and more like a lover's massage. Perhaps the drink has dulled his reflexes. Soon, my nipples start hardening, arousing me as they rub against my cotton dress. Without seeing a face, I start to imagine that I am being enveloped in Alder's embrace...
But my reverie is cut short when Nicolin grasps my arms and spins me around to face him, pinning me to the desk. His eyes scan over my body, not lasciviously this time, but with confusion.
"Say, is this not one of Mirilis's dresses?" Nicolin slurs.
Swallowing hard, I do not answer. His use of the past tense in referring to Mirilis confirms my suspicions about the woman's passing. She must have been a prominent presence in Alder's life if even Nicolin recognizes a single dress of hers.
"A beauty, that one," Nicolin states with a perverted smirk. "Always wanted to get my hands on her."
