by Mira Zamin
“Ready?” Gwydion said as we walked towards my rooms.
“For what?” I blinked, the personification of wide-eyed innocence.
“Do not toy with me, Selene.”
I straightened to my full height, the top of my head level with his eyes. “You can beat me, but you cannot force me. And tonight is not the night.” We had reached my chambers, but I refused to open the door until he left.
His jaw clenched. “I can find my pleasure elsewhere,” he replied dismissively. “Your sister for instance is quite lovely, even in repose.”
“You unspeakable bastard.”
He chuckled. It was a corrosive sound. “You know your duty then.”
I thought quickly. Huskily, I whispered, “Tonight I invite you to seek your enjoyment…” I slipped through the door. “In a brothel.” I secured the lock. Even Gwydion was not repulsive enough to do what he had just threatened.
After his footsteps had faded down the corridor, I slipped out of the itching blue gown and stepping into the tall copper tub in the alcove, I turned a few select knobs and was rewarded with hot water pouring down my back. My stiff muscles loosened. After bathing dreamily, I pulled on a nightgown two years out of fashion and very reminiscent of that era with its short bell sleeves. It was lovely and homey in its datedness. The soft linen smelled of the lemon verbena soap the washerwomen used and the scent filled me with homesickness for the past.
Listening at the door to make sure neither Gwydion nor his men loitered outside, I quietly padded to my parents’ chambers, where they had been carefully arranged by Gwydion’s men. Light with grief, as if in sadness my density in the world had grown less certain, I crept into their bed and lay my head on my mother’s chest. Her heartbeat lulled me softly to sleep.