Feeling her clean hair on her face made Cora smile as she woke. She stretched her neck and pulled her hands out of the covers. Wrists flexed, and she stretched her fingers. Cora flipped the sheets off and raised her injured thigh, bending her knee. She ran her fingers over the stitches. It itched and she touched it gently to ease the sensation.
The pillow, the sheets, the clean shift all sang against her skin. Everything smelled of sandalwood instead of vinegar. Sandalwood instead of blood and excrement. Her eyes opened to darkness.
She flipped her legs over the side of the small bed and walked to the writing desk. Cora stepped with caution, savoring the freedom and ease of it. She felt for the fire lighter and snapped it.
The light cast long shadows on the tall ceiling. The white candle shone orange in the light. She lit the wick and watched as the black smoldered red and the flame grew brighter together.
Trinkets. Trinkets for me, not just torturers. Who wields it to best effect?
She turned the fire lighter in her hands. The steel glittered and she ran her thumb over the striker.
Aluminium? Manganese?
Cora leaned her back against the chair, rubbing the tension and bruises. In a single movement, she opened the drawer and slid out the paper and pencil.
Puzzles? Pictures? Nonsense? Flattery?
She set the pencil on the paper and drew a thin line, then turned the edge and drew a fat, light stroke. It swept into a curve and she started shading. She felt the graphite layer against the smooth paper under the heel of her hand. Cora closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek, her hand scribbling words that could not be read. Feelings that could only be shown.
Long minutes later, she opened her eyes, knowing what she would find. She took a deep breath, and laid the paper back in the drawer.
That works too. Interesting.
Cora slid the chair back with a screech and stood. She marched to the wardrobe and opened the only drawer with clothing. She lifted the shift over her head and threw it on the floor, before stepping into the trousers and pulling on the shirt.
The clothes were roughspun and made in Terndowns. They did not smell the same, but it felt like home. She started to sob, holding her voice in quiet choking gasps. She listened through her gasps, and caught her breath.
Eight counts in. Four to hold. Six counts out. Four to hold.
Footsteps, shuffling. The maids at the door. She wiped burning tears on her sleeve and sat up on the bed.
The door opened without a knock. They walked in, their eyes fixed on the floor. They did not move in sync, but everything else about them was as close to identical as she could imagine two people could be.
She opened her mouth and hesitated. Cora did not know their names.
Probably for the best. They would not write their names when I asked. Either fear or illiterate, but it comes to the same.
Their matching black buns and matching black uniforms bobbed as they both held out matching envelopes. Each envelope absorbed light, with a glittering gold seal decorating the center.
Cora stood and walked forward, brow wrinkled. She grabbed an envelope with each hand.
The maids did not look up or move. Cora stood for a moment before taking the notes to the writing desk.
She tore the side of one of the envelopes. The white paper within eased out, she read.
Coretta Hart,
I would ask
There was a number under each letter, and under the spaces. Twelve.
that you wou
ld join me fo
Cora stared at the pillar of text. Her face twisted and she turned away from the maids. They were not looking at her.
What has happened to you, Gavi?
She took a deep breath and opened the other envelope.
Coretta Hart,
I would ask
that you wou
ld join me fo
Her eyebrows raised and she sat the pages next to each other on the writing desk. The columns were on the opposite sides of the page. She looked at the maids out of the side of her eye. They had not moved. She turned back to the pages.
Cora lifted the one on the right and set it against the other, and the ink on each page touched. She held it up to the candle and wondered at the column of text, visible through the fine paper. With a hard swallow, she went back to the first page to finish reading.
Corretta Hart,
I would ask that you would join me for a candlelit dinner this evening. You will be provided with appropriate apparel, suited to your age and station. Polite conversation and fine food and wine will be on offer. Your acceptance is, of course, entirely optional.
I hope that you have as fond of memories of dining with me as I do with you.
I understand that given the circumstances you may think it there may be a presumption in my offer, but your acquiescence is a question of your personal consent. Send your response with the maids.
Waiting with patience and grace,
Gavin Llanarth, Sovereign of the Unblemished.
Cora scowled at the paper and sighed.
Patience and grace seems a distant aspiration, Cora thought.
She twisted her lips and drew out the graphite-covered paper from the drawer. She looked at it with new eyes and set it on the desk. She grinned and bit her lip.
Cora took the pencil and wrote across the page diagonally in the upper left corner.
Eagerly acquiescing, to be sure. See you tonight, Gavi!
Her cursive looped and swayed with each word.
I wonder if he’ll burn it.