Page 18

Brynla

After the bath incident with Andor, Lemi and I quickly sneak across the hallway. The door is wide open and the wallpaper is yellow floral, so I assume it’s the “yellow room.”

Like the bathroom, it’s grand. Too grand for me.

It has the same gilded arches over the windows, though they aren’t stained glass, and a burgundy velvet curtain frames two glass doors that open out onto a stone balcony that overlooks the courtyard below.

I decide to look after I have clothes on, just in case I end up flashing some of the Kolbecks or their help.

I focus on getting dressed. On the sprawling bed—the largest I’ve ever seen—are three outfits laid out.

Dresses in various shades of pink. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything pink in my whole life.

The colors we wear in Esland are dusty grays and browns and olive greens, the better to match the desert scenery.

The hooded robes we wore at the convent were heavy and black.

Anything with bright or pleasing colors would be seen as an affront to the dragons, as if we were trying to compete with their beauty.

Not that I’ve ever seen a pink dragon before.

Solla is roughly my size—neither of us is particularly thin—but I am quite a bit taller than her, so when I slip on the undershirt, the dress sleeves come halfway up my forearm, and the skirt hem hits at the ankle instead of the floor.

The neckline is somewhat low with lacy pink ruffles, and the velvet accents on the gown make me feel as if I’m wearing fancy upholstery. I feel silly but it fits well enough.

Then I glance in the mirror and nearly jump. Yes, I definitely look strange with my hair down and the fancy dress, like I’m a child trying on my mother’s clothes, as if my mother was some rich Norlander and not a rebel always scraping by on the outskirts of Lerick.

I start gathering my damp hair and braiding it down my back, looping it around a few times until it’s in a loose bun. There. Now I look a tiny bit more refined.

“What do you think, Lemi?” I ask him.

He tilts his head, pondering. I don’t want to hear his answer.

Knock knock.

“Who is it?” I ask, creeping toward the door.

I hear a muffled reply. “It’s Solla. Do you need any help with your dress?”

My first instinct is to say no, I’m fine. I’ve never needed help getting dressed before, not as an adult anyway. All my outfits are simple tunics and pants I can slip on. The corset ties up at the front, and even my armor snaps together with buckles I can reach.

But I haven’t worn a gown since I was a child, and I can’t reach the laces at the back.

“You may come in,” I reluctantly say.

The door opens and Solla pokes her head inside.

I didn’t really notice it before—I suppose I was too busy trying to plot my escape—but I see the resemblance to Andor.

Though her eyes are blue, not amber, and her forehead is hidden by her thick, dark bangs, I can tell her brow works overtime with her expressions, just like her brother’s.

She’s a really pretty girl, maybe a few years younger than me, petite with soft curvy lines and pale, smooth skin that point to a life of wealth and good, healthy food and having all your needs catered to.

And yet, even though she looks different from the wiry people of the Dark City, I wouldn’t underestimate this girl.

Not only because of her ability to move things with her mind, but because I sense a darkness behind the quiet posture, a strength in her diminutive height.

The same darkness I’ve glimpsed in Andor when he’s let his jovial mask slip for a moment.

“It’s not too big?” Solla asks, coming inside the room and closing the door after her.

I turn around and gesture to my back. “I guess I need some help with the laces. I’m afraid you have a bigger chest than me.”

She snorts. “I have a bigger chest than most women,” she says, coming around and grabbing the laces at the back. “I’ll tell you a secret with these dresses. Put the top on backward and then lace them up that way. Twist them around when you’re done. You won’t need anyone.”

She gives the laces a sharp tug that nearly squeezes the breath out of me.

“Sorry, is that too tight?” she asks sweetly.

“No,” I say with a gasp. “Who needs lungs anyway?”

She laughs softly at that and thankfully loosens the laces enough for me to breathe.

If it were my time of the month and I was feeling poorly, I wouldn’t be able to have any constriction around my middle at all.

“Sorry. My handmaid used to lace me up so tightly that I often fainted just roaming around the halls. It was my father’s idea, you know. To try to make some kind of point.”

“And what point is that?”

“His attempt at making me lose weight—or make me look like I had,” she says. “But I got the last laugh. I dismissed my handmaiden.”

So he’s not only a dick to Andor but to Solla as well. If that’s how he treats his children, then how will he treat a prisoner?

“Besides, I’ve never wanted to depend on anyone,” she goes on. I can agree with that.

“And your mother?” I ask. “Where is she?”

There’s a pause in her lacing. Then she clears her throat and resumes. “She’s dead.”

I know her pain too well.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Happened a long time ago,” she says. “I was only eight. And you?”

“And me what?”

“When did you lose your mother?” she asks, coming around the front of me, her eyes gentle.

“Grief can always recognize grief. The loss of a mother runs deep. Steiner believes that if we could look at the brain, we’d see the damage of when we experienced loss.

Like a black blight on a potato. His words, not mine. ”

As much as I appreciate the kind words and conversation, I don’t want to get personal.

“I was old enough,” I say, giving her a look to drop the subject.

She stares at me for a moment, reminding me of Andor. Then she nods slightly. “Why are you here anyway? It’s been a long time since we’ve had a prisoner.”

“Andor has a plan,” I say with a sigh.

“Andor always has a plan.”

“Do those plans ever work out?”

“More often than not,” she admits. “He just has an unconventional way of getting things done. Leaps before he looks. Usually lands on his feet. So what plan are you?”

I shrug. “Why don’t you ask him at dinner? I would love to know if this is another case of leaping before looking.”

“Oh, I’m sure there will be many more questions, coming from all directions,” she says.

Then she looks down at Lemi, who has been watching this whole interaction with patient confusion.

“Is he okay with other dogs? Vidar’s dog, Feral, often lies by the hearth when we dine.

He’s not as wild as his name suggests. And sometimes Steiner’s cat, Woo-woo, will drop by. ”

I can’t help but laugh. “Lemi should be fine with Feral. I’ll do what I can with Woo-woo.

It’s not that Lemi likes to chase cats, more that he likes to be an instigator and get the cats to chase him.

Either way, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen around the dinner table.

Otherwise, I can keep him here in the room. ”

Or I can try. The chances that Lemi won’t shift after me are low.

“What about shoes?” she asks me, glancing at my bare feet. “Do you need new ones?”

“I have the feet of a giant,” I tell her. “Yours won’t fit. I’ll just wear my boots.”

I grab the stockings she had laid out for me and slip them on, then pull on my boots that go up to my knees. Her nose wrinkles at first at the sight of something so dirty and utilitarian with her soft dresses. But then once I stand up she shrugs.

“Actually, I rather like the combination. Pretty yet rugged.” She gives me a soft smile and then eyes the grandfather clock in the room. “We should make our way down.”

“Come, Lemi,” I say to him. “Stay by my side like a good boy.”

We exit the room and step into the hall. I’m about to shut the door behind me, when the door shuts for me.

“Must be a drafty castle,” I comment wryly.

Solla doesn’t say anything to that. I want to ask about her mind-bending abilities but figure there’s enough time for that later. I have a feeling I’ll be spending all dinner fending off questions, not asking them.

We walk down the hall to the stairs and this time I’m able to sneak a peek down another wide corridor, one side lined with tall windows, the other with large doors spaced wide apart. I’m going to guess the chambers of the family.

Once we’re down on the main floor my nerves start to kick in. Lemi notices this and nuzzles my hand as we walk. Either that or he wants dinner.

It’s then that I smell it. The rich, hearty scent of spices and stewed meat wafting out from down the hall, making my stomach lurch in hunger. I haven’t eaten since this morning on the ship, and that was only a few dried pieces of salted cod.

Solla takes me through two open doors and into a massive dining hall with shining stone walls the same silver sheen as the exterior.

There is one large table in the middle to seat a dozen or so people, and there are two more tables at either end, enough to hold a banquet or a feast or whatever rich people in castles do.

Along the opposite wall are large windows framed by thick curtains that give a view into an orchard grove.

The outer castle wall rises behind it, the landscape grainy in the dusky light.

Some built-in seating is underneath the windows, the backs of the booths lined with draped furs, and a great fireplace with crackling flames in the center.

Above are several chandeliers lit with thick flaming candles that cast an additional glow into the room.

“Solla, dear, you’re early,” a woman says as she bustles into the room holding a tray of stacked dishes. She’s short and round with a crooked nose and lively eyes, her dark hair pulled back under a bonnet. She looks both old and young, an age that’s hard to place.