Page 59 of Sigma

I withdraw the parcels in the bag—packages wrapped in thin brown butcher’s paper, tied with twine. In one package is a complete outfit: black leggings, a sapphire blue tunic, a black belt, and a matching set of undergarments—not quite lingerie nor exactly plain utilitarian. The other packages contain similar outfits—stylish, comfortable, and neither formal nor loungewear or casual. At the bottom of the bag, a selection of footwear: some black ballet flats, white wedge sandals, a pair of heather-gray sneakers of some light stretchy material.

He’s merely watching me.

“Am I supposed to change here? Go back to the tower? Is there a restroom nearby?” I ask.

He shrugs. “The tower is on the opposite end of the property from the orangery. There is a toilet nearby, but it is for the use of the kitchen staff, and not a very private place.”

I huff.

But then…what do I have to hide? He’s already seen all of me there is to see.

I won’t be cowed. I won’t be embarrassed.

I lift my chin and hold his gaze. “Very well, then.”

I peel the polo shirt off, taking the time to fold it and set it on the couch. The shorts, as well. His eyes do not turn away—he provides no pretense of not watching me. His eyes are greedy and hot.

I step into the underwear first, a pair of yellow boy shorts. The bra is of a matching color, a T-shirt Demi bra. Surprisingly comfortable, and well-fitting. How he knows my exact sizes, I don’t care to guess.

The leggings and tunic fit just as well, and it’s marvelous to be properly dressed again. I pair the outfit with the black ballet flats—all I need to feel fully presentable would be to have my hair out of my face.

I don’t have a brush or hair ties or a mirror, however.

As if he understands my dilemma, he moves to stand behind me, and I feel his hands gathering my hair, finger-brushing it with deft, delicate movements; to my shock, he then begins braiding it, quickly and without hesitation or fumbling.

“Hand me a piece of that twine,” he says.

When I do so, he manages to keep the braided end of my hair pinched, holds the length of twine in the same hand, and produces his knife from somewhere to slice a smaller piece free. He then ties my hair off and knots the twine around the end.

“You can braid hair.” It comes out as a statement, but is meant as a question.

“Yes.” No explanation. “Come. Lunch awaits.”

He leads the way—out of the library and down the long hallway which seems to run the width of the building along the back, one entire wall of the hallway is glass, looking out onto the maze of hedges surrounded by an expansive, rolling lawn. A door occasionally breaks up the glass, opening out onto a small veranda. We come to an intersection where a hallway bisects the one we’re in, leading to what I believe would be the front door if we went right, and to the kitchen if we went left. I hear sounds from the left—the first sign of life I’ve heard anywhere in his mausoleum of a castle: rattling of pans, voices chattering in a smattering overlap of languages, laughter.

“Can I see the kitchen?” I ask.

He stops, arches an eyebrow at me. “Why?”

I shrug. “Curious. You and Consuela are the only people I’ve seen.” I frown. “Well, other than that one guy when you left during dinner to kill someone.”

He regards me. “That man is Tomás, my…assistant, I suppose.” He blinks, chews on the inside of his cheek. “I did not kill anyone, that evening.”

“You didn’t?”

He shakes his head. “To kill is distasteful to me—it puts me off my appetite. I would not be able to return to a meal if I was forced to kill.”

“You had blood on you. Not yours, either.”

A long penetrating gaze. “It was from the man in the dungeon.”

“Tell me.”

He tilts his head, turns to face me. “You wish to know?”

“I do.”

“Why?”