“Agreed. Now may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” said Kerim agreeably.
“Just who is Lord Ervan, and how did I become his widow?”
It was late in the evening when they finished ironing out their respective stories, and Sham was led, yawning, to the chamber that the Reeve had given her. As she shut the door behind the Reeve’s manservant, she stretched wearily and looked around.
It was smaller than Kerim’s chamber, but the lack of clutter made it seem much the same size. Unlike the Reeve’s room, thick rugs adorned the floor to keep the chill stone separated from vulnerable bare toes. Sham took off her shoes and let her feet sink into the pile of a particularly thick rug.
Experimentally she peered into the surface of the nightstand near the bed: the reflection that stared back at her was less blurred than the one in the little polished bronze mirror she habitually carried. The candles that lit her chamber were of the highest quality, and left the room smelling faintly of roses. In the Reeve’s chambers the lighting had been augmented by several large silver mirrors. Without the mirrors or the windows, the corners of this room were very dark.
She had never slept amid such extravagance even when she’d lived here with her father—she couldn’t even remember when she’d last slept in a bed. The widow of Lord Ervan would have taken it as no more than her due, but without someone to perform for she was only a peasant-thief in a place she didn’t belong.
Like the one in Kerim’s room, the fireplace stonework covered most of one wall with tapestries hung on either side. As she walked closer, she noticed a door tucked discreetly behind one of the elaborately woven wall hangings on the small part of the wall not occupied by the fireplace.
The sight of the discreet opening cheered her, reminding her why she was here. Dickon had taken her through several halls that twisted and turned, but thieving had gifted Sham with a very good sense of direction. She suspected that the door connected to a similar one in the inner wall of the Reeve’s chambers—fitting for the Reeve’s mistress, of course.
Returning to the bed. Sham kicked off the slippers that matched her black dress. The fastenings were on the front, so she had refused the offer of a maid. She left the gown lying on the floor where it had fallen, knowing that only someone used to such costly apparel would be so careless. Snuffing out the candles, she climbed into bed and tucked her knife under the pillow, successfully resisting the urge to lie on the floor until she fell asleep.
Blood drip-dropped from the man’s hand onto the smooth granite floor, making a dark viscous puddle. This one had been very satisfactory; his surprise, his terror was sweetening for the meal he’d so generously provided. The demon smiled as it contemplated its handiwork.
The plain-faced maid who entered the room the next morning and began to light the candles never saw the knife Sham reflexively seized at the sound of the door opening.
“Good morning, Lady Shamera. My name is Jenli and my Uncle Dickon told me you would need a maid. If I am not satisfactory, you are to let him know and he will find someone else.” This speech was said to the bed tick as the girl folded it neatly back; it was also said in Southern that was so thickly accented as to be virtually indecipherable.
Sham belatedly remembered her role as the Reeve’s mistress and responded accordingly—in accented Cybellian. “As long as you keep your tongue still about my personal business and listen to what I say, a replacement will not be necessary.”
“No, Lady ... I mean, yes, Lady.”
Sham gave the maid an assessing glance. Jenli didn’t resemble Lord Kerim’s personal servant in the slightest. Where he was tall and spare, she was short and round. Every thought that crossed her mind crossed her face first. It would be a long time, if ever, before she matched the perfect-servant expression favored by Dickon—thank the tides.
Sham palmed her knife to keep it out of the maid’s sight and got out of bed, wandering languidly to the trunk at the foot. When she casually dropped the soft lace nightdress on the floor, Jenli blushed and paid even closer attention to the bed tick.
Sham opened the trunk, newly purchased to hold Lady Shamera’s necessities, and inspected its contents—the few items of clothing the dressmaker could make ready immediately, her bundle of Purgatory garb, the flute she’d taken the night the Old Man died, and several canvas bags full of sand to make the trunk weigh what it should. She supposed that she really should have stored the flute in her cave, but it was tied to Maur and she hadn’t had the will to set it aside.
When Jenli stepped forward to help, Sham tossed a neatly folded dress across the room where it graced the floor like a dying butterfly. Jenli brought her hands to her cheeks and rushed to save the expensive material.
“Oh, Lady, these should have been hung up and ... here, let me take that.”
The shy, soft-spoken maid snatched the cloth-of-gold overdress out of her hands with the swiftness of a pickpocket. When the maid turned her back to hang the garment the wardrobe, Sham took the dress she wanted out of the trunk, closing and locking the lid with a touch of magic.
The gown she chose was a blue so deep it was almost black, complementing her eyes perfectly, and trimmed in a light yellow the same color as her hair. The sleeves covered her arms and shoulders entirely. The back was high cut and the collar fastened tightly around her throat. Jenli stood behind her and fastened the myriad of buttons that ran up the back of the dress. When Sham turned around the maid’s eyes widened a little.
“Where is the underdress, Lady?” questioned the maid uncertainly.
“What underdress?”
Jenli cleared her throat. “Some packages arrived from the dressmakers this morning, madam; shall I have them brought up?”
Sham nodded absently, adjusting the gown for maximum effect. “Thank you. Where is the Reeve this morning?”
“I don’t know, Lady, I am sorry. Would you like me to do your hair this morning?”
“Just brush it out,” said Sham, then added in a fretful tone, “I need to find Kerim.”
The maid led her over to the delicate bench that sat in front of a small bronze mirror. While she brushed the heavy blond mane, Shamera examined the dress with satisfaction.
It had been intended to he worn with an underdress. The silk stopped just below the peak of her breasts, offering a tantalizing view of their undersides as she moved. It managed to push her breasts in such a manner as to make her look far more endowed than she was. Material draped from the sides gracefully, exposing her navel before gathering together at her hips.
It wasn’t as if the dress were indecent by Southwood standards. Away from the cool ocean air of Landsend, one of the traditional styles of dress was an embroidered bodice and skirt that left the midriff bare. It was the contrast of the modest style and color of the dress with the bare skin that made the dress shocking.
When the maid was finished with her hair, Shamera applied her own cosmetics, shading her eyelids with grey powder and staining her lips red. Face powder was something that she’d never been able to abide for long periods of time, so she left it off. Finished with her toilet, Sham drifted gracefully to the inner door, ignoring the one leading to the hall.
“My Lord?” she said softly, cracking the door open so the Reeve would hear her address.
“Enter.”
She ducked daintily under the heavy material and advanced into the room. Kerim was talking with several noblemen. As Shamera sauntered across the soft carpeting, conversation ground to a halt.
“Lady.”
Shamera looked behind her to see the maid ducking through the door. In her hands were a pair of satin slippers that matched the blue dress.