Page 38 of Of Bargains & Betrayal

9

PURELY HYPOTHETICAL, OF COURSE

ENORA

Those two objects seized my attention inarguably. The temptation to haul off the bed, don my father’s necklace, and inspect the remnants of my Frost was brutal. I didn’t think I was above licking the inside of the bag for any traces of the relief it might bring, but, to my surprise, I never budged.

I didn’t mean to nod off, but I woke up with a start, slumped over on my side on the plush duvet. My neck and back gave achy protests as I straightened, and my suspicion that I’d been asleep for hours was confirmed when I wandered over to the closest window.

The spotty cloud cover from earlier had dissipated, and the sun had already moved on from its apex in the sky. At least now, I knew Grimmoria had proper sunny days, though I wasn’t sure why that mattered. Had I been feeling a little braver, I would’ve tried opening the window to see what kind of warmth came with that sun. But Maksym’s vague warning of guards beyond my sight lingered in my mind.

Instead, I turned my attention well away from the scenery that was pointless to appreciate and approached the dressing table.

I grabbed the velvet pouch from its surface, letting out a shaky breath at the weight it still held, and I chucked it right into the bottom drawer. I slammed it shut with a little more force than needed and stalked straight into the adjoining bathroom.

Out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. I needed my wits about me for a few days.

Was the king making a dig when he suggested I bathe? Probably.

But he also wasn’t wrong, and it only took one overlong glance in the large bathroom mirror to confirm that. Never mind being a little gaunt and sickly—I was filthy.

At least Grimmorians seemed to appreciate the art of bathing as much as my people did.

There was just the simple matter of figuring out how to fill the ample basin, a tenebrous stone beast set into the wall opposite me and framed by frosted window panes.

In Odessa, our tubs were simple. A dial for fire-heated water, a dial for fresh spring water. A single spigot for the water to flow from, and a single drain in the base to carry it away when you were done.

This was nothing like that.

There were levers and dials and spigots all over—coming from the tub, the walls, and even one from the floor.

The lever closest to me stirred a rumbling in the pipes, but not a drop of damned water in sight.

My next two attempts yielded just a little.

On the fourth, I let out a shrill shriek as water poured from holes I never noticed in the ceiling, splattering off the basin and all over me as I leaned halfway across the tub to reach the damn dial.

I shut it off as quickly as I’d opened it and sat back with a huff.

“Fucking dark fae,” I mumbled. “Can’t even make a goddess-damned bath simple.”

A few profanity-laced attempts later, I had a stream of lukewarm water from a bronze spigot shaped like a fish, and I left the tub to fill while I undressed.

I wasn’t sure if I had the luxury of another change of clothing—and didn’t feel like rummaging around—so I left my skirt, blouse, and vest draped over the end of the bed, my boots beside it.

My horrifically matted braids took a healthy few minutes to unwind, but a brush left on the bathroom counter helped me work through them.

I just ignored the crumbles of mystery crud that dusted the sink after and rinsed it all away before I climbed into the tub. My ass barely touched the stone bottom before the water took on a murky tinge.

There were plenty of soaps along the bath edge, though, and I set out scrubbing every inch of my body, including my mottled scar of a shin that I tried to ignore.

After three rounds of scrubbing, draining, filling, and scrubbing again, the bathwater was clear, and my skin had a slight floral scent to it that was a welcome change. I wrapped myself up in a soft robe hanging near the tub, took a towel to soak up my sopping hair, and got settled back out at the dressing table.

To my disappointment, I hadn’t been able to wash away the hollow shadow clinging to my eyes.

But I shoved that depressing thought aside and reached for the comb—only to go stiff when I glanced down.

I blinked for good measure at where I was positive I had left the comb, and only the comb, not something I had written off as lost.