If She Had Known

Chores

The tattoo on my arm was a lifeline to sanity as I frantically scrubbed at the floors of the hallway. I dunked the large brush into the bucket I had been given.

"If it's not washed and shining by supper," one of the faeries had said, it's teeth clicking as it grinned, "we're to tie you to the spit and give you a few good turns over the fire."

With that, they had left. I scrubbed the floors until my arms were shaking with the force of my cleaning, but it was to no avail. The water I was given turned as brown as the floor and only made it worse when I used it to continue scrubbing.

I knew logically that Rhys would never let them roast me over the fire, but the knowledge of that fact did not stop the panic that rose in me as the water in my bucket became dirtier and dirtier the more I scrubbed. I had realized with a start that Rhys didn't know about this chore, of the Lady of Autumn's help. I could have called through the tattoo for him, but something kept me.

A door clicked open somewhere down the hall, and I shot to my feet. An auburn head peered at me. I wasn't so foolish this time as to believe Lucien was coming to help me. I gave a timid curtsy to the Lady of Autumn as she approached.

"For giving her your name in place of my son's life." She pointed at the bucket with a too-slender hand. "My debt is paid." She disappeared through the door she'd opened, leaving the smell of roasting chestnuts and crackling fires in her wake.

I shuddered, Rhys must have known after all, for he had held Lucien's mind and waited for me to offer my name that day in the throne room. If I hadn't, the High Lady would not have come to help me. I shivered to think of what Rhys was doing that prevented him from helping me himself. I allowed myself a moment to slump over my knees before I dumped some of the water onto the floor and watched it wash away the muck.

*

To the chagrin of the guards, I had completed their impossible task. But the next day, they smiled at me as they shoved me into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles, and pointed to a looming fireplace. "Servant spilled lentils in the ash," one of the guards grunted, tossing me a wooden bucket. "Clean it up before the occupant returns, or he'll peel your skin off in strips."

A slammed door, the click of a lock, and I was alone.

The smell nearly assaulted me. Citrus and sea. I hadn't been so surrounded by him in months, save for the too rare moments where I got to just rest in his arms. The scent surrounded me like an embrace.

I let the bucket drop from my hands and crawled onto the enormous bed with silky black sheets. I sunk down and closed my eyes, and for a moment I could pretend I was home, in a bed that smelled like him.

But it was somehow wrong. Sure, the sheets smelled like him, but not enough. As if he never slept here. There was nothing of him here, no books or weapons or discarded clothes to show that he had even been here. I tried to swallow my tears as best I could and buried my face into the pillow.

It wasn't long until the lock clicked, and I removed my tear-swollen face from his bedding.

"In all my fantasies of coming back and seeing you in my bed, I never imagined you crying." He closed the door, locking it behind him. I wiped my face, hoping to quell the tears I hadn't meant to release. He climbed onto the bed with me, bringing me to his chest. I knew he was turning over in his mind what could have been so saddening to bring me to tears, but I was in no mood to pour over it.

I let my hands trail under the hem of his shirt, running my fingers over his tan skin. Without even thinking, my leg came up to hook over his hip, pulling me that much closer to him. Being here with him, like this, was what I needed. The only thing that could console me.