The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Eighty-Eight

It took exactly four linen bedsheets for Hope to get into the Eastern Tower.

The idea had come to her as she passed a gilt mirror on the third floor. It had been placed on the wall, opposite the windows overlooking the gardens, so that it bounced fresh morning light into what would have otherwise been a rather miserable corridor.

She touched her hair, pushing a strand behind her ear. Her skin was stark white, making her freckles stand out as if she had been splattered by paint. And her hair, darkened by sweat, and pulled free of its pins by her exertions, now hung in wild waves around her shoulders. There was a stain on her dress, where Lake had been sick on her, and her kerchief had come untucked. She was not looking her best.

She looked around, as if expecting to find a basin and ewer of water just waiting for her to wash herself with. Nothing.

Turning back to the mirror, she rubbed at her chin with her thumb in an attempt to remove the smudge that had placed itself there. All she succeeded in doing was make a red splodge appear on her skin.

"Damn," she said, looking about her once more, as if a basin of water might have appeared in the interval.

Something did catch her eye though. There, right in front of her, was a delicately painted vase of roses. Pink roses. She picked one up, and breathed in its scent. She hadn't smelt a rose in such a long time. When she was little, the head gardener would bring in cut roses before a masque for the young girls to tuck into their bodices. He'd always put aside some white ones for her. Pink clashed so dreadfully with her hair.

After a last sniff, she threw it aside. It smashed to the ground, scattering petals around her feet. She touched them with the toe of her shoe, so that they crushed amongst the strewing herbs. The rest of the bouquet followed, surrendering their scent to the space.

The vase had a good slosh of water still in it. Hope brought it to her nose with trepidation, and curled in in disgust as her fears were realised. None too fresh. Still, beggars could not be choosers, and she was definitely going begging today.

She poured a measure into her hand, and before she could think better, applied it liberally to her face and neck, rubbing vigorously all the while.

Wiping away the water which had stuck in her lashes, she blinkingly looked at her reflection. She was shocked by the image. The cold water had added colour to her cheeks and brought some sparkle back to her lashes.

With her damp hands, so flattened down her hair, coaxing the auburn locks into submission.

Her fingers found their way down to the sides of her face, and she stroked away the lines which framed her eyes. It had been a long time since Wallia had seen her properly. He had looked horrified out there in the street, as if he'd spotted some hideous monster. To tell the truth, she had felt the same, but it didn't matter if she thought he was a troll. It was his opinion of her which mattered. She badly needed his favour.

There was still the problem of her gown. Hope picked at the stain at her waist. No amount of old flower water was going to make that look presentable.

She had to find another dress.

It took her three room searches and six locked doors to work out that while the court must have left quickly, they'd taken their time to ensure that their possessions where not left for the taking by the likes of her.

In the fourth room, Hope sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. She had dragged her little girl all this way, left her alone even, and for what? To fail because of the lack of a dress. She groaned and fell back against the pillows.