Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

34

Mhera opened her eyes to sunlight streaming through the windows of the little cottage and the smell of something cooking. Her stomach may have been what woke her. She could not remember ever having been as hungry as she felt now; her belly was cramped and empty.

She stirred, remembering where she was, how far she was from home.

Matei was standing near the kitchen table. He had washed and changed his clothes; the palace uniform was nowhere to be seen, and in its place he wore a loose tunic and breeches of the sort they had seen on peasant men at every turn the day before. He was talking to Rhea as she stirred a pot of something wholesome-smelling. He was smiling, and his hands rolled through the air as he illustrated some point or another. Rhea's soft chuckle could be heard from across the room. Mhera sat up, staring at this incongruent scene, and the motion drew Matei's attention.

He crossed the room. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

Mhera was so disoriented that she could not say anything.

"That well, hm?" Matei raised his brows. He reached for Mhera's blanket and began to pull it away from her. "Let me see your—oh, be still, Mhera. I'm only going to look at your feet."

Rhea called tersely from across the room, "Be kind to the poor dear, 'Tei. Stealing her blanket away and she's only just woken up—shame on you."

Matei rolled his eyes with a boyish grin. It was the grin of a man who has seen the worst of the world and come finally home to the dubious comfort of a beloved woman's scolding.

Mhera's ruined shoes were nowhere to be seen. Her feet were exquisitely sore, but some doctoring hand had bathed them and bound them in linen bandages. Vague recollections came back to her of Rhea pottering about with bandages and salve, but she had been so tired ...

Matei pulled an edge of the bandage away from her skin, causing her to flinch at the sting, but he looked satisfied.

"You'll live. Mine are not so bad. I should have given you my boots. I didn't realize your shoes were just as stupid as that foolish dress you had on before."

"Stop, Matei. You should've stole her a horse," Rhea said. "Dragging the poor thing all over the city like that." The old woman was busy setting things upon the table, moving slowly. She had a slight stoop to her back. To Mhera's eyes, she was an ancient.

"Interestingly enough, I did," Matei replied as he walked back toward Rhea. "It was less useful than you would think."

"Come, my dear," the old woman said, handing a dish to Matei. "You'll have some breakfast, and then 'Tei will get some water to heat for a bath. Begging your pardon, but you're a terrible sight."

Mhera did not know what to make of all this. Rhea was treating her like a house guest. Had Matei told her who she was? Had he told her the nature of their relationship? Apparently not—unless Rhea was unsurprised, or unconcerned.

She slid to the edge of the cot and cautiously stood. Her feet screamed, but she hobbled to the table. She reached up and felt her headscarf askew; her white blouse was soiled from her long journey the day before, and she knew her face must be sweaty and dirty. "Not as much of a sight as your Matei was when first we met," she said dryly.

There was silence for a moment. Mhera looked up, suddenly afraid of Matei's reaction to the rude comment. But Rhea was grinning, and the man himself had placed a hand over his heart, comically wounded. "Forgive me, my lady. The prison toilette is not the most refined."

Mhera had no sense of humor, and she wondered where Matei had found his. Looking around, she thought it must have come to him from being home. This must be his home, after all. He had called Rhea "grandmother," and he seemed a different man in this place. She must tread cautiously ... good humor was just a disguise.