She frowns at the welts and points with a finger. I squint, not sure why she’s pointing, when I realize the swelling’s gone down significantly.
“Good. Then no more fucking horse blankets for you,” I mutter, and she actually smiles.
She quickly picks out a pair of leggings and a thick, knobby purple sweater, gets dressed right in front of me, then walks quickly to the bathroom. She brushes her teeth, splashes cold water on her face, then runs a brush through her hair. She acts as if she just spent a night away on holiday and now she’s doing her morning preparations in the hotel bathroom. What a strange, strange woman she is.
“Now, then, you hungry?” I ask sternly. I don’t want her to forget for a minute she’s my prisoner, but I’ve much still to learn about her.
She nods eagerly, and we head downstairs.
* * *
Chapter Six
Cairstina
What an interesting place this is. I know I’ve been taken against my will, but last night I slept better in a strange bed with that itchy blanket than I’ve slept in my own bed at home for ages. Damn, it was almost restful, if not for the itchiness and weird sensation on my body from the blanket. Allergic to wool? How odd for a Scottish woman. I mean, historically speaking, weren’t we all raised with wool? In any event, that godforsaken blanket’s gone, and I’m wearing clothes that are worn and faded, but nicer quality than I’ve ever worn before.
The leggings fit me well, the sweater’s warm and cozy. And when he opens the door to go downstairs, the smell of brewing coffee, frying sausages, and black pudding fills the house. My mouth waters. My brother spends all of our money on gambling and liquor, and the little pension my mother gets barely pays utilities. When they eat, they leave me only enough to get by on.
I wonder if the people in this house know how very lucky they are.
I look about me, trying to take in every detail. Outside, every window is nothing but brilliant white snow and mountaintops. The entire house seems to be made of wooden logs, and the scent of pine and oak makes it feel rustic and homey, but elegant.
I walk down the stairs beside him until we reach the main landing. It looks so different here during the day. At night, it seemed like a hunting lodge of sorts, and I expected to find antlers hanging on the wall, but it looks far more sophisticated and modern during the day.
Beautiful landscape paintings hang on the walls, and the carpets are dyed brilliant shades of purple and blue that somehow all go together. Though the scent of food and coffee hangs in the air, I can smell the deep scents of candle wax and freshly polished wood. The rail I hold onto as we go down is smooth under my palm, and freshly polished. It’s a sensory explosion.
Voices come from the kitchen as we approach. I can see through an open door a large, formal dining table, but the room is darkened and empty. Instead, the kitchen is bright and welcoming, and I walk beside Leith to follow him inside. I stop short in the doorway, ashamed that I didn’t figure out before that we wouldn’t be alone. Why would we be, in a huge house like this? Who did I think made the food?
Still, I don’t expect to see an older man sitting at the table, uniformed staff mulling about the room, and one of the girls from earlier sitting beside the older man. She stops short when I walk in the room, a glazed pastry halfway to her mouth.
She quickly schools her features, then takes a large bite of pastry. It flakes to her plate. I watch, mesmerized, as she licks the icing off her fingers one by one. The older man hasn’t looked up from his paper yet.
“Do you like pastry?” she asks.
I blink, then shrug my shoulders. Not sure I’ve had pastry, but I do love sweets. I’ll take whatever they give me, though the savory, hearty scent of sausages is what really has me interested.
“Sit,” Leith says, pointing to an empty seat at one end of the table. This large, rustic table’s big enough to seat a dozen people, tucked away beside a roaring fireplace. A good distance away, the kitchen staff is busy chopping and stirring, but I can feel their eyes on me.
I do what he says, folding myself into the seat as the older man looks up.
He gives me a curious look, but scowls as he sips his coffee, his hand trembling a bit when he does, but he quickly puts his mug back down as if to hide the show of weakness.
“What are you called?” he asks. His voice is rough, but a bit shaky with age.