Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“Was the trade voluntary?”

Her stomach fluttered. “My lord, you said you would not ask me any questions.”

“I lied. Please answer me. Did you sleep with the man willingly?”

“Men,” she whispered. “I slept with thirty men. More. As for willing …” She drew a sharp-edged breath. “The answer is yes and no. But I made the choice. The blame is mine.”

“Did you end the transaction, or did they?”

“I did. My lord, why must you ask me these questions?”

“To judge your character. What changed that you first sold your body and then found the trade unacceptable?”

Her face had turned hot, from anger and shame. “I offered myself in exchange for a promise. The caravan master was about to break that promise. So I left.”

“Where was the caravan bound?”

“Duenne, my lord. I hoped to work there.”

“Yet you came east instead.”

“We were north of Donuth when I left. Tiralien was closer and … I wished to avoid the caravan master. He was not willing to let me go, you see.”

Kosenmark’s gaze did not shift from her face. Slowly, Ilse became aware of the largest sand glass, turning within its frame in response to the weights shifting in the smaller ones. Fine silvery sand trickled through the narrow opening. As it did, she sensed the tension bleeding from the air.

“You left out some details,” Kosenmark said softly. “Such as braving the wilderness alone, without weapons or shelter or food.”

“I had a knife, my lord. A stone knife.”

He tilted his head. “What else?”

She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her, or if he was truly interested. “A blanket, my lord. Later on, I found a tinderbox and another knife. And after the first day, I learned how to forage for my food.”

“Alone,” he said musingly. “And for weeks, from what I gather. You were both very brave and very foolish.”

Ilse made a quick throwaway gesture. “I had to leave, my lord. I had to. Someone gave me a chance, and I took it.”

“I understand. Will you let me give you such a chance? One that does not involve selling your body?”

The weight against her chest eased. He did understand, she could tell from his face and voice. “What else could I do here, my lord?”

Kosenmark smiled faintly and let his gaze drift to his hands instead of Ilse’s face. “My house is for entertainment. For that, I employ those who cook, those who clean, those who fetch, and those who guard these premises. Yes, some who work here do offer their bodies for pleasure—but willingly. I do not make slaves, nor do I use children the way someone has used you.”

She saw how his fingers tensed momentarily. “My lord, I’m grateful—”

He looked up. “Gratitude—”

“—can prove a bitter root that does not feed the benefactor nor his charge. And yet I am grateful, willingly grateful, my lord. And that is a sweeter dish.”

His gaze sharpened into curiosity, the look gone almost before she noticed. “I know the poem,” he said mildly. “And so I accept your gratitude. Does that mean you in turn accept my offer? You are not obligated to,” he added quickly. “You might prefer a position elsewhere. I can help there. I know of several houses in need of servants.”

Choices. She had forgotten about having choices.

“You look surprised,” Lord Kosenmark observed.

Ilse smothered a laugh. “My lord, I am surprised. I thought—” She broke off and pressed her hands together. “What I thought isn’t important. My lord, I would like to work here, if I may.”

His mouth quirked into a smile. “Indeed, you may start your work today. When you leave here, you will go to my secretary, Maester Berthold Hax. He will record your name and other particulars and will teach you about the house’s routines. If you have more questions, you may ask him.”