I think about Agakor, his hands on mine last night, his tongue pressing into the soft flesh between my knuckles. Did I interpret that wrong? I still feel that I don't know what I'm doing, and perhaps that's why I shiver with every step, and why I have to bite back a tiny moan at the sight of the bedroom doors. It's his room, the room Turnip and I have been staying in. The old washerwoman must not be as drunk as I thought, because when we step inside, I see that she's had candles put in all the sconces, and fresh bedding is on the large four-poster bed. My bed is rolled up and neatly tucked away into a corner. I didn't even think about this room today as I rushed about, working with the kitchen and the scullery men to ensure that the feast was handled and the keep was as tidy as it could be. I immersed myself in running things so I wouldn't dwell upon what was going to happen tonight, and I'm grateful to Turnip for handling things for me.
The two guards behind us shut the doors to the bedroom and stand in the hall. I'm left alone with Agakor and Turnip, and the very large bed. My face burns with embarrassment, and I feel so jittery my teeth feel as if they should be clacking together. It's only the hard press of my lips that keeps them from making noise, I suspect, as I stare at the massive bed. Agakor is silent and steady at my side, as always, but he says nothing, and I worry he's waiting for me to speak up.
If I had any words, they're trapped under the nervous knot in my throat. Mutely, I cling to Agakor's arm, waiting. What do I do now? Do I sit on the bed? Wait for him to take command? Throw my skirts up and say "Yes, please taste me now?"
After a moment more of silence in which I stare at the bed, Turnip sighs heavily and heads over to the stool and table set up at the far corner of the room. My new sewing projects are in a basket there, and she hefts her bottle of wine perilously close to delicate fabrics. "Look, are you two gonna do this or not?" She waves a hand at us. "I'll be here with my bottle. Just let me know when you're done with this nonsense."
I want to laugh, but my throat feels like it's closing in. The only sound that escapes is small and choked.
Agakor chuckles, though, and pats my hand. "Sorry if we're taking up your valuable time, Turnip." He looks over at me and winks. "We can get started if Lady Iolanthe is ready."
I manage a jerky nod. "Ready."
He gestures at the bed and I sit on the edge, feeling awkward. Yesterday, I knew the perfect gown to wear. Today, I wasn't certain how I should dress, so I wore a traditional Adassian gown, one of my favorites. The bodice is high and tight, my breasts flattened by the tight stays and lacings. My layers of skirts and the lower half of my chemise spill out at the waist, and I elected to wear nothing underneath. Bloomers seemed a silly choice when I'd just have to take them off again. I shift on my seat at the edge of the mattress, wondering if I should just haul my skirts over my head, or if he wishes to go under them. "How—how does this work?" I manage nervously. "Do I…"
I trail off, because I truly have no idea what to say.
Agakor notices my distress. He smiles at me, his big face creasing into that friendly look that I've come to delight in. He holds his hand out and I place mine in his. "No need to be worried," he murmurs in a low voice. "It's just me here with you."
I glance over at Turnip.
He shakes his head and reaches out, touching my chin and forcing me to look over at him again. "It's just me here with you," he murmurs again, words pointed. Our eyes meet, and I nod. I understand.
Agakor moves forward, lightly brushing his fingers along my jaw. "You need not worry. I will be nothing but gentle."
"I know that." I do, I truly do. He's been so kind. "I just…I still can't picture how this works."
"May I touch you? Show you?" His dark eyes search my face.
I nod. He has to touch me to get this underway, doesn't he? Else this marriage won't go forward, and my father will have to return my bride-price and everyone at home will starve…
Just the thought makes me panicky, and I hitch my skirts up, baring my legs. Everything bunches up at my waist, so I immediately lie back on the bed and haul my skirts up higher, presenting myself to him. I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch my gown against my midriff, my breathing shallow. Gods, why did I do my corset up so tight this day? I wanted my dress to have smooth lines, but now I cannot draw a deep breath, and I desperately need one.