The doggen did likewise and inspected the faint darkening on the fabric, his pale hands so sure, his frown one of concentration instead of confusion. "Yes, the manual dry cleaner, I think. "
He took her to the far side of the room and described a process that was easily going to fill hours. Perfect. And before she allowed him to depart, she insisted that he stay at her side for the first couple of treatments. As this made him feel more useful, it worked for the both of them.
"I believe I am ready to continue on my own," she said eventually.
"Very well, mistress. " He bowed and smiled. "I shall go down and endeavor to ready Last Meal. If you should need anything, please call me. "
From what she had learned since her arrival, that required a telephone -
"Here," he said, over by the counters. "Press 'star' and 'one' and ask for me, Greenly. "
"You have been most helpful. "
She looked away quickly, not wanting to see him bow to her. And she didn't try for a deep breath until the door shut behind him.
Now alone, she put her hands on her hips and let her head hang for a moment, the pressure in her chest making it difficult to fill her lungs.
When she had come here, she expected to struggle - and she was, just not with the things she had anticipated.
She hadn't considered how difficult it would be to exist in an aristocratic house. The home of the First Family, in fact. At least when she had been up with the Chosen, there had been other rhythms and rules, with no one below her. Here? The lofty position people forced upon her cut off her oxygen a lot of the time.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, mayhap she should have asked the servant to stay. At least the innate need for composure had given her a draw in her ribs. With no one to hide from, however, she fought for breath.
The robe was going to have to come off.
Limping over to the doors, she went to lock them, but found there was no bolting mechanism. Not what she was expecting.
Opening them a crack, she put her head out and double-checked the long hallway.
All the servants would be downstairs preparing food for the people of the house. Even more significant, there was no way anyone but doggen would be in this part of the mansion.
She was safe from other eyes.
Ducking back in, she loosened the tie around her waist, removed her hood from the crown of her head and then stripped herself of the weight she bore anytime she was in public. Ah, glorious relief. Reaching her arms up high, she stretched her shoulders and her back, then pulled her neck from side to side. Her last reclamation was to lift the heavy braid of her hair and put it over her shoulder, relieving some of the pull at her nape.
Save for that first night that she had come unto this house and confronted her daughter - as well as the Brother who had tried to save her life so long ago - no one had seen her features. And no one would henceforth. Ever since that brief revelation, she had been e'er covered, and she was going to stay that way.
Proof of identity had been a necessary evil.
As always, she wore beneath her robing a simple linen sheath she had made herself. She had a number of them, and when they grew too thin, she recycled them as towels to dry herself with. She wasn't sure where she would find the fabric for replacements here, but that was no problem. In order to refresh herself so
that she did not need to feed, she went regularly to the Other Side, and she could get what she needed then.
So different the two places were. And yet in either, her hours were the same: infinite, solitary -
No, not entirely solitary. She had come to this side to find her daughter, and now that she had, she was going to. . .
Well, tonight, she was going to clean this gown.
Stroking the fine fabric, she couldn't stop the memories from bursting forth, a geyser, unwelcomed.
She had had gowns like this. Dozens of them. They had filled the closet of her nighttime quarters, those beautifully kitted-out rooms that had had the French doors.
Which had proved to be less than secure.
As her eyes misted over, she fought the pull of the past. She'd been through that black hole too many times to count -
"You should burn that robe. "