“I don’t have time for this,” a female voice snapped from behind the door. “Open. Now!”
I shrugged. Let them kill me or kidnap me or whatever they wanted. As long as I didn’t have to ride a horse or climb stairs, I wouldn’t complain.
I had barely unlocked the door when it flew open and a tall girl pushed past me, surveying the room and then me with a critical eye. She was easily the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. Her wavy hair was deepest auburn, her irises large and golden; her skin was so smooth and flawless that she looked as if her perfect cheekbones had been carved from marble. She wore a cream-colored kefta embroidered in gold and lined in reddish fox fur.
“All Saints,” she said, looking me over. “Have you even bathed? And what happened to your face?”
I flushed bright red, my hand flying to the bruise on my cheek. It had been nearly a week since I’d left camp, and longer since I’d bathed or brushed my hair. I was covered in dirt and blood and the smell of horses. “I—”
But the girl was already shouting orders to the servants who had followed her into the room. “Draw a bath. A hot one. I’ll need my kit, and get her out of those clothes.”
The servants descended upon me, pulling at my buttons.
“Hey!” I shouted, batting their hands away.
The Grisha rolled her eyes. “Hold her down if you have to.”
The servants redoubled their efforts.
“Stop!” I shouted, backing away from them. They hesitated, looking from me to the girl.
Honestly, nothing sounded better than a hot bath and a change of clothes, but I wasn’t about to let some tyrannical redhead push me around. “What is going on? Who are you?”
“I don’t have ti—”
“Make time!” I snapped. “I’ve covered almost two hundred miles on horseback. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, and I’ve nearly been killed twice. So before I do anything else, you’re going to have to tell me who you are and why it’s so very important that you get my clothes off.”
The redhead took a deep breath and said slowly, as if she were speaking to a child, “My name is Genya. In less than an hour, you will be presented to the King and it is my job to make you look presentable.”
My anger evaporated. I was going to meet the King? “Oh,” I said meekly.
“Yes, ‘oh.’ So, shall we?”
I nodded mutely, and Genya clapped her hands. The servants flew into action, yanking at my clothes and dragging me into the bathroom. Last night I’d been too tired to notice the room, but now, even shivering and scared witless at the prospect of having to meet a king, I marveled at the tiny bronze tiles that rippled over every surface and the sunken oval tub of beaten copper that the servants were filling with steaming water. Beside the tub, the wall was covered in a mosaic of shells and shimmering abalone.
“In! In!” said one of the servants, giving me a nudge.
I climbed in. The water was painfully hot, but I endured it rather than try to ease in slowly. Military life had long ago cured me of most of my modesty, but there was something very different about being the only naked person in the room, especially when everyone kept shooting curious glances at me.
I squeaked as one of the servants grabbed my head and began furiously washing my hair. Another leaned over the tub and started scrubbing at my nails.
Once I adjusted to it, the heat of the water felt good on my aching body. I hadn’t had a hot bath in well over a year, and I had never even dreamed that there might be such a tub. Clearly, being Grisha had its benefits. I could have spent an hour just paddling around. But once I had been thoroughly dunked and scrubbed, a servant yanked my arm and ordered, “Out! Out!”
Reluctantly, I climbed from the tub, letting the women dry me roughly with thick towels. One of the younger servants stepped forward with a heavy velvet robe and led me into the bedroom. Then she and the others backed out the door, leaving me alone with Genya.
I watched the redhead warily. She had thrown open the curtains and pulled an elaborately carved wooden table and chair over by the windows.
“Sit,” she commanded. I bridled at her tone, but I obeyed.
A small trunk lay open by her hand, its contents spread out on the tabletop: squat glass jars full of what looked like berries, leaves, and colored powders. I didn’t have a chance to investigate further, because Genya took hold of my chin, peering closely at my face and turning my bruised cheek toward the light from the window. She took a breath and let her fingers travel over my skin. I felt the same prickling sensation I’d experienced when the Healer took care of my wounds from the Fold.
Long minutes passed as I clenched my hands into fists to keep from scratching. Then Genya stepped back and the itching receded. She handed me a small golden hand mirror. The bruise was completely gone. I pressed the skin tentatively, but there was no soreness.
“Thank you,” I said, setting the mirror down and starting to stand. But Genya pushed me right back down into the chair.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done.”
“But—”
“If the Darkling just wanted you healed, he would have sent a Healer.”
“You’re not a Healer?”
“I’m not wearing red, am I?” Genya retorted, an edge of bitterness to her voice. She gestured to herself. “I’m a Tailor.”
I was baffled. I realized I’d never seen a Grisha in a white kefta. “You’re going to make me a dress?”
Genya blew out an exasperated breath. “Not the robes! This,” she said, waving her long, graceful fingers before her face. “You don’t think I was born looking like this, do you?”