In a basket beside the waterfall was a jar of that astringent stuff that removes the paint. I shucked my clothes, doused a cloth and started scrubbing his handprints away. It took forever. Lorcan laid claim to every part of my exterior he could touch. It’s the inside of me he won’t go near.
Once I was free of purple stains, I rinsed off in the warm water.
I admit I was not best pleased at the sight of Tahra coming around the corner. She’s always been a bit wary of me, and no wonder. I’ve made little secret of the fact that I barely tolerate her presence. I got out of the water and wrapped a drying cloth around me.
“Yes?” I asked, imperiously. As imperiously as one can while naked, wet, and wrapped in a towel.
“Queen Brenica asked me to bring this to you. She said it was a better fit than what you’ve been wearing.”
Tahra held up a dress crafted of blue and yellow dragonskin, cut to follow the body. Over the breasts and hips, it was a solid sheen of blue scales, connected by a matching seamless strip from navel to sternum. The straps around the neck and the back were intricately braided. Contrasting laces secured the skirt at the sacrum. I did need help lacing it. When it was on, the fringe of cut leather from mid-thigh to knee twitched with every step.
It is stunning. A dress befitting a queen, rivaling anything I’d worn in Paris, London, New York, or Beijing.
When it was on, I asked Tahra to fetch the purple paint. I squished handprints on my exposed shoulders, my waist, down my arms as though giving myself a hug. I painted thin stripes along my cheekbones and daubed a spot in the hollow of my throat. Reclaiming this body.
Like everything else after the war, it is different, and I am still adjusting to it. But for as long as I live, it’s mine.
So attired, I returned to the circular gathering area with Tahra following a few steps behind. The sky above the rock rim was painted red with sunset.
One of the Ansi women flagged me down. “No man?” she asked, gesturing to the quarters I shared with Lorcan until an hour ago. Not all the Ansi are as conversant in the main Auralian dialect as Tovian and Queen Brenica are. Many of the women rarely leave the village.
“No man.”
I’m done. Let Lorcan play his games with someone more receptive to constantly having her pride trampled.
Besides, that asshole hasn’t even proposed yet. If he thinks I’ll ever say yes now, he’s got a rude awakening coming. Let him try.
BLOSSOM
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
That evening, I sat with Brenica and Tovian near the fire until the moon rose high overhead.
“Things are finished between you and your knight?” Brenica asked.
“Yes.”
I saw the way women kept slipping up to our room where Lorcan was camped out, waiting for me to return. Each one came padding back down the ramp a few minutes later, avoiding my eyes.
“There will be no wedding?”
“No.”
“Raina will be relieved,” Tovian interjected.
“She objects to the match?” his mother asked.
“Raina thinks Lorcan has changed too much since his accident.”
He’s like Raina. They both show emotion so easily. The only royals I know who don’t keep everything bottled up.
“And you? What do you think?” Brenica asked her son. “Is he so different?”
“I didn’t know him before.” His face was serious. “He has changed since we first met last January. There was a point where I nearly killed him myself, not so long ago. Lorcan was like a tiger with a thorn in its paw. Angry at the world. Reckless. It fueled some of his more dangerous and impressive accomplishments.
“Since you’ve come back, Princess, he’s been calmer. More of a housecat, content to purr in the sun.” Tovian smiled.
I snorted. “A pet tiger, perhaps.” There’s a legend about a man who tried to keep a maned tiger for a pet. It ate him. I don’t intend to make the same mistake.
