Page 95 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

I pinned that thought in place for later and fled to the Tower of Spring.

Both of my golems were waiting, Thorn staring out the window, Rose poking about in the dresser. I blinked as I passed; she’d organized the jewelry boxes strewn about the surface, by type and then by stone; who needed six pairs of emerald earrings, or thirty-two jeweled hair sticks?

The rose-petal golem straightened, her arms full of cloth, and immediately pointed to the bath.

If you insist, I told her, depositing my journal on my hardly-used desk. Strangely, perhaps because they weren’t human, it was easier to accept help from her, whether or not it was something I could do myself.

Or perhaps it was because there was no lurking sense of judgment. I knew Ellena would have been furious to have to wash my hair; even though Yuli and Lissa had shown nothing but curiosity, I still didn’t like the idea of them discovering I’d once been an indentured servant myself. It felt too much like placing myself on a pedestal, lording it above them when I had no right.

But Rose… she was effeminate to the core, fascinated by the piles of jewelry, the dresses, the shoes. The first time she’d forced me to bathe under her auspices, it’d been clear she truly enjoyed the entire process, down to picking out soaps and creams that matched in scent.

So I submitted to her soft, careful hands.

Rose, like me, she said, showing me the soap she was using on my hair. She scrubbed it into my scalp and I let my eyes close.

I could do that now, unafraid that Ellena would attempt some petty hurt on me. She wouldn’t dare, not with Thorn in here. He patrolled the room, window to door, occasionally climbing up the stairs.

Bane hadn’t confirmed it—he’d told me they were to be my friends, servants I could trust—but I suspected he hadn’t believed my pale lie about the knot in my hair.

To be fair, I wasn’t much of a liar. But I couldn’t prevent the odd mix of satisfaction and guilt when I heard that Ellena had been permanently removed from my quarters, and was working in the stableyard.

On the other hand, it was ridiculous to feel guilty. I hadn’t assigned her to this task; I’d tried to make her life easier, telling her to leave me be. If she hadn’t left a bruise, she wouldn’t be shoveling horse shit now.

Rose’s hands never bruised. She dried me, combed out my hair and pinned the plaited braids into a crown around my head, and then laced me into a dark blue gown. I’d quickly come to discover that I had zero opinions in these matters as far as she was concerned; the sapphire ear-drops matched the dress, the shoes were polished leather boots, and she presented me in the mirror with a whimsical twirl of her hands.

Beautiful, I said to her, and she preened.

The golems were like children, in a way; any word of kindness from me and they just about melted into a puddle.Which was why I couldn’t say no to Rose, despite my obstinance in doing it all myself—disappointing her would be like kicking a puppy.

With my journal bag draped over my shoulder, I made my way to the library, the golems at my sides. On this gloomy day the candles were already replaced and lit, the books already prepared thanks to Rose’s organizing tendencies—and there was a note left on the table for me.

No, two notes; I sat down and shuffled them apart, reading the topmost one in Bane’s writing first.

Her name isCirri

And she is pretty

Like a rose

Which everyone knows

In the chest of a fiend

She makes the heart glow

I staredat it for a long, long minute, taking it all in. There was a little postscript at the end:I lied, it seems I am no poet. The teenage boy has me beaten. But, to my credit, every word is true.

Then I clutched the poem Bane had written me to my chest and silently squealed, my cheeks heating up with sheer pleasure.

My very first love poem, and I didn’t give a damn what he thought, or if someone else would laugh at it; it was mine, from him, and that made it the best thing I had ever read in my life.

I read it again, biting my lower lip to stop the huge idiot grin from spreading across my face. Then I folded it very carefully, torn in indecision; I wanted to tuck it into my journal alongside the tiny rosebud I’d pressed flat, but there was always a chancesomething could happen to the journal, even if I guarded it with my life.

I settled for tucking it within my stays, right over my heart; the tight lacing would keep it in place until I could find something more secure. I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from it.

With the smile still in place, my hand pressed over my heart as though to push the poem into myself, I picked up the second note.

I apologizefor interrupting your work, dear Cirrien—I know the agonies of being forced away from matters of importance.

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