Page 25 of Tangwystle
A truth. Baz had monopolized my time during breakfast, trying to make me laugh. I’d almost missed out on selecting some of the better items when I finally made it down the hill, my black cape flying behind me.
“I’m sorry I have no further information to add,” I said. Or at least that I wanted to offer.
The man made a noise under his breath before his beady eyes noticed Baz again. His frowned deepened, clearly not impressed with the master of the manor standing in his very own kitchen.
“Does she have any family?” Baz asked, leaning against a chair, looking relaxed.
“No,” the man said.
“If we come across anything we’ll be sure to direct you to it,” Baz said with the air of finality.
The man tipped his head, understanding the dismissal. “It’s a serious thing,” he said. “Skipping out on a contract. Master Clinemell would be grateful for any help in apprehending this wayward maid.”
Baz hardened into stone, though, I don’t think most would notice. He did a wonderful job of always appearing bright and happy. It was just the tiniest of movements that gave him away. The way he stood tall, but unmoving. Not even a fidget. His face lacked any sort of smile, and the servant took that to mean Baz understood how serious a matter it was.
“Yes, of course,” Baz clipped. “Well, hopefully it’ll be sorted soon.”
“Thank you for your help, sir.” The man extracted himself, taking his stuffy ways with him.
The side door shut firmly, and Baz remained standing with his hands in his pockets.
He turned to me after a few moments. “Gretel stays here, fairy. Because otherwise we’re just as monstrous if we send her back to someone like Rufus Clinemell.”
And he made it very clear how he felt about the man when he said the name.
nine
Baz hurriedoff to the library, resolute on his plan of keeping Gretel safe from Rufus. And I couldn’t say anything because truthfully, I had never wanted her to go back anyway. Not the first time I found her bloody and bruised, and certainly not this time.
There would be further discussion, no doubt. Clinemell Manor was just down the road after all.
But I stuck to my plans for the day. I did the dishes, hurried to make a shepherd’s pie for Baz’s dinner, and mopped the kitchen floors.
Then I moved on to the one thing I’d promised Gretel. I needed to help her bathe.
If I had real mettle, I’d have forced her out of bed and made her use the bathtub. It wouldn’t be that arduous of a journey, and I thought she would be able to sit up in the bath.
I knew she would refuse, though, and Baz’s influence had softened me somewhat.
Hauling up the items I needed, I went back to Gretel’s room. The air was stagnant, so I left the door open.
The sheets rustled, Gretel turning her head. As far as I knew, she’d yet to flip over on her back. Baz had delivered anotherhealing ointment which closed the wounds on her back, but didn’t heal the scars. He promised a delivery of that expensive type of tonic when he could get his hands on it.
Gretel had remained naked since her arrival, a sheet curved around her back so as not to aggravate her skin.
“You could get up and go to the bathing chamber, you know,” I told her, despite just mentally listing out why I wouldn’t make her do such a thing.
Gretel smiled sleepily. Her hair needed washing, but a few curls spiraled in front of her eyes. She lifted herself using her arms, but otherwise stayed in her exact same position on the bed.
Placing the tray with a bowl of warm water and towels on the bed, I sat on the edge.
“How are you feeling?” I asked. Outside of asking for sugar and seeing her at the market, our most significant time spent together was when she’d slept in the pantry the last time she’d incurred Rufus’s wrath. If I came across as awkward, she didn’t let on.
Gretel’s smile was back, and it loosened something in my chest. Her grin was a bit softer, a tiny bit sadder. But I took it as a good sign because, as annoyed as I’d been all those times I saw her giggling, I’d realized I’d rather see her laughing than lying in a puddle of blood.
“You’ve been very helpful.” Her voice was hoarse, her words almost shy. Maybe we both felt awkward.
I inspected her wounds and then dampened a cloth. I didn’t want to mess with the ointment I’d applied that morning, so I stamped the wet towel against the back of her neck and down her shoulders, avoiding her scars. She shuddered.
