“Sorry,” she says absently, and I feel the water grow warmer. A moment later, her long fingers run through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp. It feels good for a moment but then her fingers grow more frenzied in their actions until she’s practically scraping me with her fingernails. I wince, and she repeats her apology. She lets the water rinse out the soap and it slides into my eyes. I squeeze them shut but feel the sting of the shampoo. She lifts my head and wraps a thick towel around me, offering me a washcloth to wipe my eyes.

When we return to my room, I sit at the vanity and she pulls the towel from my head. Water drips down my back, and my robe sticks to my skin from the moisture.

I feel a comb running through my hair and water gushes to my shoulders as she pulls it into a straight line.

“You should cut this,” she says. “Less work.”

“I like it long,” I say. My mother’s hair was long. My mother’s hair is long, I correct myself, but I push the thought back out of my head, fighting against the helplessness I feel when I think of her. I don’t want to imagine her roaming around her cage, deep in the cells under the estate.

“As you wish.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “I mean, I can get ready on my own.”

“I’m sure you can, but Kincaid expects a certain level of aestheticism when it comes to his guests.”

“I can put on cosmetics,” I snap.

“Fine.” She drops her hands and steps back from me. “I thought we could talk.”

I soften a little at her words, feeling ungrateful and confused at the same time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do this. You aren’t my aesthetician anymore.”

“I know that. I liked doing your cosmetics, Adelice,” she says. “I’m not offering out of obligation.”

“In that case, thank you,” I say.

She retrieves long, thin pieces of fabric from her pocket. Her eyes meet mine and she pulls one taut between her hands, and for a moment I’m scared of the stranger I see reflected there. Who is this?

But then she takes a section of my hair and wraps it with precision around the fabric, tying it off at the end.

“Like I said, we don’t have the same tools at our disposal here.”

I swallow hard and nod. “Is that why you wear your cosmetics differently?”

“Kincaid likes the geisha aesthetic. It’s an old Earth style,” she responds in a quiet voice. “I often do my cosmetics to please him.”

But that’s not the only thing she does to please him. Still, today her face, while lined and painted, reflects the aesthetic of an Arras woman. I wonder if she’s trying to send him a message after last night’s spectacle, reminding Kincaid where she comes from.

She repeats the action until most of the hair framing my face is wrapped up into the rags. She faces me and leans in, taking my chin in her hands and studying me. Her breath smells of cinnamon.

Even here, after everything that’s happened, Valery is the essence of poise. Her skin silky, everything about her soft. Her fingers, though, are cold on my face and they pinch my skin as she turns my head to inspect me.

“How am I holding up?” I mutter through my nearly closed mouth.

“Well enough. A little cosmetics and no one will see the damage.”

I frown. Damage?

“None of that,” she says in regard to my dubious expression. “It makes it worse.”

In fairness, I’ve been through a lot. I’m not exactly looking forward to another round of cosmetics, but if it gets Valery talking, it will be worth it.

She reaches for the bag she brought and pulls out a cream, which she smooths over my face. Her brushes dance over my cheekbones, glide against my eyelids, and line my lips. For a moment, I close my eyes and imagine I’m in my quarters at the Coventry. Enora will meet me to take me to training or a meeting or a carefully prepared feast. This will have been a dream—or will it have been a nightmare?

I’m not sure.

“Open your eyes,” Valery commands. I do so, and she brushes a mascara wand roughly through my lashes. I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror. She’s concentrating, which makes her look like she used to—engaged in her work. She did truly enjoy it. She hadn’t been lying about that. Her robe has fallen off her shoulder and there I spy it—a thick purple mark running across her olive skin. It creeps toward her neck, but doesn’t quite reach it. A lavender scar. Her eyes catch mine staring in the mirror, and she tugs the robe back up.

“Let’s get that dress on,” she suggests.

I stand and let my dressing gown fall to the floor in a puddle.

“You should be more careful.” Valery clucks under her breath.

My eyes follow hers and I see a patch of blue blooming on my calf.

“Probably from Deniel’s attack,” I say, shrugging it off.

“There are plenty of things to hurt yourself on here,” Valery says, but her words are colored with warning. She draws my gown into her hands and waits.

I’ve worn enough of these dresses to know only one thing works under them. Nothing. She drops the dress over my head and I let the straps fall over my hands. The dress slides gracefully into place.

“Lovely,” she says.

“We didn’t talk much,” I say.

Valery pauses and pain flashes across her face. “I know.”

“You didn’t want to,” I accuse lightly.