Danielle Jensen - Stolen Songbird

“And brave,” Élise chimed in. The girls clutched each other’s arms and pretended to swoon.

“And dreadfully rude,” I grumbled, getting to my feet and walking over to the tub. I’d never bathed in front of anyone other than my gran or my sister before, but I knew that this was how the nobility did things. Making a fuss over their presence would only draw attention to my common upbringing. Pride was armor, and I wouldn’t let them take it from me. My scant clothing discarded, I climbed hurriedly in, wincing as my collection of abrasions stung.

“Is the water warm enough, my lady?” Élise asked, passing me a sponge.

“It’s…” I glanced towards the cold fireplace on the one wall. Clearly the grate hadn’t known a fire in a long time. After a moment’s contemplation, I realized I hadn’t seen an open flame since Luc’s lantern. “I’d like it a bit warmer,” I said, curious as to how she’d manage such a feat.

The troll set aside the bottle of bath salts she had been pouring in and touched the water with a fingertip. It swirled around me, glowing faintly silver, and almost instantaneously the temperature rose. She withdrew her hand, and the steaming contents settled. “Warm enough?”

I soaked for a good hour in the tub, the trolls ignoring my protests and setting to scrubbing, trimming, washing, and filing with an intensity never before directed at my body.

With the dirt washed away, my injuries stood out in stark reds and purples on my pale skin. Élise dispatched Zoé to get some ice – something I learned their magic could not create –and I spent the rest of my bath holding a silk-wrapped block against my swollen eye while I sipped a cup of mulled wine.

Élise and Zoé were quite beautiful, but something set them apart from the broken beauty of the troll nobility. Their hair, for one, was not jet black but dark brown, and a faint flush warmed their faces that did not mark the cheeks of the other trolls. “You two are sisters?” I asked.

“Yes, my lady,” Zoé replied from where she sat at my feet. Her eyes scrutinized my face as though searching for something. “Our mother was human – like you.”

So the legends were true. The trolls had been at the business of stealing, or perhaps purchasing, young women for some time. “Is she here in Trollus?” Maybe they let them go once they’d fulfilled their duties.

“No, my lady.” Sorrow crossed her face. “She died when we were quite young.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, wishing there was some way to ask how the woman had died. Part of me was still convinced I’d come across a case of a human roasting in a cooking pot.

“Such a beautiful color,” Élise said, interrupting my thoughts. “When they told us you had red hair, I scarcely believed their words. Is such a shade common under the sun?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Then it must be prized.”

I thought about how often I’d wished I’d been born with my sister’s blonde hair, or even my brother’s plain brown mop. “Red hair isn’t prized at all. Everyone teases me all the time, and being a redhead means I get loads of freckles in the summer. My mother tells me I should stay out of the sun, which is hardly possible on a farm.”

“Why would anyone choose to stay out of the sun?”

I bit my lip, realizing that obviously the sun would be a sensitive issue for the trolls. I shrugged and set the cup aside. “My mother is vain. Besides,” I said, in an attempt to change the subject, “I’d rather have dark hair like you trolls.” A compliment never hurt.

Élise shook her head. “Nothing common is prized, my lady. One might as well value a stone in a sea of rock as value black hair in Trollus. Now come,” she said, motioning for me to follow. “Time for you to dress.”

Walking stiffly over to the privacy screen, I ran a hand down a heavy, dark green silk dress, which felt warm, almost alive, under my fingertips. Onyx beads decorated the cuffs and tiny jet buttons marched up the back to the high lace collar.

My wedding dress.

“Why isn’t it white?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. In the Hollow, we had a tradition where every girl’s dress included something from a wedding dress of a family member or friend. Sometimes it was just a bit of lace or some fancy buttons, but often gowns were entirely created out of dresses from weddings past. Gran said that the tradition brought love and good fortune into the union. I had always seen myself in the dress in which she had married my grandfather, with its handmade lace overlay. Not this unworn, unloved… thing.

Sweat broke out on my hands and I grew cold beneath the thick robes. A haze of black crept over my vision of the dress. My knees trembled and my body swayed. “I think I’m going to be sick.” A basin appeared in front of me, and I proceeded to retch up everything I’d just consumed. I couldn’t do this; couldn’t go through with what they were asking of me. If I stayed, my virtue would be the price, and that was something I could never win back. No one would care whether it was against my wishes or not – my reputation, such as it was, would be ruined. I had to escape now.

Avoiding the concerned gazes of the girls, I held up my hand. “I need some time alone.” My eyes latched on the adjoining bedchamber. “I’ll lie down for a few moments.” Walking into the other room, I shut the door firmly behind me and then dashed on silent feet to the one leading to the hallway. The lock was bolted.

With one of my hairpins, I set to work on the lock, grateful, not for the first time, to my brother for teaching me how. When the catch was sprung, I turned the knob, and with a backward glance at the empty room, stepped into the hall. I immediately collided with something solid.

“Fancy meeting you here, Cécile.”

My heart sunk. “It’s you.”

“The one, the only, as they like to say,” Tristan said affably, brushing off his coat where I’d bumped into him.

“Which ‘they’ would that be?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. Them.” He waved a hand in the air, dismissing the question. Then he frowned. “Have you recently vomited? How vile. It wasn’t because you indulged in too much wine, was it? I can certainly tolerate drunkenness in myself, but not in a woman. It’s quite unladylike.”

Raising my chin, I tightened the cord holding my robe in place. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never been drunk.”

He smirked. “You needn’t act like that is such a grand accomplishment. I’ve heard the continent is full of a similar sort – teetotalers, they call them. I understand they can reduce even the liveliest party to a dull affair in no time at all.”

“Don’t act like you know the first thing about the continent,” I snapped. “It isn’t as though you’ve ever visited.”

He flinched, silent for a moment. “Have you?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I very likely would have if you hadn’t kidnapped me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you,” Tristan said, his voice filled with irritation. “Your friend Luc did.”

“He wouldn’t have done so, if not for you. And he isn’t my friend.”

“That might be the case, but I don’t doubt that he’d have substituted an equivalently dastardly deed in its place.” He pointed a finger at me. “Mark my words, the boy was of a vile sort.”

“Then you are two of a kind,” I snapped.

“Ha ha,” Tristan snorted. “How dreadfully clever. And speaking of clever, is this to be your bid for escape?” He contemplated my clothing. “In a dressing gown and bare feet? Now tell me, if I go put on nightclothes and slippers, might I join you, or is this a solo adventure?”

My eyes stung. “You think this is all exceedingly funny, don’t you? I’m nothing but a joke to you.”