Tiffany Clare - The Surrender of a Lady

“Could you—” She licked her dry lips, suddenly more nervous than when she’d been in the slave market. What if she angered this woman and they wouldn’t let her see her son? “When will I see my son?”

“Make your questions quick.” Laila crossed her arms over her bosom, foot tapping in impatience.

It was useless to play a simpering, scared woman. She stood up straight and looked Laila directly in the eye, trying to ignore the fact that the two men still approached her. “I want to see my son.” Her voice broke, giving away the fear she tried to hide. She needed more bravado than this and yanked out her shirtwaist to undo the buttons, showing her willingness to obey. The guards came forward regardless of her obedience.

“After you are prepared.” Laila smiled, her expression softening. “Your son is in the private harem quarters. The other girls are watching him. There are no children here, so we are well pleased to look after such a fine beautiful babe. A wet nurse was brought to the island with him, too. So you can let your milk go.” Laila’s eyes dropped to the swell of Elena’s breasts above the corset. “If it hasn’t already dried.”

To her dismay, her milk had stopped flowing a week ago. She thought it a sign that her life as a mother had shriveled away with the nourishment and sustenance drying up. The truth in the woman’s words filled her heart to overflowing, and a few tears leaked out the sides of her eyes. She swiped them away and returned Laila’s smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

She squealed in surprise as she was jerked clear off her feet when one guard pulled her corset away from her back and slashed a dagger through the ties. Would she seem unworthy and weak if she cried? The boned contraption fell away, and she stood there helplessly, crossing her arms over her bosom—only the thin material of her chemise still in place.

“The sooner you take off this fine English wear, the faster you can see the child. It is not so bad.” Laila pointed to her skirts, and the guards stripped them from her with a deft flick of their daggers. “There, you see, I believe that was much faster.”

Elena kneeled to a hunch, still covering her chest, and untied her shoes as quickly as possible, then pulled them off. She ducked her face as tears swelled. Rolling her stockings down, she chanced a look at Laila. The woman raised one eyebrow at the short chemise and pantalets. After a deep calming breath, Elena stood with every last scrap of dignity she could muster.

Laila shook her head and held aside the material hanging in the doorway. Elena slipped underneath and hid her rear against the wall, one arm firm across her bosom as she hurried after Laila. The sound of the guards’ slippered feet followed them.

This was a far worse humiliation than what she’d been subjected to at the slave market. To be paraded around all but naked. It was too much to bear. It made her want to scream her fury. This was a new low. How could she live this new life? What had she been thinking when she’d agreed to such a fate? Was it true that her husband was dead?

Or was this some ploy so her husband didn’t have to look out for her welfare?

“Oh, now, now, little beauty. No need to look forlorn. Come.” Laila pushed her with a gentle, coaxing hand down the length of the hall.

Elena paid no attention to her surroundings. Her mind was too scattered, imagining every possible course her new life might take. What if she couldn’t live up to the expectations of her owner? Already she balked at the idea of something so simple as a bath. Admittedly, it was the presence of the men that made her uneasy, filling her body with barely tempered rage. She wanted to lash out with clawed hands and rake her nails down their faces. Blind them from her humiliation.

She was at odds with herself. She’d never felt this kind of anger before. Not even when she was in the slave market. There, fear had drowned the anger that now boiled over in her blood. She closed her eyes for only a moment and took a calming breath.

Laila stopped when they reached a narrow passageway. The door in front of them was arched at the top in an elegant Turkish-style point. Small green mosaic tiles were inlaid around the stone, giving this part of the palace a less sterile feel with its warm, earthy colors.

Elena stepped into the room and hit a wall of steam.

“This is part of the private hamam.” Laila motioned to the clouds of steam rushing out to swallow them both. “There are also public baths, which you will use daily.”

“Hamam,” Elena repeated, puzzled. She could barely breathe, the air was so thick.

How could anyone bathe here? Steam rose all around her, tightening her chest and wetting her skin. Her chemise clung to her, and she felt as though she’d been doused with a boiling bucket of water.

“This is where I will remove your hair. Then we go to the public bath.”

A gasp escaped Elena’s lips with the pronouncement. Laila turned to look at her with a skeptical eye. Elena retreated, her shoulder blade hitting the corner of the entrance, stopping her escape.

“Remove my hair, you can’t possibly mean . ”

“You will see.” Laila pushed wooden clogs into her hands without further illumination, nodding toward the swirls of misty air that rose from deep within the room.

“These are called nalin . They’re for your feet. You must wear these whenever you are in the bath. The tiles below are hot enough to scald your feet. And it is better than walking in the filth below us and harder for djinn to kidnap you when you are out of their reach.”

Fitting her feet into the strange contraptions, Elena stood up and made a tentative step forward. They were heavy, maybe so the person wearing them didn’t slip on the wet floor.

“I will walk slowly. You needn’t worry about falling”—Laila held her arm out in an offer of support—“it is a few steps to the benches.”

She took Laila’s arm and made her steps slowly. She slid her feet more than walked, unwilling to risk a fall. Soon enough they were situated on one of the stone benches. It warmed her bottom. Tilting her head to look over the edge of the seat, she saw mother-of-pearl inlaid into the whole length of stone that was embedded into the floor.

There was so much steam swirling around them she couldn’t make out the pattern of the tiles beneath.

“You must take off your undergarments now.”

“I can’t possibly.”

Laila shook her head, clucking her tongue. The guards made their presence known again. Elena crossed her arms over her bosom, her reddened flesh beneath the chemise surely visible in this humidity. Her anger had simmered away, and in its place, fear rose again. The stress of the last few weeks must have taken its toll on her mind.

“You must cooperate while you are bathed. You have to be prepared properly before Amir receives you.” The words held more meaning than a simple bath.

“Then why should there be men present?”

“They will pay you no heed.” Laila stood, pulling up Elena’s chemise.

When Elena refused to raise her arm from her breasts, one guard stepped forward and pried her fingers from her middle and held her arm straight up. She cast her gaze to the floor when the material was removed, staring at the humid air hovering around her ankles. Laila pasted a thick substance onto the hair at her armpit with a flat wooden spoon. It was hot and Elena felt a slight tingling burn. Time ticked by—it felt like a moment trapped in an eternity of disgrace—before Laila scraped it off. It burned more when she did that, made the skin feel raw, like spilling hot tea on the back of your hand.

“This is what we do the first time; it is easiest to remove hair with the rusma, but it discolors your skin and hurts if you use it too much or leave it on too long.”