Then her eyes opened wide, despite the too-bright dimness; the memory of leading a conga-chain came back to her in flashes of exhilaration and whirling torchlight, dancing around the castle courtyard, then up a stair and around the curtain-wall fighting platform.
"Look, I did ask you to go to bed with me, didn't I?" she said.
Because my self-esteem might not survive the shock if I just threw you over my shoulder and went reeling up the stairs like Sappho the Cimmerian. And it would sort of deconstruct my don't-abuse-the-peasants speech, although that looks like a happy smile you've got on. Plus it wouldn't do my reputation any good to get into a fight with the Church right after getting the estate. Oh, please, God, tell me I wasn't that stupid with the senior priest of the Domain watching!
Delia laughed, a sort of gurgling chuckle, and came up on one elbow in her turn. "Actually, my lady-"
"Oh, hell, we're in the same bed."
"-my lady: Tiphaine, I asked you if you wanted to see the designs I put on my underwear, since you liked my needlework so much," she said. "You let me in by the postern wall-gate."
"Ah."
"You even said, That's really lovely embroidery on the hem, I like the flowers, before you pulled my drawers off, too. Then you said, Pretty as an orchid and-"
"Ah."
"I won't tell Father Peter if you don't." Then she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. "I'm sorry, but you were so cool and elegant at first and now you look so: so rumpled."
Tiphaine smiled again despite herself, made another noncommittal ah sound, swung her legs down and stood. She steadied herself against one of the bedposts and squinted at the sun glinting through glass into the big bare room through the narrow window-slit. If she remembered correctly, that one faced east-and if she remembered correctly, the sun rose in the east, too. In which case it was still fairly early; there was barely a gleam there, and it still looked rosy.
As if to confirm it, a rooster decided to tell the world he owned it. That set off a chorus of them, mostly sounding a bit further away, doubtless from coops in the hamlet outside the castle gates. She repressed an impulse to put her thumbs over her ears and walked in a straight line to the arched doors of the bathroom; blinked around at the unfamiliar facility for a moment, turned up the lamp, used the toilet, ran a big sink full of cold water and immersed her head, then drank several large glasses despite a minor rebellion from her stomach- hangovers were mostly dehydration. Of course, the rest of it was toxins. A groping hand found a bottle of aspirin, and she followed a few of those with still more water and dunked her head again.
I look like a debauched dandelion, she thought, regarding the dripping image in the mirror.
Her face was surrounded by tangled wet tufts of blond hair pale enough that even water couldn't darken it much. She raked at it with her fingers to get some of the sleep-snarls out, and wished she could cut it shorter than the pageboy bob. Then she kneaded her neck muscles with her thumbs to get the blood flowing again, working hard. She also smiled at herself as memory of the recent past returned; it didn't make her body feel any better right now, but it put the sensations in perspective.
That was really nice, mutually so. There were certain aspects of enthusiasm impossible to counterfeit. You are not only the most deadly warrior in the Association, you are not only the newly ennobled holder of this castle and fief, you are one hot babe, Tiphaine d'Ath!
She felt a degree of smug self-satisfaction, and a little relief. The last couple of times she'd been to bed with anyone, it had been sort of sad; the absolutely last time a month ago she'd been so miserably blitzed beforehand that she woke up next to a guy, which had meant not only serious yuk- euuww! euuww! cootie-shudders whenever she thought about it but mad panic while she waited to see if the bunny died. This had been just: very nice.
I guess I've got rock-star charisma and my own groupies now. In the last months before the Change she'd had a desperate crush on Melissa Etheridge, and long involved fantasies about saving her from a stalker or a speeding truck. Is that a hickey on my neck? Yup. At least it's the only one that'll show when I'm dressed. I think I like this girl. Shy, she ain't.
She took another drink of water, and then after considering the taste of the stuff in the glass she reached for her toothbrush. She needed it badly and with mouthwash to follow; either that or a corpse-eating plague rat had died in the pipes some time ago. Most of the furnishings in the lord's quarters of Castle Ath were very sketchy, because the Protector had used Montinore manor house when he visited the area, but the bathrooms had been installed during the original construction as the labor-gangs went from site to site, with fittings salvaged from luxury homes in the Portland area. This was all marble tile and creamy whiteness and faucets of polished bronze, big fluffy towels on racks of rare hardwood and etched glass panels around the shower stall. Someone had put scented soap out, as well as a wide range of toiletries; there was even pre-Change toilet paper, or a good imitation. And there was hot water on tap, as much as she wanted all to herself, something only a fief-holder could have these days.
Should I invite Delia in for a shower? Regretfully-and cautiously-she shook her head. Not enough time. I need to sweat the poisons out soonest, anyway.
She still felt a little more human as she returned to the bedroom drying her hair on a towel. Delia was up, pulling on her second tunic and belting it, which looked interesting as she stretched and bent.
I must he recovering. Youth, health, lots of exercise and no vices, that's the ticket. Well, no vices except pouring cherry brandy on top of pinot noir sometimes.
Tiphaine's smile had less of a wince in it this time. "Sorry we don't have time for a snuggle, Delia, but you'd better run before people see too much. You're a sweet girl, and I don't want you getting in trouble."
The young woman came over and embraced her; the kiss was even more interesting than the view and went on for a while.
"Father Peter's not a sheet-sniffer like some. He doesn't notice stuff unless you make him. Besides, I know you'll protect me, my lady Tiphaine."
Nobles, even the few gay ones, didn't end up before an ecclesiastical morals court very often; the military caste wasn't going to let the Church get that much power. Still, not very often wasn't the same thing as not ever:
"Sweetie, my power here is vast and my liege-lady's power in the realm is vaster still, but the Hounds of God are no joke, and they and Father Peter work for the same boss, and the Hounds are sheet-sniffers. Keep that lovely mouth shut about this and everything will be fine, OK?"
"Until next time?"
"Right. Now scoot!"
Tiphaine opened the door and checked the corridor both ways before the girl slipped out; it was windowless and very dark. There were a couple of empty rooms on this floor and no resident servants or established routine as yet, and it wouldn't be much trouble for Delia to slip out looking as if she was dusting or fetching or something. Then she dressed herself, rummaging in the unfamiliar closets and their mostly new contents for a familiar drill outfit of quilted tunic in coarse gray patched linen, and scuffed black buckskin pants stained with white patches of sweat-salt. After that she stamped her feet into her boots, and buckled padded leather support straps on her wrists.
The temptation to tidy up before she left was strong-she was compulsively neat, and hated leaving Delia personal things to the care of others. That was an eccentricity she could get away with, when those quarters were one small chamber or less wherever the Lady Sandra was in residence, which was all even a fairly prominent member of the Household could expect. But picking up after herself would be perilously close to drogeance, here at home in her own fief. The temptation to shower first was even stronger, but she pushed it down.