‘Am I the villain here?’ he had asked and sometimes, she wished she’d answered him, screamed ‘Yes!’ and slapped and even spit, the way the other woman had, the way her mother surely would have done, while Lan only lay there on the floor and watched. And sometimes she thought of other answers, calm words and reasoned arguments she could sand down and polish and reshape here in her tower until she was certain they would have convinced him, and that other woman would be dead now and at peace, and what the hell, maybe he would even be sorry.
Am I the villain? He’d killed her, but wouldn’t let her die. Am I the villain? But she’d stabbed him. Am I the villain? But she’d been captured and held down to be publicly violated and murdered in that roomful of laughing, costumed dead people. Am I the villain? It was Batuuli’s fault, but Batuuli had been captured too, in a way, pulled out of her own life and forced to perform in his play, the one in which she was his daughter.
The wheel kept turning, no beginning and no end. There were no villains or they all were, and in either case, nobody got what they deserved.
Adrenaline doesn’t last and, without it, horror is exhausting. Lan stubbornly waited, sometimes leaning up against her heavy door, straining to hear screams, and sometimes standing at her narrow window, imagining she smelled smoke, but mostly just sitting on the bed and doing nothing, thinking nothing. Eventually, she crawled beneath it and gave in to sleep.
Neither boots on the stair nor the heavy door opening woke her in the morning. Instead, it was a cold hand gripping her bare ankle, which was so unexpected that Lan bolted upright, or would have done if she hadn’t been partly underneath the bed. After delivering herself a solid crack to the skull, Lan wriggled out into the red light of a very early day and peered up into Lady Batuuli’s smiling face.
She had one clear thought—She woke me up so I’d see death coming—but she did absolutely nothing about it. There was nothing to be done, she would tell herself later, and later still she would tell herself there wouldn’t have been time anyway, but the reality was, she just lay there and she would always know it.
“Join me for breakfast,” Batuuli said, then turned around and swept out again.
Lan sat on the floor long enough to convince herself that had indeed happened. When it sank all the way in, she got up and made her way down the stairs in the dark.
Batuuli was waiting for her in the grand corridor, although she did not acknowledge her when Lan finally appeared. Without so much as a glance in her direction, Batuuli left off her disinterested inspection of a painting and walked away. The guards posted along the walls nodded as she passed by. Servants, mostly dead but some living, had to stop as well, bowing themselves almost in half as they scurried about their morning duties. No one paid any attention at all to Lan.
“What is this about?” Lan asked.
“Patience.”
“Fuck patience. Answer me.”
Batuuli threw her a laughing glance. “The last stupid girl who raised her voice to me had her mouth sewn shut around an iron ring,” she said pleasantly. “The ring was attached to a wire and the wire to a weight. The weight was thrown from the roof. The ring made such a cheerful sound when it struck the pavement. Her teeth made a sound like rain.”
They walked, and when Lan had been quiet enough long enough, Batuuli said, “I have plans. You will not impede them. Only be a good girl and do as you’re told and your part will end quickly.”
“My part? Another play?”
“How forceful you are. And no, I never repeat my tricks, particularly those that end so badly. Listen,” Batuuli said, now with the faintest hint of annoyance. “This morning is nothing to do with you. You’re a prop, like the dagger in Lady MacBeth’s hand—vital to your scene, but silent. Understand?”
“Who’s Lady MacBeth?”
“Just be quiet.”
Batuuli’s retinue was not in evidence today when they reached her chambers, but the table that had been arranged in her receiving room was set for three, with food enough for ten. Whatever space this left on the table was occupied by sprays of flowers wrapped in ribbons and strings of pearls, and to either side, like bookends on a shelf, were the two flayed pikemen who had escorted Lan to Azrael’s dining hall that first night.
“I agree,” Batuuli commented, coming to stand at Lan’s side as she stared in horrified fascination at one of their flayed, burnt, blinking faces. “It isn’t very nice. But it was a gift and gifts should always be visible when the giver comes calling.”
As if summoned by these words, Azrael opened the door. He took two steps and stopped when he saw Lan.
“Father, you’re early.” Batuuli gestured toward the wall where her handmaidens stood in a silent row. “Feel free to entertain yourself while I dress my guest. Celestine, come and lick my father’s cock.”
One of the handmaidens stepped forward. Azrael stopped her with a raised hand. Behind his mask, his fiery eyes were cold. “I should have known this was some game of yours when I received the invitation.”
“Yes, you really should have. But now you might as well stay and play, since all the pieces are in place.” Batuuli took Lan’s arm and led her from the room, making certain to steer her so close to Azrael in passing that they could not help but touch.
He did not look at her.
In Batuuli’s bedchamber, the rest of the handmaidens were waiting and at their Lady’s signal, they descended on Lan as a unified force. The previous night’s gown, considerably the worse for having been slept in, was stripped away. Lan’s naked body was scrubbed with a cold sponge, dried with a rough cloth and then lotioned. In less than a minute, the process was complete and she was hurried to a wardrobe to make a selection of the gowns displayed there.
“Nothing too rich,” Batuuli mused, pulling out dresses and tossing them to the ground. “We want morning colors…rose…lavender…yellow?” She put a gauzy slip up to Lan’s neck, only to wince elaborately. “Definitely not yellow.”
“What am I doing here? Really?”
“Really, did you say? And when have I ever lied to you?” Batuuli played at pouting, but then turned to face her fully. “I want to hurt him. You’re going to help me.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. You already are. You looked at him with the same eyes that saw his true face…and then his true self.” Batuuli smiled. “You could not have stabbed him deeper than if you’d used a carving fork.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“You’re delightful when you bristle, but we haven’t the time, dear. Just think. It’s entirely to your benefit that Father is reminded what a brute he is, isn’t it? How else can you possibly hope to convince him that life—” She steepled her hands beneath her chin and raised her eyes to heaven. “—is precious?” And she laughed.
“What do you want me to do?” Lan asked tightly.
“Why, nothing! Just sit and eat and look at him.” Batuuli spread her arms, demonstrating the great nothing she asked of her.
Lan reached into the wardrobe.
“Oh no!” Batuuli said, laughing harder. “You haven’t the complexion to wear white! Nor the virtue, I should think.”
Lan pulled it over her head.
Batuuli sighed and put the other dresses back. “Oh just stop, you’re making a muddle of it. Serafina! Ariel!”
The handmaidens chased Lan’s hands away from the gown and straightened it out in seconds. Worse than the feeling of being dressed was knowing she’d needed help; what she’d thought was the neck-hole turned out to be a sleeve and what had seemed to be a belt was actually the top. She was not dressed as much as draped, which should have made her look like one of the statues in the great hall but didn’t. She looked like what she was—a farmer wrapped in white cloth.