I blinked, my tear-streaked face reflected at me in the well-lit mirror. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It had to be some cruel trick my eyes were playing on me. I leaned closer, rubbing my eyes in disbelief, hoping that this hallucination would fade away.
But there it was, undeniable and impossible. The once-gaping wound on my shoulder was now covered by a scar. It had a reddish-brown tinge against my dark skin, a stark reminder of its existence. I tentatively ran my fingers over the scar's surface, feeling the tenderness that lingered. I flinched. The pain was still there, despite the visual contradiction.
Confusion crippled my mind. What could explain this? I had been careful to avoid any injuries during my time in the castle. I couldn't recall a single occasion where I had been wounded, even when I ventured back home to check on my father. Was this perhaps a consequence of Lord Fashire's saliva mingling with my blood?
Glancing down at the dark puddle surrounding me, I swallowed hard. Cleaning it all up was paramount before I dared to leave. Lord Fashire could burst in at any moment and drag me away. The mere thought sent a shiver down my spine. Using the towels in this room to clean seemed unimaginable, so I reluctantly decided to undress.
Each garment I removed was accompanied by a wave of excruciating pain. I winced and grimaced, attempting to limit the movement of my injured arm. The throbbing in my shoulder persisted, intensifying with each passing moment. Chills coursed over my skin, offering a brief respite from the relentless ache. I reminded myself that worrying wouldn't make it go away, and I was far more lost than the other Lords when it came to understanding what was happening to me.
Hanging my undergarments over my good shoulder, I balled up my dress, feeling a sense of defeat settle within me. I sank to my knees and began to mop up the mess I had created, using my undergarments as makeshift cleaning tools. Standing up, I trudged back and forth to the sink, squeezing the murky water out of my dress. I dumped the soggy garments in the sink and used my undergarments to mop the floor clean. My eyes started to water once more as I stared down at my now-discoloured undies. Once pure white, they now resembled the coarse fabrics worn by street beggars… and I would have to wear this…
I contemplated my miserable situation for a while, silently bemoaning my fate.
One by one, I washed my clothes in the sink, rinsing them and leaving them as a wet pile. I had no other means to clean up any wet spots I might have missed in the chamber. And once I was done with this thankless task, I would have to wear the damp clothes.
I didn't want to do that.
My movements froze, a sudden realization washing over me. Lord Fashire had explicitly instructed me to clean myself up. Wearing wet garments and potentially soiling his opulent bed chamber would be a direct insult to his command.
Then what was I supposed to wear? I surveyed the bathing chamber and shivered, subtly aware of the cool air. This was a chamber the Lord frequented every day. His personal area. And I was in it, naked and vulnerable. I swallowed the thought and hugged my chest as I tottered to the bathtub.
Unable to find any soap in sight, my gaze fell upon a semi-circular cabinet that adorned the walls. The utilities would be there, but it was positioned too high for me to reach. With a faint sigh of frustration, I resigned myself to the fact that water alone would have to suffice. I turned on one of the taps, only to be greeted by scalding hot water that filled the basin. The blast of steam rose, engulfing the room and causing me to stagger back from the sudden heat. Hastily, I reached out and shut off the tap before turning to the other one, hoping for a more reasonable temperature.
Finally, I succeeded in filling the bath with lukewarm water. Then I dove in. However, the relief was short-lived as a scalding pain tore through my shoulder as the heat seeped into my scar. I bit down on my hand, stifling a cry of agony. My body tensed up and I remained frozen, my hand pressed against my mouth, legs curled up to my chest, and back hunched over.
My body was exhausted, my mind was frail, and my soul was drained. My body gradually got accustomed to the steaming water and I leaned back, my head resting on one side of the tub as I extended my legs. The urge to submerge myself underwater and stay till my lungs ran out of air was destroyed. If I was gone, who would take care of him? Could I even take care of him in this predicament? I lay there, staring at the flat ceiling for a long while before considering cleaning myself. I had to use my hands. I couldn't risk using the towels when I wasn't even properly bathed.
The door to the bath chamber opened and I grew rigid as someone walked in.
"Matadre?" I whimpered, my voice hoarse.
Her eyes fell upon my clothes in the sink.
I sank deeper into the water as if the flimsy element could conceal me completely from Matadre's scrutinizing gaze. She didn't seem angry. Her face wasn't just lacking in emotion, she appeared calm. Too calm.
I looked down. The memory of her shocked face in the dining hall flashed before my eyes, and a pang of unease tightened my chest.
Matadre's footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, accompanied by a soft clicking sound. I watched in silence as she unlocked a hidden compartment, revealing a long wooden slab that extended from the cabinet, providing easy access to the high-placed storage. I then noticed the basket she had come in with. It contained a fresh set of clothes. She carefully placed it down before climbing the slab to slide open the cabinet, revealing an array of washing supplies, neatly arranged bar soaps, towels, and containers.
She selected a bar of soap, closed the cabinet, and descended from the platform. My eyes shifted back to the water, unable to meet her eyes.
With a few steps, she knelt at the side of the bathtub. Right beside me. I stilled. Why was she kneeling? She wasn't going to wash me, was she? That would be nonsensical.
Unless…
"Please sit up," Matadre said, her tone indicating that she was merely following orders. "Lord Fashire requested that I have you cleaned."
The air became too stuffy for me to breathe in. I swallowed and complied with her request. With great effort, I sat up, my eyes still fixated on the water. She took hold of my arm, her touch gentle yet purposeful, and she began to lather the soap onto my skin.
Summoning the courage to look up, I met Matadre's focused gaze. Before I could utter an apology, she shook her head dismissively. Her words spilt out in a rush, each one cutting deeper than the last. "Becca is not angry, and the other servants are furious," she said, her attention still devoted to washing my skin. "You made fools of us all... How did it feel, working among us while secretly observing the pets?"
A wave of nausea washed over me, twisting my insides. Her question was justified, and I couldn't bear to imagine what the maids and pets thought of me now.
I wanted to express my remorse, to spill out my feelings of regret, but the words eluded me. They remained trapped within my throat, causing an unbearable itch that begged for release.
Matadre's voice softened slightly, and she spoke again, her tone tinged with a hint of mercy. "I can't help but take some pity on you, considering your aunt seems to have dragged you into this mess."
"No. I willingly came to work here…" I started and immediately regretted speaking. Matadre had looked up. She held my gaze, steady and calm. I shrank back, unable to look away. Her soft hold on my wrist was gentle, yet unyielding.
"Are you sure?" she pressed, her voice dripping with suspicion. "Had you even heard of this castle? Who planted those ideas in your head?"
Slowly, I shook my head, a desperate attempt to deny Matadre's accusation, even though I could vividly recall the day I implored my aunt for assistance. She had offered me the only help she could provide and Melody had given me more information.
My chest constricted, a suffocating mixture of confusion and betrayal. Had this all been orchestrated? But for what purpose? I couldn't comprehend anything. My aunt had given me those potions, but I had never given them serious consideration.
Matadre let go of me and glanced down at the water. "With this… It stands to tell that I may never have truly known her." Matadre returned her unwavering gaze to me. "If she isn't human or vampire, I cannot fathom what she truly is. And if you are indeed blood-related," Her last words carried a mix of caution and uncertainty as she cast an odd look at the scar on my shoulder. "Then you aren't entirely human either."