Anaisa returned to find the home somewhat cleaner than when she'd left, and awarded Trace with a mildly amused expression. Had he been embarrassed about his home? She took off the heavily dripping coat, sad that it would get the floor all wet.
"Thanks, I'll take my turn now," Trace smiled and took the garment from her before heading out the door and into the thunderstorm.
Leaving her alone. Truly alone, for the first time in as long as she could remember. She'd always had Katia by her side, until that morning, and then those horrid men had brought her here and left her with her new husband.
What a strange word, husband.
Of course, strange was the word that she was using most often today. Everything about her life was surreal.
Being alone allowed untold emotions to boil up that she didn't even know how to process. Caring for Katia had been her main purpose, the drive to keep her going the past several days.
For better or worse, there was nothing she could do for Katia right now.
That left only thoughts of revenge.
"Barnabas," Anaisa sneered the name. He had always been a toadying hanger-on to her father's wealth and schemes, a distasteful man who used others to further his own interests. It was always his dream to become one of the Counts of the Realm. There were only a dozen men of that high position, and most of that status could be cutthroat politicians.
Of course, he had to take down one of those men to get the position, she just had never imagined it would be his own cousin.
Anaisa wondered whether her father had foreseen that in the end Barnabas would practically dance on his grave. Not even his grave; they wouldn't bury his ashes in the family plot now that he'd been declared a fraud.
They probably hadn't even given him a burial at all. Left him to rot on the battlefield, most likely. That's what happened to traitors.
The thought didn't offend Anaisa for the reasons it should; no real love for her father entered the equation; theirs had been a transactional relationship more than a familial one. And so, her overarching emotion about his death was indignation that he wasn't treated properly as a Count. If he had been, she would still be home, and be far better off than she ever had been before.
Anaisa could have fired the servants who had treated her ill, and rewarded the few good ones. Disgraced the guards who seemed to feel no remorse about kicking the true heiresses out into the street.
But how would she get back and accomplish that? Even if she was in the city, where would she begin?
Finding dirt on Barnabas would be a good start. The man was a schemer; Anaisa was sure she could find something he'd done wrong and get him disgraced in the royal eyes… but she had to do so in a way that would restore her own honor, and that would be difficult.
The thought suddenly hit her that he would be back rather quickly. She hurried to the corner furthest from the door and changed into her nightdress to avoid the awkwardness of doing so in front of him.
If he intended to leave her the bed, she would take it and cover up before he returned.
She had just finished changing and getting under the quilt when Trace returned, dripping wet. He kept his eyes down while he hung up his jacket, and then finally looked at her.
"Did you find everything all right?" He asked.
"Yes, thank you," She nodded. "I need nothing further."
She realized that he held a length of thin rope in his hand. That was odd, and mildly concerning.
He frowned for a moment before walking toward her with it, and part of her began to panic. She prepared to fight him off if necessary, glancing around for a weapon to use. Of course, he was a trained soldier, but she wouldn't give up without a fight.
To her great puzzlement, he walked directly past her and took his nightclothes off of a hook on the wall before tying one end of the rope to it. He then walked back across the room and looped the other end over the hook by the door, pulling until it was taut.
Anaisa was fascinated. Was this some habit of farmers? A strange night time ritual peculiar to Trace?
He walked to the bed next, and opened an old wooden trunk at the foot of it. He retrieved a quilt, and then threw it over the rope, spreading it until it draped like a curtain across the center of the room.
"It seemed proper that you should be able to have some privacy," He explained.
Anaisa blinked, amazed, as he retrieved a bedroll and made his way to the other side of the room, by the fire.
"There are more quilts in that chest, but if you get cold enough to need the fire, just move this one aside. It won't bother me."
"Thank you," She said, too startled to say more as he disappeared behind the makeshift barrier between them. It was above and beyond what she could ever have expected. It was too good to be true.
In their home, though it was grand, she and Katia had balled up together, sometimes under one of their beds if their father was hosting a party. His guests were not always well behaved and once in a while one wandered into their part of the home. Their father, when he stumbled home drunk from other people's parties, slept wherever he fell unless the servants picked him up and moved him.
The sisters had had separate beds since volunteering to be brides, but still stayed close enough for Anaisa to hear or feel her sister's breathing.
She was now alone in another sense. Could she sleep this way? On the one hand, it was ultimate luxury. She could toss and turn without bumping into anyone, and without being bumped into in return.
Katia was a fitful sleeper when she was worried.
On the other hand, this was supremely lonely. She snuggled deeper beneath the quilt. It wasn't her fine bed linens from home, but was comforting nonetheless. The pillow was very soft, and smelled of fresh hay. It was a pleasant scent.
If she thought she would be awake long, that was a mistake on her part. The rain had abated to a patter on the roof that was rather like a lullaby, and the softness of the mattress lulled her off quickly to sleep, and into her dreams.