“But—”
“Mender Samuels ordered bed rest, and bed rest it shall be.”
“But—”
The woman’s expression brooked no argument, and Karigan held her tongue. In moments they were back in her room, and the woman helped her into bed, her assistance gentle in contrast to her brusque manner. As Karigan sank into the mattress, she had to admit it was good to be off her bad leg.
“I don’t know what they did to you at the asylum or why,” the woman said, clucking as she observed Karigan’s bandaged wounds. “One hears such horrid stories. But you are safe now, free of that wretched institution.”
“But where am I?”
The woman paused with the covers in her hand and raised an eyebrow. Her hair, streaked with gray, was bundled on top of her head, and a monocle hung from a silver chain around her neck.
“Dear, dear,” the woman said. “I thought you knew, but the mender said you’d be disoriented. You are in your uncle’s house in Mill City. I am his housekeeper, Mirriam.”
Karigan had never heard of Mill City, and why did they insist she had an uncle here? “Where are my things?”
“Things? What things?”
“That came with me.”
“I could not say.”
As Mirriam busied herself with tucking Karigan in, Karigan realized she was not likely to get much in the way of answers from the housekeeper. Either she did not know the answers, or she’d been ordered to reveal nothing. In that case, Karigan needed to see her “uncle,” whom she assumed to be the professor. That was another question: why would this stranger claim to be her uncle?
“Now, will you be needing more morphia?” Mirriam asked. “Mender Samuels showed me how to administer it.”
Karigan closed her eyes, remembering how the morphia had vanquished her pain, made everything so pleasant she did not care about where she was or why. She’d be able to rest without worry, allow her hurts to mend. She almost craved it. Yet she wished to remain alert, not muddle-brained, and discover exactly where she was and figure out how she was to get home and report to her king and the captain. There was much she wished to tell them about Blackveil, the most troubling being the return of Mornhavon. She hoped once more that her companions had not been harmed by the shattering of the looking mask and were making their way home even now. The morphia was a tempting escape, but she could not allow herself to be seduced by it. No, she needed answers first.
“No, no morphia,” she finally replied. Was that a look of approval on Mirriam’s face?
“Then tea with extract of willow ought to do you,” she replied. “Are you hungry? I can have breakfast brought up.”
Karigan was, but she said, “I’d like to see my—my uncle.”
“You will see him when he wishes you to,” Mirriam said, hands on hips. “He is a very busy man. Meanwhile I’ll send Lorine up with your breakfast.” She glanced under the bed. “And if you can walk, you can use the privy two doors down, eh? But don’t let me find you wandering the halls. Mender Samuels would not approve.”
Karigan nodded, and when Mirriam strode from the room, she exhaled in relief. Mirriam seemed to take up a lot of space and air.
Karigan would have to be patient and go along with whatever game these people were playing. They appeared to be concerned with her well-being, and the rest couldn’t but help her body, which had been so abused in Blackveil. Another point in their favor, at least in Mirriam’s, was that the morphia had not been forced upon her. Considering the lethargic quality it produced, it would be an easy way to control her. Instead, she’d simply been urged not to wander the hallways, an admonition she’d likely ignore if she wanted to learn more about this world and its people, and locate her belongings. She’d just have to make sure she wasn’t caught in the process. Mirriam did not strike her as a woman who would easily forgive disobedience.
She gazed at the sunlight falling through her window and wondered what her fellow Riders were up to, if anyone missed her. Specifically, she wondered if King Zachary noticed her absence, and then she shook her head in an effort to reject such painful, yearning thoughts.
Her door opened slowly as the maid she’d seen earlier backed in with a tray laden with covered dishes. In contrast to Mirriam, the young woman moved softly. Her name, Mirriam had said, was Lorine. She brought the tray over and helped settle it across Karigan’s lap.
“Your breakfast, miss.”
Lorine removed the covers from the dishes and steam rose, the scents of bacon and eggs making Karigan’s stomach rumble. And there was toast slathered with jam, a pot of tea, and a generous scoop of butter melting into a mound of fried potatoes.
“If you need anything else, miss, just ring the bell.”
Karigan glanced up and noted that the headscarf did more than just cover Lorine’s hair, it concealed scarring that puckered at her temple.
“Thank you,” Karigan murmured. “I’m hungry enough that I may eat the dishes and tray, too.”
But Lorine was already on her way out of the room. Karigan sighed and ate as she had not eaten since the equinox when she crossed the wall into Blackveil. Hardtack this was not.
As starved as she’d been, though, she did not even come close to eating the dishes or tray. She’d subsisted on so little for so long that it did not take much to fill her stomach. She gazed at the remaining food with regret, but did not think she could possibly handle another mouthful without bursting, so she rang the bell and sipped her tea.