The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(39)

I curse myself for not demanding he answer my questions before now, even though I was too weak to protest. “Who are you, really? Why are you no longer a priest?” I lean forward and try to catch his sleeve, but he skitters out of my reach. “How is it that you know what I am when the elders didn’t?” My left fist clenches when I hear Oskar’s footsteps coming nearer. “Raimo, can’t I stay here with you?”

He shivers, moving closer to the fire. “I’ve let you stay too long already, girl.”

“Can’t we meet again? There’s so much I don’t know!”

Raimo rubs his hand over his mostly bald head, looking regretful instead of mocking for once. “When the thaw comes.”

“But—”

Oskar strides into the cavern. In one hand is a torch, and in the other he clutches a bundle of rags. His hair is pulled back from his face, but he looks more like a bear than ever, fur and all.

Raimo eyes the thick garment Oskar has wrapped over his shoulders and torso. “The weather must have taken a turn,” he comments.

Oskar looks down at himself. “There was a frost last night.” He moves closer to the fire and sees me lying on the other side of it. His gaze slides from my head to my feet, and his brows rise. For the first time since we met, I’m sitting up by myself.

I’m also wearing nothing but a blanket. His eyes meet mine. “You look better.”

I clutch the thick woolen fabric a little higher on my chest. “Thank you. I feel better.”

He holds up the bundle of rags. “I brought you some clothes. I think they’ll fit.” He looks away. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

He shoves the clothes into Raimo’s arms and stalks out of the cavern. I watch him go with guilt sitting heavy in my gut. I remember how reluctant he was to take responsibility for me, how pained he sounded when Raimo demanded it. Raimo looks like he’s trying not to laugh as he walks over and hands me the clothing. “Oskar is unwaveringly honorable. Usually it’s irritating, but today we should count ourselves lucky.”

“He doesn’t want to take care of me.”

Raimo shakes his head. “Not right now, no.” He nudges the ball of garments in my lap with the toe of his grimy boot. “Get up and get dressed, girl. Your lazy days of convalescence are over.”

He walks over to a flat rock near the fire, where he draws a deck of cards from beneath a stone ledge. As I clumsily unfold the clothes, struggling to manage with my still tightly bandaged right hand, he begins to deal out a game of solitaire.

I hold up the garments. Oskar has brought me a pair of thick, warm stockings, serviceable leather slippers, a shapeless gown made out of the same brown wool as his own tunic, and a kerchief for my hair. The clothing of a peasant. A sharp prickle of anxiety and shame makes me shiver.

It’s not that I think I’m too good for these things. I’m grateful to have them. But I have barely the faintest idea of how to put them on. I’ve never actually dressed myself, and now I have only one good hand to help me accomplish the task. Yes, I have three fingers left on my right hand, but I can barely touch the pad of my thumb to my forefinger because they’re so stiff and sensitive. My middle finger juts out, useless and crooked.

“The more you move and stretch them, the easier it will be,” Raimo says quietly. “You’ll probably never regain full use of them, but that’s no excuse not to try.”

I stare at Raimo’s back. He has a card in his hand, but he’s not playing. He’s waiting, I realize, probably for me to ask for help or whine about my need for a maidservant. And right now, I want Mim more than ever, for so many reasons. But if I say that to Raimo, he’ll only mock me. I press my lips together. Pretty, but not that useful. Like you right now. The words burn as I digest the undeniable truth of them, especially when I think of Oskar waiting outside, loathing the idea of taking me under his protection.

I’m not a jewel. Not a treasure. Not a wonder or a living miracle.

I’m a burden.

Determination forms like a fist behind my breast.

I will not be a burden.

With clenched teeth, I find the top of one of the stockings and shove my foot into it. It gets caught in the narrow tube of fabric. I let out a frustrated little grunt as I wrestle with it. Sweat beads across my brow. Pain gnaws at my right hand, chomping its way up my arm. But I don’t give up.

I refuse to let a stocking defeat me.

“Is she ready yet?” Oskar calls from outside the cavern.

“Not quite,” calls Raimo, who sounds like it’s taking all his will to keep from cackling.

I redouble my efforts, squirming and twisting and groaning when my knee bashes into my cauterized knuckles. I’m nearly limp with exhaustion by the time I get the obnoxious garment pulled up to my thigh.

“Try pointing your toes and sliding them in rather than trying to jam your entire foot straight down into it,” Raimo suggests, his voice trembling with mirth.

My nostrils flare. “It would have been easy enough for you to mention that several minutes ago.”

“True.” He resumes playing cards.

The second stocking goes on much more smoothly, thanks to his sage advice. And the dress is simple enough—I pull it over my head and thrust my left arm through a sleeve.

Raimo gives me a sidelong glance. “If I told you it was backward, would that upset you?”