Dragon Rose(14)

None too soon, as it turned out, for I had just finished blotting my hair and adjusting the drawstring neckline of the chemise when Sar reappeared, carrying a tray with a number of mysterious-looking objects, along with a more prosaic hairbrush and comb.

“Sit by the window,” she said. “The sun will help to dry your hair.”

So I did as I was told and took a seat where she had instructed. She stood behind me and combed the snarls out of my hair, and then proceeded to brush it and brush it as it slowly dried. I wondered a little at her spending such a lengthy amount of time on this task—if she truly ran the household, wasn’t she needed elsewhere for more important things?—but I remained silent as she worked.

“Well enough,” she said at length. “It will finish drying while I work on your face.”

“My face?” I repeated, wondering what bizarre ritual the Dragon required of his Brides before they were presented to him.

As it turned out, this “ritual” consisted of her refining my brows with a pair of bone tweezers, polishing my skin with silk, and then touching the faintest amount of some reddish powder to my lips and cheeks. I had heard that the ladies in the capital indulged in such practices, but we had little enough use of them in Lirinsholme. Each time Sar removed an errant hair from my eyebrows, I tried not to wince, and wondered why on earth the Dragon should care whether or not I looked like a court lady, when by all accounts I would be resting in his belly by the time the evening was over.

No, that was not strictly true, or fair. No one really knew what happened to the Brides. But since they were never seen again, and dragons were known to have somewhat rapacious appetites, naturally everyone expected the worst.

After she had seen to my face, Sar directed me over to the hearth, where she bade me sit as she took the last of her odd implements, a long metal tube with a wooden handle, and inserted it directly into the flames. I held my breath, wondering what tortures she planned to inflict with the device. It turned out, however, that she intended nothing more sinister than to wind my hair around it, creating a perfect series of long spiral curls. I recalled all the restless nights I’d had sleeping on rags to make my half-heartedly wavy hair curl, and decided this was a much more effective way of achieving that goal.

“There,” Sar said at last, after propping the still-warm iron up against the fireplace shovel. “Now, it’s on with the gown.”

I turned away from the hearth and stood, realizing as I did so just how long that entire procedure must have lasted. The sun had dipped almost out of sight behind the hills to the west, although dusk itself was still some time off. I also perceived a distinct hollowness in my stomach. It had been hours and hours since the breakfast of toasted bread and cheese I had consumed at home before setting out for the town square with Therella in tow. Up until that moment I hadn’t even considered such a thing, as feeding myself did not seem all that important when marriage to the Dragon loomed before me, but my body obviously had a different opinion on the matter.

“Do I get any supper?” I asked, my tone perhaps a little too plaintive, as Sar had me step into the wine-colored gown.

“You will eat…after.”

That didn’t sound very appetizing. Was I to dine with the Dragon? Was I to be his dinner?

Sar was busy with the lacings at the back of my dress, pulling it tight. It seemed its previous wearer had been more slender than I, or at least did not have quite as much bosom. I had no doubt that my mother would have highly disapproved of the expanse of rounded breasts exposed by the tight, low-cut bodice, but of course she was not there to comment. While Sar tied off the silk cord, I did my best to tug the chemise up a little higher.

As she came around and began to tie on the heavily embroidered and jeweled sleeves, I found myself compelled to say, “The other Brides…”

“What of them?” she asked, as she poked a ribbon through the loop attached to the shoulder seam of my bodice.

“The Dragon doesn’t…he doesn’t eat them, does he?”

At my question she paused and gave me an unbelieving stare. “Gods, no!” she replied, in tones of horror convincing enough that I thought she was most likely telling the truth. “Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

“People talk.”

“That they do, and mostly of things they know nothing about. No wonder you were looking so pale, despite the paint. Thought you were going to end up in the Dragon’s belly tonight?”

Feeling foolish, I nodded.

“Nothing so grim, I assure you. I’ll take you to the hall when the time comes, and a priest will marry you to his lordship. Afterward, you will take supper together.”

“And after that?” I might have been a maiden, but I knew what passed between men and women. But the Dragon of Black’s Keep was no ordinary man.

Sar did not quite meet my gaze. “You may have noticed that I said these were your rooms. Not his. The Dragon and his Bride always keep separate chambers.”

I didn’t so much sigh as let out my breath slowly. My relief, however, was tempered by curiosity. So if he did not make a meal of them, and neither did he treat them as real wives, what exactly did the Dragon do with his Brides?

Asking Sar did not seem to be the best plan of action. I barely knew her, of course, but what little I had seen spoke of a no-nonsense manner that nonetheless hid its own secrets. Very likely she would either ignore my questions or tell me to mind my own business. Then again, one would think the relationship with my future husband was my business…