After Ashtin's first tea, Clu escorted her, as his personal guest, to another party the following week. She had stood on the same block, still and silent, dressed by the servants who hated her. Who probably wished they could pull her down from that high place and force her to crouch down for them, to serve them.
She was starting to understand this new world, the world above the kitchens and servant quarters. There were parties, fine suppers, afternoon tea parties, and quiet strolls through the gardens. There were the whispers of the servants passing through the corridors, talking how servants always talk; Ashtin noticed that their voices seemed to lower as they passed her suite. Every day was the same. Just as it was when she was working below, it was hard to keep track of the days. Time seemed warped somehow. Each morning, a servant came in to draw the curtains and give Ashtin her attire for the day (but could she not choose for herself?), and then, silently, she would style her hair at the vanity. That servant left and was replaced with another, who brought breakfast on a tray. By the time the eggs and biscuit were gone and she'd reached the grains left by the teabag in her cup, Gwen would come striding through her door. Together they'd leave Ashtin's suite and have a lesson or take a walk or read, since Ashtin had not yet seen the language written; so, the two of them would sit on the patio under a shade—Gwen always made sure Ashtin was kept from the sun, which she didn't understand since she wouldn't burn—and Gwen would help her sound out the words. Gwen was her new companion.
Except, she did not join Ashtin at Clu's party. Instead, it was Clu who met her at the top of the staircase and took her arm in his. It was he who led her into the sea of faces and guided her about, introducing her to important people and making sure she did not do or say the wrong thing. It was Clu, on this night, who danced with her. Who whispered in her ear when to speak and when to curtsey. And all the while all she could smell was his thick cedarwood scent, not an occasional whiff of Gwen's usual lavender and lemon aroma; she did not have the luxury of taking in the splendor of strawberry shortcakes or warm, buttered crumpets.
In every regard, this party was different from her first with Gwen. This time, she was not at the edge of the half-circle of guests talking and observing the dances, but in the middle of it all. She did not see their faces; only their intricately woven bodices and pressed coats, hands adjusting one's cufflinks, and a feminine touch to one's pearls about the neck. They all towered over her, so she did not have to look them in the eye. She could not fully take them in as she was accustomed to, from afar. She could not see whether their expressions were that of disdain or marvel at the new Minarian girl. Yet, she could feel their stares. Again she felt naked, or transparent, like they could all see into her and somehow read her thoughts and her fears.
Worst of all, she'd hardly been able to hear the music for all the voices.
Clu led her around the room, showing her off like a prize. Here, he'd whisper, bending down near her ear, so close she could feel his breath, to give her directions. You must meet him. He's an ambassador or He has a seat in my council. And he'd guide her over and start a conversation about things Ashtin did not understand, and then he'd introduce her, and they'd ask Clu questions, not her, which she'd accepted by now, their voices floating above her head.
There was only one instance when Clu bent to meet her eyes. They were standing at the sidelines, watching the couples dance, when suddenly she felt his body stiffen beside her, and he bent down, and took her hands in his to show his earnest. A strand of his gelled hair had fallen over his eyes, but he did not care to smooth it back. Instead, he squeezed her hands and spoke very seriously: "Over there is Danica Gibson. She is here for a conference. I was not expecting her to come..." He trailed off and, as if the sensation that he was being watched had overcome him, he glanced briefly to the right, across the rows of dancers. Ashtin dared not look; instead, her eyes bored into his face, and she watched how sweat gathered at his hairline. "You were not meant to meet her so soon, but I suppose this will have to do." And then an expression passed over his face that Ashtin could not decipher—was it pity? Pity for himself, or for her sake?
YOU ARE READING
Stalemate
Fantasy"Sometimes they'd just stand there and watch the sunset. I never understood that." "Bad people like sunsets too, Doon." :: Residing on a land with abundant resources, the Minarians have been enslaved in their own country by the Dordans for decades...
