Depravity (A Beastly Tale Book 1)(15)

"A dry shirt to cover me. Something to eat if you have it."

"Done," he agreed too quickly. "Now stand."

His impatience worried me.

"Not yet. I want to see the shirt you have to offer me."

He roared this time.

"Do you think me a fool? When I leave to fetch it, you will rise from the water and dress."

"Had I thought of that, I probably would have," I admitted. I'd been too  worried to think that far, but as soon as he would have left the room, I  was sure I would have done just that. Given his anger, I was glad he  didn't leave and give me the chance.

"I will remain in this water until you return as long as it doesn't take so long that the fire dies."

Silence greeted me again. I waited a few moments and asked, "Are you there?"

No answer. Despite my promise, I considered rising from the water and dressing.                       
       
           



       

The sudden appearance of a shirt tossed over the jagged edge of the  table startled me. The white material of the fine shirt seemed out of  place against the wood. I quickly reached for it, but it disappeared  over the edge again.

"Stand up. Now." His angry growl sounded nearby.

I really had no choice. I could sit in the water until I rotted or his  anger got the better of him and he pulled me from the water regardless  of his promise of refuge, or I could stand on my own and hope for the  shirt.

"I'll stand," I said quietly, gripping the sides of the tub. "And when  you feel you've shamed me enough, feel free to reward me with a shirt."

I stood facing the table, hoping it would offer me a bit of modesty  since it came to my waist. And it did until he flung it to the side. The  dying fire and the long shadow I cast hid him again, and I hoped the  lack of light hid me as well. I wanted to close my eyes but dared not.  Instead, I looked down and stepped over the edge of the tub.

"Shame," he whispered. "There is no shame in this. Only desperation." He sounded slightly sad.

I didn't have time to reflect on it because the shirt sailed out of the  darkness and landed on my head, blinding me. The door opened and closed  before I could pull it from my face. Quickly putting my arms through the  sleeves, I threaded the buttons through their holes before turning to  add more wood to the fire. As I guessed, I stood in the kitchen, alone  once again.

My dress lay in a heap on the floor. I thought of putting it back on,  but then wondered what I'd do. Unless my father had returned, there was  as little safety for me outside the estate as there was inside. Sighing,  I tossed my dress into the bath water. After rinsing it as best I  could, I wrung it out and hung it over the edge of the table, which I  again pushed close to the fire.

It took me a while to empty the tub with the bucket, but eventually I  had all the water outside, and I turned the tub upside down and used it  as a chair. The long shirt fell to the tops of my knees when I stood.  When I sat, it rode a bit higher in back, but protected me enough that I  didn't have to sit bare bottomed.

My eyes grew heavy as I waited for the dress to dry, and the stack of  wood beside the hearth grew smaller. My stomach growled, and I recalled  my request for food. Standing, I searched for something on the kitchen  shelves and found a surprising bounty of hard cheese and dried fruit. I  took a small portion of each and sat back by the fire.

After about an hour passed, the door flew open again. My heart pounded  within its boney cage, and I moved to turn around, but his words stopped  me.

"Do not turn. Stay as you are." He sounded angry. Beyond angry, actually. His growl was so severe it was hard to understand him.

I stayed still, staring at the flames while I strained to hear him move.  Suddenly he spoke from right behind me as he gently touched my hair,  his tone conflicting with his touch.

"Your payment went to waste."

Unsure what he meant, I remained quiet. He touched a tender spot near the crown of my head, and I flinched.

"Hurt again, girl?"

"Benella," I murmured, very uncomfortable with him standing so close behind me.

"Not a pretty name," he said with less of a growl.

"It's after my father and mother," I said slowly as his touch feathered  over my head as if trying to find where I was hurt. "My mother had hoped  after two daughters, the third would be a boy and planned to name him  after my father, Benard. When I arrived, she'd been so upset that my  father had suggested I still carry part of his name and hers as well,  Nadelle. Benella is better than Nadard."

The beast gave a surprised grunt, and he parted my hair. I knew what he intended and leaned forward out of his way.

"I cannot accept any more from you without knowing the price."

He snorted.

"I give this freely." He tugged me back and touched his tongue to my  head for a second time. I wondered what he'd do if he got a strand of  hair in his mouth, but then supposed licking my head wasn't so different  from licking his own furry hide.

It soothed the bare patches so much that I began to doze and leaned back against him. His warmth cradled me, and I fell asleep.

* * * *

At some point during the night, strangely muffled sounds of cawing  roused me from a deep sleep. Curled on my side, I snuggled deeper into  the pile of furs lying under me. From the darkness, something growled  softly and silenced the bird as a large, warm hand soothed my hair. I  sank back into my slumber.

In the morning, I stretched with a yawn and groaned. The cold cobble  floor made me ache, and I sat up with a shiver and a frown. Hadn't there  been a pile of furs last night? Studying the kitchen, lit now by the  sun that shone through several windows set high on the walls, I saw only  my dress, boots, and underthings. No furs.                       
       
           



       

Recalling the hand on my head, my mouth popped open. The beast. I sprang  to my feet and looked around, the shirt brushing my legs. Everything  clicked back into place, and I hurried to dress as I worried what Father  might be thinking.

I hesitated to take the shirt as I couldn't remember how I'd asked for  it. Unsure if it really belonged to me now or not, I folded it neatly  and set it on the broken table with a look of regret.

* * * *

When I walked into the cottage looking disheveled, Bryn only spared me a  censuring glance; and I knew I'd arrived in an untidy state too often  in recent days. She washed dishes in a small tub on a plank counter near  the stove. The table was empty and only the lingering hint of cooked  food perfumed the air.

"Go borrow one of Father's shirts. You'll need to wash your dress before  you can wear it anywhere. Father wants us looking presentable tonight.  We're to dine with the Kinlyn family." Her flat tone told me what she  thought of the idea, so I didn't ask any questions about why we were  going. At least I would get to eat.

Father's bedroom door stood open, the trunk for his clothes at the foot  of his bed clearly visible. Feeling intrusive, I knelt before the trunk  and tipped the lid back. I hadn't ever looked in Father's trunk, as I  never did the laundry. Bryn washed everything, folded it, and tucked it  neatly away.

Inside the trunk, two distinct piles of clothes defined my father's sad  wardrobe. On the right, his two neatly folded white shirts and spare  pair of trousers waited for their next use. The left pile doubled what  the right had to offer with the addition of two neckcloths, worn and  frayed, lying on top. Everything in the left pile had been patched or  mended in some way. Loose threads dangled from frayed sleeve cuffs and  patches adorned knees.

Carefully moving aside the neckcloths, I took the top shirt from the  mended pile and shook it out. It would service for wearing on my treks  in the woods and for around the cottage. I placed the neckcloths neatly  back into the trunk and closed the lid.

In my room, I glanced once at Blye's trunk of cloth and pushed back my  resentment. I knew she mended his clothes and did a good job of it too,  but she could easily make Father a new shirt. Was it fair to resent her  when I'd ignored my own opportunity to help Father? After all, I'd slept  in a very fine shirt Father could have used. Granted, it would have  been a bit large, but Blye could make a shirt smaller. She'd proven that  already.

Dressed in my familiar trousers and a borrowed, threadbare shirt, I  bunched up my dress and took it outside where Bryn usually did the  washing in good weather. Then, I began the long process of hauling water  and soaping, scrubbing, twisting, and rinsing the dress. The process  had to be repeated several times until the cloth began to look blue  again. Giving it a final wring, I tossed it over a line Bryn had tied  outside and wiped my hands on my pants.