He nodded slowly, astounded she would comprehend so easily, and watched as she disappeared silently from the room. It was a dream, he decided. A lovely dream, a wonderful thing, but it would make it all the worse when he woke up to burning chains and locks and cold, empty stones. He’d rather not dream. Not hope. It was better to live in the dark.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to wake, but when he opened them again, nothing had changed. His body ached from the ride and the stretch of muscles unfamiliar to movement; his hunger was blunted, though not truly sated yet. Surely, if it was a phantasm, he’d have imagined himself free of pain and thirst. Wasn’t that the whole purpose of a dream?
He startled when Lady Grey appeared again in the doorway. She had changed her clothing to a plain pale gown, all jewelry and fine clothes put away. Over her arm, she had more clothing folded. She paused where she was, and smiled at him . . . a slow, warm thing, full of concern.
“May I assist you?” she asked him. He blinked, not certain how to answer, and then nodded, because he realized suddenly that it would be hard for him to stand on his own. Weakness was his constant companion now. He wondered if it would always be this way. Surely not. Vampires are not so weak.
Except he felt very weak indeed.
Her arm felt strong beneath his, and he leaned against her as they walked the short distance to what must have been set aside as a bathing chamber. Within it sat a large copper tub, big enough to submerge a full-grown man if he was so brave, and on a three-legged stool beside it sat a pile of sheets to use as windings. There was even a thick liquid of soap in a pail; it smelled like lavender. The water was warm enough to steam the chilly air.
He had his shirt—what remained of it—half off his body when he remembered his good manners, and dropped it back over his pallid skin. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said. “I—am not myself.”
“And little wonder of that,” she responded briskly. She was binding a piece of cloth over her red hair, which was now slung in a loose braid over her shoulder. “You must have help, Lord Myrnin. I am far from shy. Disrobe.”
“I—” He was utterly at a loss for words, and stared at her until her fiery eyebrows rose. She looked more imperious than any bathing attendant he could imagine. “It’s not fitting that you . . . a queen . . .”
“A dead queen, well buried, and I never liked her. I’ve discovered quickly enough that this life gives me a freedom I never tasted before. I like it, I think.” She flashed him a full, charming smile this time, and quirked one eyebrow higher. “I’ll turn my back if you give me your oath not to fall and dash your head open on the stones.”
“I’ll try,” he promised. She politely turned, and he stripped quickly, shocked at the sight of his own skin after so long but glad, so very glad, to have those stiff, evil rags off his body. Getting into the tub was a daunting challenge that he only just managed, and he raised quite a splash at the last as his feet slipped from under him to spill him into the water. It raised a gasp from him, and then a groan.
“Is your modesty protected, sir?” Lady Grey asked. She sounded as if she had difficulty keeping her laughter in check. Myrnin looked around, grabbed a small washing cloth, and draped it carefully over pertinent areas before he leaned back against the living-skin-warm copper back of the tub.
“It’s not modesty,” he told her as she turned. “It’s politeness. I shouldn’t like to shock a lady such as yourself.”
“I am never shocked. Not anymore.” She picked up his rags from the floor, frowned at them, and threw them into a heap in the corner. “Those we’ll burn. Clean clothing will be waiting when you are done. Shall I help you scrub?”
“No!” He sat up, almost drowning the floor in a wave of water, and pulled the pail of soap closer to scoop a handful out. “No, I will manage. Thank you.”
“You’ll need assistance with that mange of hair,” she said. “I can help with that, if nothing else.”
So it was that, despite his worry and discomfort, he found himself soaking his filthy hair beneath the water, then coming up to allow her to slather lavender soap into the tangled mess and scrub with merciless strength. It took a great deal longer than cleaning the rest of him. He no longer worried about his modesty; the bubbles that formed in the water, not to mention the filth clouding the bath, protected him well enough. Lady Grey had an impressive volume of curse words for a wellborn woman, but he thought she enjoyed the challenge more than he enjoyed the sometimes painful scrubbing.
When she judged him finally fit, she rubbed his hair from wet to damp, helped him stand, and wrapped the bathing sheet around him twice to sop up the water before she helped him out. Everything felt . . . different. His skin felt surprisingly soft, like a newborn’s. His hair was settling into clean waves; he’d forgotten it had that habit.
Most of all, what felt different was his own mind. Amazing that a little kindness, a little care, had settled his chaos so well.