Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137226 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
My first instinct is to say no, I’m fine. I’ve never needed help getting dressed before, not as an adult anyway. All my outfits are simple tunics and pants I can slip on. The corset ties up at the front, and even my armor snaps together with buckles I can reach.
But I haven’t worn a gown since I was a child, and I can’t reach the laces at the back.
“You may come in,” I reluctantly say.
The door opens and Solla pokes her head inside. I didn’t really notice it before—I suppose I was too busy trying to plot my escape—but I see the resemblance to Andor. Though her eyes are blue, not amber, and her forehead is hidden by her thick, dark bangs, I can tell her brow works overtime with her expressions, just like her brother’s. She’s a really pretty girl, maybe a few years younger than me, petite with soft curvy lines and pale, smooth skin that point to a life of wealth and good, healthy food and having all your needs catered to.
And yet, even though she looks different from the wiry people of the Dark City, I wouldn’t underestimate this girl. Not only because of her ability to move things with her mind, but because I sense a darkness behind the quiet posture, a strength in her diminutive height. The same darkness I’ve glimpsed in Andor when he’s let his jovial mask slip for a moment.
“It’s not too big?” Solla asks, coming inside the room and closing the door after her.
I turn around and gesture to my back. “I guess I need some help with the laces. I’m afraid you have a bigger chest than me.”
She snorts. “I have a bigger chest than most women,” she says, coming around and grabbing the laces at the back. “I’ll tell you a secret with these dresses. Put the top on backward and then lace them up that way. Twist them around when you’re done. You won’t need anyone.”
She gives the laces a sharp tug that nearly squeezes the breath out of me.
“Sorry, is that too tight?” she asks sweetly.
“No,” I say with a gasp. “Who needs lungs anyway?”
She laughs softly at that and thankfully loosens the laces enough for me to breathe. If it were my time of the month and I was feeling poorly, I wouldn’t be able to have any constriction around my middle at all. “Sorry. My handmaid used to lace me up so tightly that I often fainted just roaming around the halls. It was my father’s idea, you know. To try to make some kind of point.”
“And what point is that?”
“His attempt at making me lose weight—or make me look like I had,” she says. “But I got the last laugh. I dismissed my handmaiden.”
So he’s not only a dick to Andor but to Solla as well. If that’s how he treats his children, then how will he treat a prisoner?
“Besides, I’ve never wanted to depend on anyone,” she goes on. I can agree with that.
“And your mother?” I ask. “Where is she?”
There’s a pause in her lacing. Then she clears her throat and resumes. “She’s dead.”
I know her pain too well.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Happened a long time ago,” she says. “I was only eight. And you?”
“And me what?”
“When did you lose your mother?” she asks, coming around the front of me, her eyes gentle. “Grief can always recognize grief. The loss of a mother runs deep. Steiner believes that if we could look at the brain, we’d see the damage of when we experienced loss. Like a black blight on a potato. His words, not mine.”
As much as I appreciate the kind words and conversation, I don’t want to get personal.
“I was old enough,” I say, giving her a look to drop the subject.
She stares at me for a moment, reminding me of Andor. Then she nods slightly. “Why are you here anyway? It’s been a long time since we’ve had a prisoner.”
“Andor has a plan,” I say with a sigh.
“Andor always has a plan.”
“Do those plans ever work out?”
“More often than not,” she admits. “He just has an unconventional way of getting things done. Leaps before he looks. Usually lands on his feet. So what plan are you?”
I shrug. “Why don’t you ask him at dinner? I would love to know if this is another case of leaping before looking.”
“Oh, I’m sure there will be many more questions, coming from all directions,” she says. Then she looks down at Lemi, who has been watching this whole interaction with patient confusion. “Is he okay with other dogs? Vidar’s dog, Feral, often lies by the hearth when we dine. He’s not as wild as his name suggests. And sometimes Steiner’s cat, Woo-woo, will drop by.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Lemi should be fine with Feral. I’ll do what I can with Woo-woo. It’s not that Lemi likes to chase cats, more that he likes to be an instigator and get the cats to chase him. Either way, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen around the dinner table. Otherwise, I can keep him here in the room.”