Into the Underwood: Maiden by J.L. Robertson

Author:J.L. Robertson [Robertson, J.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J.L. Robertson
Published: 2022-03-19T22:00:00+00:00

Sasha would have stayed with her the whole night, but later that evening a hunter was sent to the atelier and promptly saw to her removal. Under the king’s orders, Sylvia was to be secured in the room, alone, without visits from guests for the next several days. The atelier was locked from the outside, only to be opened when the physician came by to see to her wounds. Again and again, she relived the same humiliation, stripping down to the waist in the presence of two men so that the salve could be readministered and her bandages changed. She wondered if that aspect of the punishment had been intentional, along with the sting of every blow echoing through her bones, never-ceasing for days, weeks, years to come. It must have been; it was far too effective to be otherwise.

On one occasion while the physician was tending to her, she inquired after the state of the tailor who had been so recently sent to the infirmary.

“Roughed up, but he’ll survive,” came the physician’s terse response. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. The hunter remained on guard by the door.

“How long until he recovers?” she inquired, wincing as the new bandages made contact with the open sores.

The physician shrugged. “Several weeks, I imagine. Maybe a couple of months.” He glanced nervously back at the hunter. “This is healing nicely.” He stood. “You should be good as new in time for your… happy day.” With those parting words, he left.

Meals were also delivered, but most of them were left untouched. Her appetite was sapped along with all her energy, every movement requiring great effort, as if maneuvering through water. There was still work to be done, shirts to be stitched, jackets to be mended, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch anything of his. Just his lingering scent in the fibers was enough to send her into a heart-bursting panic.

But no matter her lassitude, sleep was no easier to find. When the nightmares were absent, the lost history of herself would return in splintered fragments as she dreamed. She would wake, hanging halfway out of herself, clambering to pull herself back into one piece. Those dreams she feared more than any nightmare, revealing in their unfolding the damning truth of Der Erlkönig’s words.

The night before the equinox she found herself back at Aunt Margot’s house, sitting up at the table in the small hours of morning, needle and thread between her fingers. She was sallow-faced, bags under her eyes, a slight tremor running through her with only a shawl to guard against the cold. Outside the shadows gathered in dark pools upon the snowdrifts, shimmering silver in the gibbous moon’s light. And she waited. It was the longest night of the year, and she knew he would come. Months had escaped since Audrey’s miraculous recovery, and the mark, so red and scarred, still burned on her hand, aching and cracking as she worked. Still, she had failed to return to him as promised, avoiding the forest all these long months.

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