Lover Reborn

prison of her own thoughts.

They exited the tunnel by stepping through the back of a closet and passing into a squat room that had a desk and metal cabinets and a glass door.

The doggen cleared his throat. “This is the training center and medical facility. We have classrooms, a gym, locker room, weight room, physical therapy area, and a pool, as well as many other amenities. There are staff who take care of the deep cleaning of each section”—this was said sternly, as if he did not care that she was the guest of the king; she was not mucking about with his schedule—“but the doggen who took care of the laundry has gone upon bed rest, as she is mitte doggen and it is no longer safe for her to be on her feet. Please, we are this way.”

As he held open the glass portal, they went out into the corridor and headed to a double-doored room that was kitted up identically to the laundry she had used the night before in the main house. Over the next twenty minutes, she received a refresher on how to operate the machines, and then the butler reviewed with her a map of the facilities so she knew where to collect the bins and where to return what she had tended to.

And then, after a stiff silence, and stiffer adieu, she was blissfully alone.

Standing in the middle of the utility room, surrounded by washing machines and dryers and tables to fold upon, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Oh, the lovely solitude, and the fortunate weight of duty settling upon her shoulders. For the next six hours, she had nothing to think of but white towels and sheets: finding them, putting them in machines, folding them, returning them to their proper places.

There was no room for the past or her regrets here. Just the work.

Gripping a rolling bin, she wheeled the blue fabric receptacle out into the corridor and began making her rounds, beginning with the clinic and returning to the laundry when there was no more space left in her transport. After she got the first load into a deep-bellied washer, she went out again, passing into the locker room and finding a mountain of white. It took her two trips to get all those towels, and she made a pile of them in the center of the washer room, beside the drain in the gray concrete floor.

Her final stop took her to the very far left, all the way down the corridor to the pool. As she went along, the wheels on her cart made a little whistling noise, and her feet shuffled unevenly, her grip on the bin’s lip giving her some added stability and helping her to go faster.

When she heard music coming from the swimming area, she slowed. Then stopped.

The strains of notes and voices made no sense as all members of the Brotherhood and their shellans were gone for the night. Unless someone had left the music on after they had finished their time in the water?

Pushing her way into a squat anteroom tiled with mosaics of athletic males, she got hit with a wall of warmth and humidity so heavy, it was as if she had stepped up against a velvet drape. And all around, there was a strange, chemical smell in the air, one that made her wonder what they treated the water with—on the Other Side, everything had stayed permanently fresh and clean, but she knew that was not the case on earth.

Leaving the bin to wait in the lobby, she walked forward toward a vast, cavelike space. Reaching out, she touched the warm tiles on the wall, running her fingers over the blue skies and rolling green fields, but skipping any of the loinclothed males, with their archery bows, and their fencing staffs, and their running poses.

She loved the water. The floating buoyancy, the easing of the aches in her bad leg, the sense of brief freedom—

“Oh… my…” she gasped as she turned the corner.

The pool was four times the size of the largest bath on the Other Side, and its water was a shimmering pale blue—likely because of the tiles that skinned its deep belly. Black lines ran lengthwise, denoting lanes, and there were numbers going down the stone lip, clearly marking depth. Up above, the ceiling was domed and covered in more mosaics, and there were benches against the walls, providing places to sit. Echoing around, the music was louder, but not overly so, and the mournful tune possessed a pleasing resonance.

Given that she was alone, she couldn’t resist going over and testing the temperature with her bare foot.

Tempting. So very tempting.

But instead of giving in, she refocused on her duties, going back to her bin, rolling it over to a large wicker basket, and then transferring her body weight in damp terry cloth.

When she turned to go, she paused and stared at the water again.

There was no way the first round of sheeting had finished its washing cycle. It had at least forty-five minutes left according to what the machine had reported.

She checked the clock that was mounted on the wall.

Perhaps just a few minutes in the pool, she decided. She could use the relief from the aching in her lower body, and there was nothing she could do relative to her job for the next little bit.

Grabbing one of the fresh, folded towels, she double-checked the anteroom. Went farther down and looked out into the corridor.

Nobody was about. And now was the time to do this—the staff would be concentrating on cleaning the second floor of the mansion, as they had to get that work done between First and Last Meals. And there was no one getting treated at the clinic, at least for the moment.

She had to make this fast.

Limping back to the shallow end, she unfastened her robe and drew off the hood, stripping down to her undersheath. After a brief hesitation, she removed the sheer liner as well—she would have to remember to bring a second with her if she wanted to do this again. Better to remain modest.

As she folded her things, she deliberately stared at her twisted calf, tracing the roping scars that formed an ugly relief map of mountains and valleys in her flesh. Once, the lower leg had worked perfectly and been as lovely as many an artist could have drawn. Now it was a symbol of who and what she was, a reminder of a fall from grace that had made her a lesser person… and, over time, a better one.

Fortunately, there was a chrome handrail by the steps, and she gripped it for balance as she slowly entered the warm water. Upon the descent, she recalled her braid and wound the heavy length around and around the top of her head, tucking in the loose end so that the beehive held in place.

And then… she glided.

Closing her eyes in bliss, she gave herself over to weightlessness, the water a temperate breeze wafting across her flesh, her body held kindly in the pool’s peaceable palms. As she stroked out into the center, she threw away her resolve not to get her hair wet, and rolled over onto her back, sweeping her hands in circles to keep herself afloat.

For a brief time, she allowed herself to feel something, opening the door to her senses.

And it was… good.

Left behind at the mansion for the night, Tohr was off-roster, stuck inside and hungover: a bad-mood trifecta if he’d ever seen one.

The good news was that with most people gone or going about their business, he didn’t have to inflict the toxicity on anybody else.

On that note, he headed for the training center, dressed in nothing but his swimming trunks. Having heard that most hangovers were caused by dehydration, he’d decided not only to go to the pool and submerge himself… but to bring some liquid refreshment with him. And how was that for healthy.

What had he grabbed? Oh, good, vodka—he liked that straight up, and hey, it looked like water.

Pausing in the tunnel, he took a swig of V’s Goose, and swallowed—

Fuck. The sound of John’s shitkicker hitting the floor, like some godforsaken bell tolling, was something he was never going to forget. Just like the kid’s finger pointing at him.

Time for another swallow… and hey, how about one more.

As he resumed his trek toward what was probably going to be a drowning party, he recognized that he was a walking cliché: He’d seen his brothers in this shape from time to time, weaving around with a sour, fuzzy head, a bad attitude, and a bottle of knockout juice grafted to their palms. Back before Wellsie had been taken from him, he’d never really understood the whys.

Now? Duh.