She stayed where she was, rooted to the spot, hoping—no matter how unreasonable the hope was—that he'd pick up his robe and head into their sleeping quarters without her.
It has thus far worked out that each time I've reached the end of my strength and lost all hope of rescue, Providence has sent a hero. Why does He wait so long? I suspect it is because His heroes are always so unsuitable in my eyes that I would never accept their aid, had I any other options.
~Meticulous Mudslide, An Old Man Remembers
Chapter 13
Standing wet beside the pool, the king sighed loudly. "You should now get out of the water and help me on with my robe. You must watch me and anticipate my needs."
She crawled up the stairs, keeping her body in the water as long as possible. Reaching the second step from the top, she made a dash for her gown. It didn't want to go on her wet body. The sleeves stuck and twisted. She yanked violently, desperate to get it on before the king turned around.
"I am a sick old man and I stand here dripping. But you have no sympathy. How about this, then? I am your king and master. You will attend to my needs before you attend to your own. If you are smart, that is."
She yanked her gown down and grabbed his robe. "I'm sorry, your highness."
He shrugged his arms into his loose sleeves. "And tonight you must sleep in my bed. The maids will chatter otherwise. It's a nuisance really."
Repentance gave him a sideways glance. If he didn't like to share his bed, why had he taken her? Apparently his mind was like his body—old and wrinkled. That happened. Her father's old-father was always confused and forgetting things. This king was in his two hundred and fiftieth year. Maybe he had forgotten what men were supposed to do to girls in their beds. A fragile strand of hope drifted her way, and she made a desperate grab for it. "I could sleep on the floor, so as not to bother you in your bed, Lord."
He considered that for a moment. "You could at that. I'm sure my nephew throws the girls out of his bed when he's done with them. Why shouldn't I? Excellent idea!"
The hope slipped through her fingers, blown away by his cruel words. He didn't want her to sleep in his bed. That was all. He didn't mind sharing his bed for other purposes and kicking her out when he was done.
He walked her to their room. "You mustn't discuss our sleeping arrangements with anyone. You understand?"
She gaped. Who did he think she might discuss the matter with?
"But, by Providence," he continued, giving her a cranky look, "it is a huge inconvenience. I can't have a servant because you should be serving me, and it's clear you know nothing about serving. I daren't hope you know how to help a man bathe?"
She shook her head. "I was never told that would be one of my duties."
"Yes, I suppose they thought you'd need different talents this night. Mayhap I should have left you for my nephew." His expression softened. "But, no, that would not have been kind."
She stared. He considered himself kind? He really was crazy, then.
"Go to sleep on the floor, child. I'll bathe myself."
Surprised, she jerked, but she recovered quickly and wasted no time. She threw herself down and lay as still as the warm stone beneath her. Afraid to move. Almost afraid to breathe, lest she call attention to herself and cause the king to change his mind.
Sounds of bathing drifted to her from the other room, interrupted every once in a while by muffled coughs. Maybe his condition was agitated by his effort to wash himself. Repentance saw the flask sitting on the table by the bed and wondered if she should take it to him, but his coughing subsided.
He reentered the room.
Repentance breathed deeply and evenly, keeping her eyes shut.
She tensed as she felt him walk toward her.
His robe landed on her. She heard his labored breathing as he bent down, then she felt him pull the robe up around her shoulders.
He doused the lantern and got into the bed.
Repentance relaxed. It was unfathomable, but the king had decided not to use her ill that night. Before long, soft snores floated down from the bed. She offered a prayer of thanksgiving and gave herself over to sleep.
The following morning Repentance woke stiff and achy from sleeping on the stone floor.
She stretched, then rose, stifling a groan, and looked toward the bed, from whence came the sound of snoring. The king looked frail in sleep. He was ancient. The surprising thing was that he looked so ... so ... normal. Like a nice old-father. Not like a murderer.
Fifteen minutes later, when she finished in the bathing room and re-entered the sleeping quarters, the king was sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Ah, you're an early riser," he said. "That's good." He stood, swayed, and steadied himself. "Here we must be careful. Once we're at the palace, it won't matter. You'll have your own quarters there. And no one will expect you to be in my bed, of a morning."
"You're taking me to the palace?"
"Of course, I'm taking you. I can't very well leave you here to be used ill by any man who takes the notion."
Repentance sat, stunned.
"Besides," he added, "it's about time I took a concubine." He toddled toward the bathing room. "Go up and tell Jadin I require Catlinora to wrap my turban."
"Child," he said, as she reached the door.
