“Are you all right?” said Bitterblue.
“Fine.”
“We’re almost to the bath,” Bitterblue told her gently.
“Don’t patronize me,” said Lovisa.
* * *
—
Lovisa had been to most parts of Ledra, usually transported in the Cavenda airship, which dropped her down exactly where she meant to go. She’d never been in the woods an hour’s hike north of Ledra, in a grove of conifer trees with a floor of uneven stones. Nor had she ever been instructed to keep to the higher stones so as not to leave footprints.
It was foolhardy to follow a stranger into a forest, leaving no trace. But Lovisa had given up on sense. She’d given up on curiosity too. When the rocks turned to a visible path of packed snow, leading through the trees to a small, stone building with a neat wooden door, Lovisa only felt impotent and tired. How little she knew about her own home.
They entered the building to find an elderly Keepish woman reading a book, surrounded by lamps and braziers, her feet propped on a desk. She narrowed her eyes at Bitterblue, then Lovisa, then flicked an inquiring glance at their guide.
“Ona says hello,” the guide said.
“Hello, Ona,” said the woman.
“She says these two want a bath, then a conversation with Vera.”
The woman nudged her chin at Bitterblue. “This one has a Royal Continent look.”
“Rumor has it she’s the lost Queen of Monsea,” said their guide, “which we’re keeping to ourselves.”
“You mean she’s one of the impersonators,” said the woman.
“Nope,” said their guide, with a small flash of a smile. “The real thing.”
The elderly woman raised her eyebrows, studying Bitterblue over her own extended legs. “I thought you drowned,” she said, like an accusation.
“I didn’t,” said Bitterblue.
“Well, isn’t that interesting,” said the woman. “The bathhouse is that way. Put your fancy clothing and shoes in one of the cabinets and wear a tunic. Then follow the stone path that starts at the green door.”
And that was it. No questions or demands, not even much in the way of surprise that the drowned Queen of Monsea should land on their doorstep. Who were these people?
Lovisa and the queen did as they were told, undressing in a strange, bare stone room with wooden cabinets lining the walls, pulling on brown, shapeless tunics that hung on hooks. Under Ferla’s coat, the queen was still wearing Lovisa’s pajamas. Lovisa tried not to stare at her pale, too-thin body as Bitterblue took the pajamas off, or cringe at how she smelled. My parents did that to her, for almost three weeks, she thought, trying to feel sorrow, or anger, or shame. But all she felt was numbness.
“What is it?” said Bitterblue.
“Nothing,” said Lovisa. “Those are my pajamas.”
Passing through a green door, they emerged into the shock of a freezing morning. A stone path, cold on their feet, led them away from the bathhouse. One of the queen’s feet was bleeding. She left red spots on the stones and winced as she walked, but she was cradling a pear like it was her precious child, and she was glowing with happiness.
At the pool, pale blue and steaming, Lovisa found the stone steps and descended straight into the water, crouching low until her body was submerged to the neck. Then she closed her eyes, not caring what the queen did, because a perfect warmth hugged her, embracing her with comfort that she didn’t deserve. She dipped her face below the surface so the queen wouldn’t see her sudden, inexplicable tears. But she couldn’t hide the noises she was making, gasping, blubbering, sobbing. Weak. Stop it. Stop it!
Quietly, with annoyingly perfect tact, the queen moved away into a different part of the pool, where she ate her pear and pretended not to mind Lovisa’s hysterics. She set the pear core on the pool’s edge. Submerging her head, she seemed to be pushing her hands roughly through her hair, loosening her braids, scrubbing her scalp with her fingers. Then she noticed one of the yellow clumps of soap that sat at the edge of the pool.
“Oh,” she said in a voice of veneration, then spent some time using the soap, applying it carefully, wonderingly, the same way she ate her food. “This is one of the best and most-needed baths of my life,” she said.
“One of?” said Lovisa, who was more under control now. “How many times have you been kidnapped before this?”
Bitterblue smiled. “My life hasn’t always been soft.”
“Is this your idea of a soft life? Bathing in a rough public pool in a scratchy tunic, with somebody’s leftover soap?”
Bitterblue only smiled again, closed her eyes, and ducked under the water. Lovisa didn’t know why she kept throwing sharp little stones, launching them with hot bursts of breath, but every time they failed to wound, it made her want to throw them harder. Because that’s who she was: a girl who burned down her own house, attacked her own mother, abandoned her little brothers.
She stood abruptly, left the water, and marched back to the bathhouse. There, she made herself wait outside in the cold, shaking as the wind chilled the water on her skin, until she couldn’t bear it anymore.
Weak, she thought to herself ferociously. Then she let herself inside.
* * *
—
Sometime later, Lovisa and Bitterblue met Vera in yet another stone room, tucked among trees down another winding path. Lovisa had been to public baths before. None of them were isolated like this, or empty of patrons, or peppered with tiny, hidden, chimneyless rooms, or cloaked in so much secrecy.
Vera was gray-haired, tough, and expressionless, as the firekeeper and the bath monitor had also been. “Are you all sisters?” Lovisa asked.
Vera ignored this. “I’ve been hearing some unlikely rumors,” she said, peering with hard eyes at Bitterblue. “But there are plenty of dark-haired girls with Royal Continent looks on our roads, saying they’re the lost Queen of Monsea.”
“Really?” said Bitterblue, quite surprised. “Why would anyone do that?”
“She means impersonators,” said Lovisa.
Bitterblue was astonished. “You mean impersonators of me?”
“Traveling actors,” said Lovisa, shrugging. “They put on a show. Like, dancing or something.”
“Dancing!” said the queen, her voice more delighted and more incredulous with every word. Then she laughed, like a sweet, clear bell. “The kind of dancing where you keep your clothes on, or take them off?”
“You two have quite a patter going,” said Vera, unimpressed. “Where do you want to go?”