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“Rise and shine, Milady! It’s a brand new day!”
Portia’s grin falls as she throws back the drapes around Nadia’s bed. Nadia’s prone form lies stiff on her back, with her hands clasped around a talisman over her chest and her chin balanced upright as if she were about to be buried.
It never seems right. When Portia’s fingers brush Nadia’s neck, she feels a faint pulse. When she hears stories of the countess, she imagines someone alive enough to march outside to finish the telling.
Usually, after confirming the countess’s comatose status, she dusts the bedding and shuts the drapes. Sometimes, if Nadia’s face has tilted toward her, Portia straightens it. Today she woke up early and restless, giving in to Ilya levels of coffee, and her jittery hands twist in the bedding.
As reckless as him, she thinks as she cups Nadia’s cheek, shivering at the touch of cool, smooth skin. God knows the rooms she used to clean every morning were darker and filthier than the countess’s, a promotion she earned by being bright and hardworking and (as far as anyone knows) obedient. If she draws attention to herself, she could lose it.
Nadia was never Portia’s countess, but Portia has already lost everything except what she’s built here.
Still, she carefully lowers Nadia’s cheek to the pillow, which she fluffs around her, letting the hair that’s been swept up muss against the fabric. Keeping the talisman in one of Nadia’s hands (it may be healing her, what does Portia know?), Portia nudges the other to fall across the sheets until it looks like the knuckles could clench.
Nadia’s shoulders are uneven now, her lips parted in an undignified way. Portia would feel guilty if it weren’t for the fact that Nadia looks more like someone who could wake at any moment.
“When that day comes, I hope you’ll forgive my clumsiness.”
Remembering herself, she flushes and jerks upward. But she keeps the curtains open as she cleans the rest of the room, as if all Nadia needs is a little sunshine to face the day.
She didn’t always see Nadia so tenderly. The first stories she heard described a count and countess so powerful, so charismatic, that they could have dominated the world. The courtiers she served spoke to each other of the speed with which titles were gained and lost along with their rulers’ favor.
The servants’ stories diverged. A member of the kitchen staff confided to Portia that his sibling worked at the palace before accidentally spilling something on Lucio. The count threw the empty glass at them before firing them, and the brother took the position when their family could no longer afford their daily bread.
“But,” another cook added, “were it the countess, she would have brushed off the slight. They may have even been invited to dine with her.”
Portia asked if the cook ever dined with the countess, and her eyes lit up. “Once,” she breathed. “Oh, what a lady.” She returned to cutting the carrots that Portia had just peeled, and Portia filed the knowledge away.
Someone straightens Nadia, of course. Portia does not touch her again. She pales now at her disrespect, treating a comatose countess as a doll to be arranged at her whim.
When she’s alone she keeps the drapes open while she cleans, chattering as if Nadia will respond. Mostly light-hearted talk, of course--Nadia could use the cheer--but she can’t resist breaking into a rant now and then. It’s a little cathartic, knowing Nadia can’t hear.
Once, when Portia’s throat is sore from a night of crying, she even rests her cheek on Nadia’s pillow and whispers, “Doctor Devorak is my brother.”
Blood pounds in Portia’s ears, but Nadia’s shallow breath does not stir, and Portia closes her eyes. “I’m only here because I thought--I thought I could learn something. Is he even alive? How am I supposed to help him? He’s an idiot, but he would never...”
Her voice catches. She breathes, deep like he once taught her, until she can keep her eyes dry. Nadia’s profile fills her vision, sharp angles and soft curves.
Red-faced, she rises. As the sun leaves no room for her to hide, she forces a smile while she goes about her work.
One morning, as Portia complains about the reigning Valerius’s latest scandal, a groan replies.
Portia jumps, nearly knocking over a vase. Did a floorboard creak beneath the rug? No, the room is marble. Then--
She whirls around, preparing her fist for an intruder, but she’s alone--or appears to be. A chill wiggles through her. Rumors say the palace is haunted, but she’s never seen anything in this room. If she has to protect the countess from a ghost...
Another groan directs Portia’s attention to the bed. It hits her just as Nadia’s eyes flutter open.
“Oh my god,” Portia says.
Scarcely believing the sight, Portia hurries over to attend her lady, who lifts her head with a wince. As Portia dives to support her neck and shoulders, Nadia says something in a language Portia doesn’t understand. Portia apologizes before listing the few she speaks.
She had imagined Nadia’s voice--deep and commanding, or high and melodic. Whatever it once was, she whispers in a hoarse croak from almost three years of unuse. Forgoing courtesy, Portia leans in close to hold on to every word.
“Where am I?”
“In your bedroom, Milady.”
“My bedroom?” Nadia’s wide eyes scan the room. “Which bedroom?”
“Um, the only one you have in Vesuvia.”
“Vesuvia?”
“Yeah, you know, still a smidgen cold for the sea palace.”
Nadia clutches her furrowed brow. “That’s right, I… I moved to Vesuvia.”
“That’s, um, true.” Portia knows Nadia needs clarity, but even reining in her gaping is a feat. The only way she knows she’s not dreaming is that in her dreams, Nadia is never so confused. “I’ll call for the doctors, and you’ll need to eat.”
Nadia reaches stiffly to take Portia’s wrist, but her fingers don’t manage to curl. “You’ll not leave this room until you’ve explained.”
As best she can, Portia helps Nadia into a seated position, then helps her stretch out her arms and spine. Pain contorts Nadia’s face. Forgetting herself, Portia rubs her countess’s shoulders.
“On a normal morning I can bend myself backwards,” Nadia says. There’s an image.
“It’s only natural,” Portia soothes. “You’ve been asleep thirty three months now. Well, and three days.”
Looking incredulous, Nadia mouths the numbers, then the exact number of days. “You might have picked more believable numbers,” she says at last. “A trio of threes?”
Portia laughs, a nervous squeak that cuts off when she sees Nadia’s expression. “I-I would never jest about your health, Milady. I’ve been in charge of this room for months now.” Her chest can’t help but puff out. It falls along with her face as she remembers the sight she greeted every morning. “You were definitely asleep.”
“You’re saying I’ve been in a coma ever since my ship arrived? Was I hit over the head? That would explain this horrible ache.”
“No, you… Don’t you remember anything?”
Nadia clutches her head and closes her eyes, her jaw setting. “Apparently not.”
In a babble, Portia tells her of the years that have passed since her arrival--her marriage, the murder--while watching for some recognition. Nadia only massages her temples.
“If my sisters put you up to this…”
“No, never met’em, honest.” Portia chews her lip. It’s not like she can prove her story. Nadia is probably just disoriented. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to fetch a doctor.”
Nadia’s eyes fly open, and she seizes Portia’s sleeve with bony, shaking fingers. “You mustn’t tell anyone. I order you not to tell anyone. They can’t think me incapable.” For the first time, fear stretches her face, and it plants the same feeling in Portia.
“Never! My lips are sealed.”
Nadia’s gaze burns into her for a long moment before Nadia falls back against the pillow. “What did you say your name was?”
She hadn’t--it was rude, now that she thought of it, but she couldn’t imagine it was important. “Portia, Milady.”
“Portia,” Nadia repeats. Enough of the croak has smoothed out that her whisper strokes Portia’s spine. “I’ll be counting on you.”
Despite the sweat on her brow, Portia smiles, and she means her words with her full heart. “It’s an honor, Milady.”
Only later does Portia’s precarious position hit her. Growing up, she was only slightly better than Ilya at keeping secrets, which of course meant all of Nevivon knew everything. At the palace, however, she’d learned the value of keeping her mouth shut, both for his safety and her job. Besides, holding her tongue earns her everyone else’s secrets, which is much more fun.
It certainly comes in handy now. She can’t answer all of Nadia’s constant questions, but she can give rough guesses for much of them. In the morning Portia briefs her on the most basic of things. Come noon Nadia has taken command of rooms she doesn’t recognize as if they were built for her.
Portia gains more appreciation for the charade every day. Apparently, Nadia decided to move to Vesuvia so abruptly that she barely had time to study the culture--but of course, she since mastered the Vesuvian court’s social graces. Most of that is gone, and as a maid from Nevivon, Portia is hardly the best teacher.
Don’t play to your weaknesses, Ilya’s voice tells her. The less room to flub an act, the better.
“I’ll tell the staff that you miss Prakra, so you’re popularizing more of its customs,” Portia says before an important dinner.
“Ah, so any slips on my part can appear purposeful. That’s not a bad idea.” Nadia’s long lashes blink as her lips turn up, and a part of Portia sails away.
If Nadia believes Portia can do this, she can.
Portia finds she needs new sources. Her friends keep tighter lips now that she’s so close to Nadia, not to mention in some cases their direct superior. It’s uncomfortable giving orders to people who showed her the ropes. Tension fills the halls when she wears a ruby pin Nadia insisted she don, only a couple years after moving to Vesuvia—and all for having been in Nadia’s chambers at a moment she can’t explain.
At least she’s always at Nadia’s side during meals and affairs, where she can listen in on diplomats who assume her to have no agenda. She briefs Nadia before each meeting, hoping she’s not leading her astray with old gossip.
“You’ll be dining with Consul Valerius again,” she says one afternoon while helping Nadia change. She can’t overcome her jitters about fastening the cloth around her lady’s form. Attention to detail requires that she look, and efficiency requires that her hands not shake, and—and when her fingers brush Nadia’s warm skin, it’s hard not to think of her indulgences while Nadia lay cold.
“Good. I scarcely got a useful word out of him last night. He ran the city in my absence; how can he not know the state of it?”
“I couldn’t say, Milady, but you might have to postpone business. Praetor Vlastomil’ll be there as well.”
Nadia wrinkles her nose. “Another unproductive evening, then. Have you learned more about either one?”
Portia can only advise her not to bring up insects, a suggestion that baffles Nadia, not that Portia has much light worth shedding on it.
“And what of my husband?”
Portia bites her lip. Speaking ill of the count is one thing, but telling unflattering tales in front of his widow… Well, Nadia always demands the truth, and thankfully hasn’t minded yet.
“Perhaps amnesia is a blessing in disguise,” she says when Portia is through. “If only I could remember something about that cursed doctor. Are you sure nobody knew anything useful?”
The ribbon in Portia’s hands slips. Taking a deep breath, she begins redoing the knot. “I’ve heard mostly comic tales, Milady. Apparently he was a clumsy oaf. Maybe he knocked over a lantern that night?”
Her squeaky laugh does not amuse Nadia, who thankfully begins a different line of questioning.
In the morning Portia stands behind her countess, fixing her appearance while light spills through the windows. The usual team was sent away to let Nadia recover from a sleepless night. She seems fine now, Portia having coaxed both a lyrical laugh and a snort, a great privilege--but neither have called the other servants back, even though Portia has delivered her full report.
She doesn’t mind. Maybe it’s because she saw Nadia’s moment of vulnerability, but Nadia speaks more openly when it’s just the two of them. Now she’s telling Portia about how she once got revenge by hiding a newt in her sister’s pillow. “It was petty, but there simply wasn’t much else to do. Ah, where is my--”
Having already spotted the loose hair spilling over Nadia’s shoulder, Portia supplies the comb, earning a little smile. Nadia turns back to the mirror as Portia begins to fix the hair. She’d almost gotten used to its cascade, but the light shifts, casting a sheen over amethyst strands, and she wonders how a gem can feel so soft.
“Thank you, Portia. As I was saying, the newt changed nothing, of course. But catching most sisters on at least one tryst earns one certain favors.”
Giggling, Portia opens her mouth to tell a story about Ilya. She catches herself just in time. As she continues working with numb fingers and tight lips, Nadia casts her a curious look in the mirror. She could order Portia to explain, and Portia could not, not even if she was sent to be tortured in the dungeons he once inhabited.
Nadia asks nothing, only continues her tale, and Portia’s knuckles begin to ache.
One day, shortly after Nadia confides that she wants to bring back the masquerade, she calls Portia in her chambers for a drink. A Golden Goose, a request which makes Portia assume the plans are giving Nadia headaches, and which makes her ask her subordinates to prepare especially fluffy piles of pillows.
When she herself arrives, Nadia is perched on one pile, another empty next to her. “Portia, have a second glass brought.”
“I didn’t know you were expecting someone, Milady.” She frowns at herself for getting distracted between the thought of another masquerade and the slope of Nadia’s shoulders.
“I apologize for being unclear. I hoped you would join me.”
“Oh! Of course I--What?”
She tips the bottle, coming perilously close to spilling the liquid gold. The Goose that Nadia wants her to drink.
Nadia grimaces. “If it’s so dissatisfactory, I shall dine alone.”
“No! No, I… I’ll be right back!”
Soon she’s seated next to Nadia, a crick in her back from cranking up her neck when she only wants to sink into the cushions. It feels all the stranger once Nadia excuses the other servants and there is no one to attend her. Nadia pours a glass for Portia without regard for her protests, then sips her own drink as if this is all routine.
“It has been two months since you became my right hand. And three weeks, and three days,” Nadia adds with a quirk of her lips. “In a month, shall we celebrate?”
Portia giggles as if she’s had more than a sip or two of the Goose. She can throw back tankards of beer, but the atmosphere is making her as giddy as she is tense. “I’ll order three feasts.”
“I must admit, I was skeptical when I realized I’d be reliant on a stranger. My own strengths should be sufficient. But you have not wavered from my side when I… I needed someone.” Nadia averts her gaze for a moment before fixing it square on Portia. “In any case, I fear I know so little about you. Forgive my oversight.”
It takes all of Portia’s effort to speak. “You’ve had a million more important matters on your mind, Milady.”
“Nonsense.” The force of Nadia’s voice takes her aback. “I have been horribly ingracious. I shan’t hear a word otherwise.” She leans back, her voice lifting. “Tell me, what is your favorite dish?”
“Bread pudding!”
“Bread pudding?”
“Yeah, nice and thick and custardy. Like Grandma used to make it.” She bites her tongue. Here she is, drinking a Goose, and she’s talking about a peasant dessert.
“I see. I shall inform the kitchens.”
“The kitchens? Oh, oh no, that’s not necessary--”
“After all you’ve done for me, I can at least arrange your favorite meal.”
“But--but my friends in the kitchen would have to make it, and…”
“Ah.” Nadia swirls her drink like she’s considering that. “I’ll learn to prepare it, then. Do you have a recipe?”
The countess wants to cook for Portia? Desperation rises in Portia’s voice. “Please, it’s not that I don’t appreciate milady’s kindness, but if our plan falls behind because of me…”
“It’s true we do not have time to spare.” Nadia twists the stem of her glass. “Very well. When everything’s settled, if it suits you, we shall dine together. All of our favorite dishes, just the two of us. Wherever you’re most comfortable.”
It’s too much, and yet more than that has wormed its way into her dreams, all the touches and hopes she and Nadia could share. Under Nadia’s eye she doesn’t even dare swallow around the lump in her throat, even as she thinks about what settled could mean.
“I look forward to it, Milady.”
“I hope, when that day comes, you will feel free to call me Nadia.”
Flushed cheeks accompany Nadia’s smile. She isn’t looking at Portia, or she’d see how Portia’s shock transfixes into a grin so wide it hurts.
“When that day comes, I will.”