Free Web NovelChapter 88: Chapter 88
Circe stood before the full-length mirror as the maids bustled about the adjoining bathing chamber, filling the large tub with warm water. The faint scent of bath oils drifted into the room, cedar wood and vanilla, mingling with the lingering chill clinging to her wet skin. She raised a trembling hand, her cold fingers grazing the unmarked skin of her cheek.
There should have been a cut there, a sharp, ugly slice marring her right cheekbone. She remembered the sting, the warmth of blood trickling down her face. Yet now, as she stared at her reflection, there was nothing but smooth, unblemished skin staring back at her.
It was impossible.
The unease had been gnawing at her all throughout the carriage ride back to the manor, her chest tightening into knots. The sensation only grew the more she thought about it, threatening to overwhelm her.
She knew she should tell someone about what truly happened, about how her attacker had struck her and how the wound had simply vanished within minutes. But who could she tell? No one would believe her. They would sooner label her as a mad woman than believe her. Even vampires, with their accelerated healing, could not mend their injuries within minutes
A soft, hesitant voice broke through her thoughts.
"Your bath is ready, Your Highness. His Highness asked me to help you out of your dress," the maid said, her head bowed low in deference.
Circe turned to regard her, forcing a small, polite smile despite the discomfort churning deep inside her. "I would like that very much," she said, her voice gentle. Then, almost as if to herself, she whispered, "That’s very kind of him."
She slipped Ragnar’s coat from her shoulders and set it aside. For a fleeting moment, she had forgotten she was even wearing it, its comforting weight almost enough to make her forget the events of the night.
The maid set down her bucket and stepped forward, nimble fingers working efficiently to unfasten the laces of Circe’s bodice. The dress clung stubbornly to her damp skin before sliding down into a sodden heap, pooling at her feet with a soft, wet thump. Now clad only in her linen undergarments, Circe felt the air prickle cold against her skin despite the fire in the hearth.
The maid then moved to remove the pins from Circe’s hair, plucking them out one by one until her heavy, brown tresses tumbled in damp waves down her back.
When the task was complete, the maid bowed once more. "Will that be all, Your Highness?"
"Yes, that’s all. Thank you," Circe replied. It didn’t matter how fine the gown had been, nor how carefully her hair had been arranged earlier that evening, she was simply relieved to be rid of it all.
After bathing, Circe slipped into bed. She lay curled on her side, knees drawn close, the faint scent of soap still clinging to her skin. She closed her eyes and willed her thoughts to quiet but sleep eluded her.
It was hours later when Ragnar finally returned. By then, half the candles had died out, pitching the room into near darkness. The fire in the hearth had burned down to little more than smoldering embers.
The first thing he did was crouch before the hearth, placing fresh logs onto the embers and coaxing the flames back to life.
Circe kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, though she was far too aware of his presence to truly rest. She listened to the quiet sounds of him moving about the room, the rustle of fabric. She knew the moment he sank into the cushioned armchair in the corner, the same one he slept in every night.
She didn’t fully understand why he insisted on doing that. He could have arranged for her to have her own room, so he could finally reclaim his bed and his comfort. Yet, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, he chose instead to endure his nights in that chair.
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The next morning
Ragnar was gone before Circe even stirred. The pale dawn light had barely touched the sky when he rode his horse to the Hawthorne estate. He was fortunate to encounter the same guard he had spoken to the night before.
The man straightened sharply at the sight of him before dropping into a deep bow.
Ragnar dismounted in a single, fluid motion, his expression unreadable. "Where is the body?" he demanded.
The guard blinked, uncertain. "Your Highness?"
"The body of my wife’s attacker," Ragnar repeated, stepping closer, his tone like steel. "Where is it?"
The sun had not yet fully risen and Ragnar had wasted no time. He had ridden here with the intention of arriving before the body was taken away to be buried. The fact that he had not seen the face of the attacker last night gnawed at him, an oversight entirely unlike him. Ragnar, a few weeks ago, would never have left the Hawthorne estate without inspecting the corpse himself and interrogating every guard on duty.
But last night had been different.
Last night, Circe had been his only priority. There had been an undeniable urge to see her safe, to soothe the terror in her eyes. Losing his temper at Lady Maelis’s guards would have done nothing to calm her. And so, for perhaps the first time in his life, everything else had fallen to the wayside.
The guard hesitated only a moment before nodding and leading Ragnar to a storage shed behind the estate. freёwebnovel.com
A white tarp covered the body, the air inside the shed was still with the heaviness of death. Without hesitation, Ragnar pulled back the cloth.
The man beneath was pale and sallow, his lips tinged blue, his fingers ash-grey. A jagged cut ran across his throat. He wore fine clothes that were befitting a noble.
Ragnar stared at the body for a long moment but there was no spark of recognition. "Do you know this man?" he asked the guard at his side.
"No, Your Highness," the guard replied quietly.
Ragnar nodded once. "I need a detailed sketch of his face. Have it sent to me as soon as it’s done."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Ragnar let the tarp fall back into place, his eyes narrowing slightly. "How did Lady Maelis react to the situation?"
The guard grimaced. "She was horrified."
There was a tick in Ragnar’s jaw. "I’m sure she was."
