touch you now. I promise I will not hurt you.â
All my muscles clench into tiny fists, and I blink harder, but I still canât see. Then I feel a gentle pressure low on my stomach, first on the left side, then the right.
âThere we are,â the voice says soothingly. âAll done.â
The glow fades from my eyes and the face behind the voice comes into focus.
Itâs the face of a man, but itâs oddly childlike, with delicate features, a narrow nose, a thin mouth, cream-colored skin. His head has been shaved except for a circle of chestnut hair on his crown, which is tied up into an elegant topknot, a hairstyle that I remember from my classes on royal culture and lifestyle. It means heâs a lady-in-waiting.
Ladies-in-waiting are more than just the highest of servantsâtheyâre confidantes and advisors to their mistresses. They are selected and trained from a young age, and some of them are men, castrated so they can be considered âsafeâ to work so closely with royal women.
Humiliation washes over me at being naked in front of a man, and I squirm against the restraints. He waits patiently, looking only at my face, ignoring my body, and something in his expression makes me wonder if he knows how Iâm feeling, what Iâm thinking. I stop struggling. He smiles.
âHello. Iâm Lucien. Iâm going to take the straps off now, all right?â
My voice seems to have disappeared, but he doesnât wait for an answer. As he reaches over me to undo the restraints, I notice heâs wearing a long white dress with a high lace collar and long sleeves. His fingers are manicured and his body is slim but soft, like the muscle hasnât been toned under the skin.
âYou have beautiful eyes,â he says, undoing the last strap. âWhy donât you sit up, and Iâll get you a robe?â
He disappears and I scramble into a sitting position, hugging my knees tight to hide my body. My eyes still have a hard time adjusting; I hold up my hand to block out the brilliant light overhead.
âOh yes, letâs do something about the lighting.â Lucienâs voice drifts from the darkness. The light goes out. At first, itâs terrifyingâthen slowly, light seeps back into the room. Different colored globes, attached to gold fixtures on the walls, begin to glow, and their colors blend together until the room is lit in a comfortable shade of pinkish yellow.
âHere you are.â Lucien hands me a dressing gown made of ice-blue silk. I slip it on quickly, the delicate fabric soft against my skin, and try to pretend that itâs my motherâs bathrobe. He holds out his hand, an offering, not a command; I ignore it and hop off the table onto trembling legs.
âFirst things first. Letâs get rid of this ghastly table.â He gives me a conspiratorial smile, but the muscles in my face arenât workingâI can only stare at him blankly. He presses a button on the wall and the floor underneath the table drops down, a platform being lowered into nothing, and then another piece of wood slides over the gaping rectangular hole, clicking into place and fitting so perfectly, I would never have guessed it was there. âI donât suppose you see many false floors in the Marsh, do you?â
I blink, and look from him to where the table used to be, and then back again. Suddenly, I feel like Iâm twelve years old again, just entering Southgate, when everything seemed so new and bright and fancy.
Lucien sighs. âYou donât talk much, do you, 197?â
I clear my throat. âMy nameââ
He holds up a finger and shakes his head. âSorry, honey. I canât know your name.â
Even though I have no attachment to this man, and Iâll probably never see him again, the fact that he isnât allowed to know my name, my name, not some number Iâve been assigned, brings tears to my eyes. My chest