MARKED IN BLOOD

episode 6

A soft knock came at the door.

I jumped a little. I had been sitting on the edge of the huge bed, staring at my bandaged hand, trying to make the room feel less strange. The knock was gentle, almost careful.

The door opened slowly.

The older maid with the gray in her hair stepped in first. Behind her came two younger maids, each carrying a silver tray One had food; the other had folded clothes and small bottles.

Evening meal,the older maid said quietly.

Eat while it’s warm.

They placed the trays on a small table near the window. Simple but beautiful food: warm soup with herbs, soft bread, grilled fish, fresh fruit cut into perfect pieces, and a glass of clear water with lemon. Nothing heavy. Nothing from my old life in Veil Lane.

I hadn’t eaten much all day. My stomach felt tight from nerves, but I forced myself to sit and take small bites.

The maids waited in silence near the door, heads slightly bowed. They didn’t look at me directly. They didn’t speak unless I asked.

The soup was good warm, comforting but every swallow felt strange in this perfect room.

When the plate was almost empty, the older maid stepped forward.

It’s time to prepare you,she said.

Prepare me?

My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.

For your husband, she added, voice calm and even.

He will be home soon.

A wife must be ready.

A wife.

The word hit me again, harder this time.

I set the spoon down. My hands felt cold.

The younger maids moved quickly and quietly.

One opened a tall wardrobe I hadn’t noticed before inside hung soft silk dresses, nightgowns, robes in pale colors.

The other brought a basin of warm scented water, towels, and small jars of creams and oils.

They helped me out of the white ceremonial robe. It felt like shedding my old skin.

I stood in my underclothes, arms crossed over my chest, feeling small and exposed.

One maid gently washed my arms and neck with the scented water. Another brushed my hair until it shone, then braided it loosely with a thin silver ribbon.

They rubbed sweet-smelling oil into my skin jasmine and something warmer, like vanilla. Every touch was careful, professional, like they had done this many times before.

I let them.

I didn’t know what else to do.

Then one of the younger maids held up a nightgown thin white silk, almost see-through in the lamplight. It tied with small ribbons at the shoulders and fell straight to the floor.

Wear this tonight,she said softly.

I stared at it.

That was when it hit me like a cold wave crashing over my head.

I had forgotten.

Completely forgotten.

There was more to being a wife than just a name and a house.

There was… the bed.

Serving your husband in bed.

The thought came sudden and sharp. My face burned. My heart started racing so fast I thought they could hear it.

I had been so focused on the cut, the waiting, the palace, the bowing maids, the missing husband… that I had pushed the rest away. Pushed the real meaning of matched deep down where I didn’t have to look at it.

Now it was here.

Tonight.

With a man I had never seen. Never spoken to. A man whose face I didn’t even know.

The maid holding the nightgown waited patiently. No judgment in her eyes. Just quiet duty.

I took the silk from her hands. It felt cool and slippery against my fingers.

They helped me put it on.

The fabric slid over my skin like water. It was beautiful and terrifying.

One maid adjusted the ribbons at my shoulders. Another dabbed a tiny drop of perfume behind my ears.

You look lovely, the older maid said. It wasn’t a compliment. It was a fact.

They stepped back.

Rest now, she said.

He will come when he arrives. The lamp stays on low. He prefers it that way.

They bowed once more together this time and left the room.

The door closed.

I stood in the middle of the bedroom, wearing silk that wasn’t mine, in a palace that wasn’t mine, waiting for a husband who wasn’t really mine yet.

My reflection stared back from the tall mirror on the wall. Pale face. Wide eyes. Braided hair.

Thin nightgown.

I looked like a bride.

I felt like a stranger.

The bed waited behind me too big, too white, too ready.

I walked to it slowly and sat on the edge. My hands shook a little.

I thought about running. About hiding. About screaming.

But there was nowhere to run.

And the blood had already decided.

All I could do now was wait.

And try not to think about what serving really meant.

Not yet.

Not until the door opened again.