When the Maid Rules Rogues

Chapter 3 — The Locked Room

I remember our wedding because it was simple and quiet. There were no flowers, no music, no guests. The Luna signed as a witness. Ben signed as the second. I signed my name slowly so I would not make a mistake. He signed fast. He did not look at me. When it was done, the Luna squeezed my hands and said, “Do the work. Keep him steady." I nodded. I told myself I could do that. It was enough.

That night he did not come to my room. I waited with a lamp on the table and a tray of broth in case he wanted it. The house was still. The door stayed shut. I blew out the lamp and lay down with my clothes on. In the morning I washed my face and went to his door with breakfast like any other day.

His leg was still bad then. The brace cut a line under his trousers. He moved from the bed to the chair and from the chair to the window with slow steps. He kept the door locked most of the time. When I entered, he turned his face away. I set the tray down and named the food so he would know what it was. He ate a few bites if I reminded him. He did not thank me. I did not ask.

I tried to make the room bright. I opened the curtains so the sun would reach his knee. He told me to close them. I opened a window to bring in air. He told me to shut it. I brought a clean shirt. He said he could dress himself. I brought a basin of warm water and a cloth. “Let me help you wash," I said. “It will ease the ache." He stared at the wall and said, “No."

I kept my voice plain. “The healer says we start massage today." I warmed the oil in my hands and worked the muscle the way I had been taught: slow, steady, counting out loud so he would keep his breath even. He lasted three breaths, then grabbed my wrist and pushed my hands away.

“Enough," he said.

“It will help," I said. “Give it ten more counts."

“No," he said. “Get out."

I put the oil away and stepped back. I did not say that he would not be able to sleep if we stopped. I did not say that he would wake with a knot in the muscle. He knew it. He was choosing anger anyway.

The next day I came early. I found him sitting in the dark with the cane on the floor. I lit the lamp and rolled his chair to the balcony. “Just ten minutes of sun," I said. “I will not speak."

He let me move the chair but kept his mouth tight. After a minute he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. I watched the clock and did not make a sound. When the ten minutes were over, I rolled him back and set the chair where he liked it, at an angle to the desk. I did not call it progress. I called it morning work.

At noon I brought soup. He was reading a report. I set the bowl near his right hand. “It will go cold," I said. He did not look up. I waited. When he did not touch it, I moved the bowl closer. “You need food for the work," I said. He finally picked up the spoon and ate three slow mouthfuls.

In the afternoon I brought the basin again. “Let me wipe your back and neck," I said. “You are sweating from the exercises." He said nothing. I dipped the cloth and squeezed it so it would not drip. I reached for his shoulder. He jerked forward in his chair, knocked my hand away, and the basin slipped. Water splashed over my skirt and the floor. The sound was large in the quiet room.

“Stop," he said, breathing hard. “Don't touch me."

I set the cloth down and bent to pick up the basin. Water ran under the desk and around the cane. I wiped it with a towel until the boards were dry. I did not look at him. I left the room to empty the basin and returned with a fresh towel for the chair. He had not moved.

“I will come back at four," I said. “We will finish the set then." He did not answer. I closed the door and stood in the hall until my hands stopped shaking.

At four he was waiting. He said nothing. I said nothing. We counted together because counting is simple and it works. He held the stretch until I reached ten. His jaw was tight. I loosened the strap on the brace by a small notch. His breath changed. “Better," I said. He did not agree, but he did not argue.

This was how the days went. I arrived at seven. I set out breakfast. We worked. I made the room ready. I kept track of time. He resisted and then he did the work because pain left him no choice. When he refused one thing, I tried a different thing. When he closed the curtains, I opened them the next day and did not explain. When he shut the window, I cracked it small enough that the air moved but the draft did not hit his knee. I spoke simply. I did not ask for kindness. I asked for ten counts, for one lap, for one more step. He gave me what I asked because numbers are easier than feelings.

One evening, three days after the wedding, I brought a tray with tea and a small plate of sliced fruit. He sat at the desk. The cane leaned against the wall. His face looked carved. I put the tray down. “The healer says you can try the stairs next week if the swelling stays low," I said.

He stood. “Come with me," he said.

I followed him down the west corridor. The hall was quiet. He stopped at a door I had never seen open. He took a key from his pocket and turned it. The lock clicked. He stepped inside and nodded for me to follow.

The room was small. There was one lamp. There was one painting on the wall. It was a portrait of a girl with dark hair and a bright smile. Someone had captured her at the moment before she laughed. The frame was plain. The paint was clean. The room had no other furniture. It was a shrine made of wood and silence.

He did not look at me. He kept his eyes on the painting. “Her name is Serena," he said. His voice was flat. “I like her."

I waited. The lamp hummed. The house breathed.

He went on. “I loved her before the south line broke. She left for the city. She said the city would make her life bigger. I stayed. I bled. I learned to move slow. I learned to count." He glanced at the cane and then away. “My mother asked you to marry me. You agreed. We signed. That does not change this." He raised a hand and pointed at the portrait. “This is the girl I like."

I looked at the face in the frame. The girl looked kind, or maybe the painter was kind. I kept my voice steady. “I understand," I said. It was the truth I could offer. It cost less to say it plain.

He turned then and looked at me for the first time since we entered the room. His eyes were clear. “I need you to hear the rest," he said. “I will not come to your bed. I will not pretend in public. I will not play at being a husband for the comfort of others. I will not give you words I do not mean."

I stood straight and kept my hands by my sides. “I hear you," I said.

“I will do the work," he said after a short pause. “I will lead the pack. I will heal. I will be fair in the house. But I won't love anyone else." He looked back at the portrait as if the canvas could answer him. “If you stay, you stay knowing that."

I thought of the Luna's hands on mine when we signed. I thought of the hours I had spent counting while his jaw clenched around pain. I thought of the basin I had set right after he knocked it to the floor. I thought of the window and the line of sun on his knee. I did not think of a dress I had never worn or a kiss I had never been promised. I chose the small thing I could trust: my own answer.

“All right," I said. “I will do my work. I will keep your schedule, keep your knee steady, and keep the house in order. I will not ask for more than that." I added one more line because it mattered to me. “And I will expect you not to use my silence as an excuse to be cruel."

His mouth moved, not quite a frown. “I am not a cruel man."

“You are a tired one," I said. “Tired men can do harm when they do not look."

He did not argue. He adjusted the frame by a finger's width and locked the room again. The key clicked. The corridor felt colder when we stepped back into it.

We walked the length of the hall twice without speaking. He counted under his breath. I matched his pace. At the far end he stopped and rested one hand on the wall. Sweat made a small line at his temple. I handed him a towel. He took it and wiped his face.

When we reached his door, he looked down at my wet hem from the basin spill earlier. “Change your skirt," he said. “You'll catch cold." The words were plain. They sounded like an order given to anyone on staff. Even so, they were the first words he had spoken that day that had anything like care in them.

“I will," I said.

He opened his door and stepped inside. Before the door shut, he said, “Four o'clock tomorrow."

“I'll be here," I said.

I went back to my room. I took off the wet skirt and hung it by the stove. I washed the floor where the water had dripped. I folded the clean towels for morning. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my hands until the tremble went away. Then I lay down and slept because the next day would ask the same things from me and it is easier to give when you have slept.

In the morning I brought the tray again. I set out the egg, the toast, and the tea. I checked the straps on the brace. I warmed the oil. We worked the muscle. He did not thank me. I did not need him to. He did the counts. He stood. He took three steps without the cane. He sat. We both looked at the clock. It was only eight. The day was long. That was fine. I can carry long days.

This is what our marriage looked like after that: I kept the hours. He kept the distance. I spoke simple words. He answered when he had to. I opened the curtains each morning. Some days he told me to close them. Some days he let the light stay. I did not say Serena's name. I did not ask where he went at night. I put a lamp in the hall so the stairs would be safe. He walked past it without looking. We both did what we could do.

I do not know what will come after this. I only know what happened today. He lifted his hand and pointed at a portrait. He said, “This is the girl I like." I stood in front of a locked room and gave him my answer. The rest will arrive when it arrives. Until then there is work, and work I know how to do.