Chapter 3

The bath was every bit as luxurious as Artesia’s memories had implied, and yet it fell far short of what I was used to. For one, when the water started to cool, I couldn’t just turn a knob and get a fresh injection of hot water. I would have needed to ask one of the scullery maids to bring me a fresh kettle, and to be honest, I didn’t want to bother them or distract them from other, more important work.

The large copper tub was certainly a luxury item in this particular world’s current technological status. It would have been able to comfortably sit a fully grown man, let alone a small, willowy nine year old girl. As such, I was practically swimming in it. The soap was a little bit harsher than most off-the-shelf bars one could buy at a typical store, but in my old life I had preferred a more natural bar of soap with more masculine scents anyway. The soap they’d used was scented with some sort of rosemary or pine sap or something of the like, with a hint of some kind of flower added in. I quite enjoyed it.

The bathwater was barely lukewarm by the time I was finished soaking. I sat, wrapped in a towel, on a stool in front of the washstand along the wall of the tile-lined room. The intricately carved ivory or bone nit-comb I was running through my hair was doing a fantastic job of removing nits and live lice. Unfortunately, it was also doing a good job of tugging at the roots, and at times was a bit painful.

Still, with every dip into the bowl of steaming water on the washstand, I saw proof of how effective it was. The still-living lice that had been pulled free futilely struggled, but soon grew still. They weren’t drowning, though; the heat of the water was killing them off. Without chemical insecticides, the easiest way to kill lice was to overheat them with hot water. Boiling potentially infested clothing and bedding was a good way of killing the eggs before they could hatch. Even a thirty minute cycle in a tumble dryer on hot was enough. Boiling water was almost overkill. Almost.

I was almost done when a knock came at the door to the bathing room.

“Enter!” I called in a high, clear voice. The earlier drink of water and a long soak in a bath had me feeling much better than when I’d first woke up.

As the door swung open, I looked over my shoulder to see who it was. The middle-aged maid from earlier today, Encina, slid sideways through the door and closed it behind her. In one hand, she held a small pile of clothing.

“Pardon the intrusion, milady, but I brought you a fresh change of clothing,” she said, her lowborn accent much more pronounced than Healer Woad’s.

“Thank you,” I said, giving her a grateful smile before turning my attention back to combing my hair.

The polished bronze disk hanging from the wall over the washstand made for an imperfect mirror; the color of the metal reflected everything in a sepia tone, and the slight imperfections distorted the image somewhat, but it would suffice. Large scale glass making probably hadn’t been invented yet, nor had a silver-mercury reflective backing to make a proper mirror like I was used to.

“Would you like some help, milady?” Encina asked.

“Yes, please,” I sighed with relief. “If you would be so kind…”

“Of course, milady,” she replied in a gentle, motherly tone.

She stood behind me and took the nit-comb from me. “Where would you like me to start?”

“In the back, if you could,” I said, waving a hand vaguely behind my head. “I couldn’t see it well enough.”

“Of course.”

She set to combing the areas I wasn’t able to get to with economical strokes. She was surprisingly gentle about it, though; despite occasionally running into a tangle or a nit, she was able to work the teeth of the comb through it with minimal discomfort.

“You’ve got such lovely hair, milady,” Encina murmured. “You got your father’s colors and your mother’s silky tresses.”

“... thank you…” I belatedly replied, not sure if I should feel flattered or weirded out. I wasn’t used to people complimenting me on my hair…

“Lady Maven always did take good care of her hair,” Encina continued. “She was always proud of it, more than anything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother was a very slender woman,” she explained. “She was a late bloomer, you see, and was often made fun of by the other burgher girls back in Reevesport. Her hair was the one thing they couldn’t tease her about.”

“... I see,” I lied. While I’d had my fair share of insecurities in my old life, body issues hadn’t been one of them. I wasn’t a model by any stretch of the imagination, but it was never something I’d received much flack over. Still, I could understand, if not relate.

“She needn’t have worried, of course; she grew into a truly beautiful woman, before she passed.” Encina went on. “I think you’ll grow just as beautiful, milady.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, she was very kind as well,” she went on. “She treated everyone well, even lowborn like me and my husband. Why, I remember one time…”

As she worked her way through my hair, Encina recounted a number of stories about Artesia’s mother. Most of them centered around her kindness to noble and lowborn alike, and how much the castle staff had loved her. Sprinkled here and there were good words about Valens, as well. It was… honestly, a relief. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been born into a noble family that treated the common people poorly.

‘At least I won’t have to worry about a peasant revolt,’ I thought, but immediately chastised myself for thinking it. They were people, not merely cogs in a machine. If they were being treated poorly enough to revolt against the nobility, the nobility probably deserved it.

“There we are, milady,” Encina’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She rinsed the comb off with still-steaming water from the kettle and set it on the washstand to dry. “Now, let’s get you dressed.”

“Let me take a look at them first.”

Encina gave me a strange look, but said nothing. I unfolded a pair of culottes, a garment that looked like a frilly pair of shorts with ties at the waist and knee. The cloth was cool to the touch, but was obviously not silk; at a guess, I’d say it was linen.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Turning them inside out, I leaned in close to inspect the seams. Sure enough, I spotted the small discolored yellow lumps that indicated nits. I huffed and set them to the side.

“What are you doing?” Encina asked as I reached for the next article of clothing.

“Looking for nits.”

“Nits?”

“It’s a sign of lice,” I said, somewhat distracted by my search. The stockings, too, had signs of nits.

“Lice?” she asked. “In the clothing?”

“It’s not too different from hair.”

“Well, then, how do you get rid of them?”

I looked up at her, only just now realizing that I’d let slip a bit more than I’d intended. “Er… you can boil them, then wash with soap and water.”

“And that’ll get rid of the nits?”

“It will, though it won’t do much good if the person wearing them has lice.” I shrugged. “Getting rid of the lice in clothing or bedding doesn’t do much good if they’re still in one’s hair. You’ve got to take care of both.”

“I’ll instruct the maids to boil all of the laundry, milady,” Encina said with pursed lips. With a sotto voice I probably wasn’t supposed to overhear, she said, “Lice, in my household? Never!”

“Still, these will have to suffice for now,” I sighed, ignoring her little aside.

“Of course, milady.”

----------------------------------------

The private dining room was a small room, just across the hall from Valens’ study, on the second floor of the family wing in Castle Balfors’ keep. It was nothing particularly special; the table was only large enough to sit six people, or perhaps eight if you didn’t mind rubbing elbows on occasion. Valens had intended this room to be for private family dinners only. Guests and other important visitors would dine with the family in the formal dining room, which was much more richly furnished. This room wouldn’t look out of place in the home of a moderately successful burgher.

His dearly departed wife, of course, had adored it; it had reminded her of her family’s home when she was a young girl, long before her father had been elected as Lord Mayor.

Today, it was just he and his daughter. Once the servants had delivered the food and drink, the two of them had been left to eat in privacy.

Valens took another bite of his mutton stew, subtly observing Artesia out of the corner of his eye. Healer Woad had done a fantastic job keeping his daughter’s body alive; to his eyes, Artesia looked healthier than ever.

And yet… it seemed wrong.

The daughter he knew was a fussy young girl, one who had grown perhaps a bit too used to her station in life. She was excessively formal, begged him for the latest fashions coming out of the capital, and was often quite biting when she chastised the servants around the castle. Of the five Great Virtues the Gods commanded mankind to hold dear, the only one Valens believed his daughter held had been Honor. Of Duty, Mercy, Charity, and Justice, Artesia had shown little.

‘Perhaps that is why the Gods took her to Philosia,’ Valens speculated in his own mind, absently chewing on a roll. ‘The question remains… what kind of person did Selatura place in my daughter’s body?’

Valens was not an ignorant man; he knew his letters, and his personal library was the largest in the Duchy! Aside from the monasteries, that is, but not even the King could claim to have a larger personal library than even the smallest of the monasteries in Scael. Among his collection were great titles from before the Cataclysm, carefully preserved by those self-same monasteries, works of history by more contemporary authors, and several books on the martial arts detailing the use of a variety of weapons.

Being a well-read man, Valens understood exactly what Selatura had been implying. Her exact words echoed in his ears.

“While I cannot bring your daughter’s spirit back to the realm of the living, I could find another soul to take her place.”

Selatura’s words were clear; his daughter was dead. Or rather, her soul had passed on. Who she was as a person was lost to him until he, too, went to the afterlife. In her place was another, some other soul placed into his daughter’s body.

‘Perhaps this is punishment for my own hubris,’ Valens lamented to himself. ‘To see someone else wearing my daughter’s face…’

Oh, how badly he wanted to speak of it to someone. Lupis, his dear friend, or maybe to Pontifex Traust, the high priest at the local temple. Yet, in the two days since Selatura had manifested, every time he had tried to speak of it, his breath would be pulled from his body. He had sworn an oath on Kyril’s name to never speak of it, and the God of Death was enforcing that oath.

“...” Valens opened his mouth and tried to speak, intending to confront the stranger wearing his daughter’s face. Again, the breath was stolen from his chest and the words would not come. Sighing, he instead took another sip of wine.

That this person was no longer his daughter was certain in Valens' eyes. Even if he hadn’t known, he was sure he would have been able to figure it out. For one, this person slouched slightly in her seat, whereas his daughter would have sat up with her back straight. This person’s elbows rested on the table top, where his daughter would never have dared to let such a thing happen.

Even if one could explain that as fatigue, or the aftereffects of the fever, there were other indicators. The mutton stew was a bit on the bland side. Before, his daughter would have complained and demanded a jar of pepper or other expensive spices to add flavor to it. This person did no such thing; rather, she had merely sprinkled a pinch of salt over the top and mixed it in. Not a word of complaint was spoken, nor did she grimace or frown. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the rather common fare.

Not like his daughter at all.

Most unusual, though, was her request to become a knight. His daughter disliked being out of doors, even to play in the fields like other children her age. In fact, as far as Valens could tell, his daughter’s greatest ambition in life was to marry a Duke or a Prince and live a life of luxury. She wasn’t interested in learning how to manage a household, or how to keep track of finances, or how to find skilled servants, or anything of the like. Before the plague, Artesia had resisted his every effort to try to teach her these things.

‘Perhaps…’

“Artesia,” Valens caught her attention before the thought even had a chance to fully form in his mind. Upon catching his daughter’s eye, he continued, “Why don’t you join me in my study after lunch? We can continue your finance lessons.”

“Of course,” she replied with a gentle smile. “I’d be delighted.”

“Hmm. You’re not usually so eager for these lessons,” Valens replied, one eyebrow raised. “Did you have a change of heart?”

She opened her mouth to respond, paused, pursed her lips, and finally nodded. “Yes.”

Valens tilted his head, waiting for her to elucidate. After a moment, he prompted her, asking, “... so, what was it?”

“What was what?” she asked, furrowing her brows.

“What changed your mind?”

“... the plague, I think,” she replied, looking down at her half-eaten bowl of soup. “It’s just… what if it had been you that had fallen sick? Or… or died? Who would have looked after the household then?”

“Before, you always used to say you could just hire a steward,” Valens reminded her. He kept his keen gaze on her face, trying to gauge her reaction.

At first, she furrowed her brows, then frowned and shook her head.

“Stewards… can’t always be trusted,” she muttered. “An unscrupulous steward would find a way to steal. Some would change the record books, and others would add false payments for goods or services that were never received. If I don’t know how to manage it myself, I could never trust myself to double check a steward’s work.”

“If I had died before you were of age, though, the Duke would likely appoint a Regent to manage the County on your behalf.”

“... perhaps that is so, but I wouldn’t trust a Regent not to steal either,” she said, stubbornly crossing her arms. “Trust that they will do their appointed tasks, I suppose, but I would always verify they are not doing it wrong.”

“Wise words,” Valens noted. His eyes narrowed slightly; the answers Artesia was giving was not what he would previously have expected from his daughter. Still, he set the thought to the side for a moment and continued. “All the more reason for you to learn these lessons yourself.”

“Of course, father.”

“On another matter, your tutor, Madam Constans, has decided to seek employment elsewhere,” Valens continued. “I suspect she wished to flee the plague. Not that I can blame her, of course, but I will have to find you a new tutor.”

“Of course,” she nodded.

Valens wryly added another mental tally against her; his daughter had very much enjoyed her lessons with her tutor. She would have vociferously protested Madam Constans’ departure.

‘I suppose I’ll just have to face the facts; she is not my daughter,’ Valens admitted to himself. The thought sent a pang of sadness through his chest. ‘At least, she is not the same person as my daughter was. Still, this is what I asked for. I’ll just have to make the best of it.’

The question that remained in his mind, though, was this; what kind of person was she? Was she a good and honorable person? Would she live up to the Great Virtues? Or would she be decadent, deceitful, and dishonorable like the Teranthians?

‘I suppose I should find out…’

“Earlier, you said you wished to become a knight,” he told her, changing the subject. “Why?”

“Because I want to be strong,” she replied without hesitation.

“Why do you feel the need to become strong?” Valens pressed her.

Artesia looked away, her brow furrowing. Absently, she tapped her dirty spoon against her chin, smearing a bit of gravy-like broth on her chin. She looked as if she was deep in thought, her eyes staring off into the future beyond the stone walls that enclosed them both.

“The fates have placed our family in a position of authority over our people,” she said, her tempo measured. “The people under our command have a number of duties they owe to us, as their overlords. However, we, in turn, have a number of duties to our people. One of those duties is to protect them and lead them in battle. If I am to fulfill that duty, I will need to learn how to protect myself.”

“Why do you believe you will have to shoulder that burden?”

“... you said you will not be having any other children,” she said, looking at Valens with saddened eyes. “When you die, rulership of this County will pass to me. I want to be ready for it.”

Valens pursed his lips and looked away. If there was any lesson he had ever wanted to teach his daughter, it was the one this stranger had just expressed. Duty; one of the Great Virtues, the essence of Duty was to perform the tasks required of you, and to see to the care of those who depend on you. Just as a peasant must obey his liege lord, a lord must protect and provide for his peasants.

“... I see,” Valens said after a moment. He caught Artesia’s eyes and held them for a moment. Sadness and determination filled her gaze, he saw, even though she wore a mask of indifference. “Very well. Sir Brant is the most talented swordsman in my retinue. I will ask him to teach you.”

A broad smile spread across Artesia’s face, and her bright blue eyes lit up in happiness.

“But!” Valens interjected before she had a chance to say anything. “I will not make it an order. If he refuses, I will not force him to teach you. If you misbehave, he may choose to stop teaching you.”

“Yes, father!” she said, her excitement dampened but not extinguished. “I won’t let you down, I promise!”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Valens asserted. “Now, finish your stew. We’ve got finance lessons to cover.”

“Yes father!”

With more than a little nostalgia, Valens watched her fall upon the remains of her lunch like a pack of wild animals.

‘I don’t know who you are, really,’ he thought, eating his own lunch at a much more reasonable pace. ‘But you seem like a decent person… so far. Don’t disappoint me.’

----------------------------------------