***
That evening, Inga gathered what little she owned to take with her to Taras’s rooms. She'd suggested leaving her clothes here, and returning to the servant’s quarters in the morning to change, but Yehvah said it would look suspicious—most mistresses practically lived in their lover’s rooms—and it would raise questions to have Inga padding around the palace in her nightclothes every morning.
Inga fervently wished this night were over. Even if he did force her, at least after that she would know what to expect. At least after tonight, the unknown would no longer frighten her.
As if reading her thoughts, Yehvah turned to her. “Inga. I know what he said, and I hope for your sake he was being truthful, but he may not have been.”
“I know.”
“Even if he was sincere, he may change his mind. If he does, there will be nothing you can do about it.”
Inga had considered all these possibilities, but she nodded patiently. “I know Yehvah.”
Yehvah’s deeply furrowed brow made her look older. Inga wanted to comfort her.
“I’ll be all right, Yehvah. I think he was sincere. There’s something . . . different about him. I trust him.”
“That worries me.”
“Why?”
“Because you think he’s different. Because you think you can trust him. Inga, I’ve known a lot of boyars. I’ve even been hurt by a few. Don’t trust him. The instant you do, he’ll hurt you.”
Inga didn’t agree, but she wanted to calm Yehvah. “Then I won’t get my hopes up. If he’s as good a man as he claims to be, wonderful. If not, at least I won’t be disappointed. At least it’s not Sergei.”
Yehvah nodded, looking far from comforted. She hugged Inga. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Inga nodded, then left the room. She shut the door behind her, feeling a sudden nostalgia. Cold and bleak though the servant’s quarters were, she'd slept in this room every night since she was six winters old. Leaving it now—along with Anne, Yehvah, and all her other friends—felt lonely.
She trudged through the hallways to Taras’s rooms. Inga didn't know whether she should knock. She couldn’t bring herself to go in unannounced, so she rapped softly on the wood.
Taras opened the door only wide enough to look out, as he had the night before. His eyes widened when he saw her. “Inga. Come in.”
She stepped inside timidly. As before, his roaring fire made the room much warmer than the corridor, and much warmer than the servants’ quarters as well.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I completely forgot.”
“Forgot?”
“Yes.” He chuckled at his own foolishness. “I’m so exhausted. The Master of the Horse had me running drills all day. I’m so tired, I feared I might pass out before I reached my room. It completely slipped my mind that you’d be coming tonight.”
The way he said “you’d be coming” made her stomach lurch.
“Uh, here, let me . . .” He cleared some of his own clothes off the bed so she could sit down.
“What’s that?” He nodded toward her bundle.
“My working clothes. I’ll have to change into them in the morning.”
“You’ll need somewhere to put them.” He glanced around, then crossed the room to the upright bureau set against the wall. He opened one door and pulled out a deep drawer. “I don’t use this one, so you can have it. You can fit several changes of clothes into it.”
“I only have the one.”
“Oh.”
She went to the bureau and deposited her clothes inside. When she turned, he'd spread thick pelts beside the fire. He retrieved one of the down pillows from the bed and sat down on the skins, pulling one over him.
“I don’t feel right, Taras, commandeering the bed . . . I mean I could be the one to . . .”
He shook his head. “I insist you take the bed. I couldn't sleep up there and make you take the floor. I don’t mind. Truly.”
It occurred to her that they could both sleep on the bed—it was certainly big enough—but it would be too provocative a suggestion, so she said nothing.
Unsure what to do, Inga stood watching him, trying not to shiver.
He looked up at her. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to turn in. I’m exhausted.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. Hesitantly crossing the room, she climbed into the large bed alone. It felt softer and warmer than any bed she’d ever slept in.
As she nestled down under the skins, she heard Taras grunt. She pressed the thick pelts down so she could see him over them. He attempted to remove his shirt, but for some reason couldn’t move his arms very well. When he peeled it off, a black welt glared from beneath his right shoulder blade.
“You’re hurt.”
He glanced back at her. “As I said, I’ve been drilling all day.”
“Drills . . . with a sword?”
He nodded. “Most were physical drills. Some mental—seeing what my grasp of military strategy is, that sort of thing.”
“Did you pass?”
He laughed his quiet laugh. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. I’m to meet with the Master of the Horse first thing tomorrow. He’ll give me his decision then.”
“I’m sure you did fine.”
“I suppose I’ll find out.”
He laid down, and she followed suit. She didn’t sleep much that night. Every time he rustled his covers or turned over or groaned, she tensed, fearing the worst.
When the first light of dawn came through the windows and Inga’s body told her to rise, he still slept by the fire, snoring softly. Inga tiptoed across the room to get her clothes, then into the spare room to change.
When she left his room, closing the door softly behind her, she sighed with relief, a massive weight lifting from her chest. Perhaps he was a good man after all.