As Killian watched on, Malahi took off her heavy cloak and gloves, handing them off. Then her jewelry: gold bracelets, earrings, hairpins, and a necklace that alone could purchase a city block. She handed them to the people, saying always the same thing: “Share with those in need.”
Her boots followed; then she turned to him. “Unbutton my dress.”
He silently obeyed, unfastening the tiny gold buttons that ran down her back, helping her step out of the heavy velvet gown, which she gave to a woman with three children clinging to her legs.
Malahi stood before her people dressed only in a silk slip, the falling rain soaking her loose hair. Then with hundreds of her people watching, she caught hold of the hem and lifted it over her head so that she stood before them in nothing at all.
“You are my people,” she shouted, handing over the garment to a woman. “And all that I have to give is yours.”
And without another word, she stepped down from the fountain, the parting crowd dropping into bows and curtsies as their princess walked back through the streets. Naked. But very much a queen.
36
LYDIA
The house was quiet as Lydia lay on her back in her narrow bed, listening to Lena’s steady breathing and Gwen’s much louder snores. Exhaustion pressed her against the mattress like lead weights, but for hours sleep had eluded her. The balance of the day had been uneventful, but she’d been unable to shake the frantic tension of the morning’s events, visions of the knife flashing, of Gwen falling bloodied beneath the crowd, of her own gods-damned uselessness dancing across her thoughts.
Rolling over in bed for the hundredth time, she tried to calm the escalating beat of her heart, the panic that made her feel as though she would vomit. When the clock downstairs chimed the midnight hour, Lydia climbed out of bed and roamed down the hallway to Killian’s study, having seen a glimpse of bookshelves in passing. With the exception of a dog sleeping on a chair, the room was empty.
Trailing a finger along the spines, she examined the titles, which showed topics from history to philosophy to law to poetry. None of which she could imagine Killian reading and none of which were what she was looking for. Dropping to her knees, she examined the bottom row, smiling when she lighted upon The Art of Swordsmanship. Plucking out the book, she sat on the floor rather than shooing away the dog.
The book was light on words and heavy on diagrams, and she swiftly read through the contents, then set it aside to retrieve another volume on a similar topic. She read until her eyes burned, and it wasn’t until she felt a hand shaking her shoulder that she realized she’d fallen asleep.
Alarmed at being caught, she jerked upright, her forehead collided with something hard.
“Gods-damn it, woman.” Killian crouched next to her, rubbing his chin. “What are you doing in here?”
“Sorry,” she muttered, acutely aware that she was sitting on the floor of his study wearing nothing more than a cotton nightdress. “I was … Why do you smell so awful?”
“Because I was in the sewers. It’s the only way to traverse the city after dark, but unfortunately, the stink clings.” Pulling off his coat, he tossed it across the room. Then he picked up one of the volumes, frowning at the title before tossing it aside with equal carelessness. “This is useless. You can’t learn how to fight from a book.”
“I beg to differ.” She carefully shelved the rest of the books before he could damage them as well. “You can learn anything from the right book. And for someone with such a large collection, one would think you’d hold them in more esteem.”
Killian eyed the shelves while he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. The knuckles of his hands were scraped and bleeding, and she wondered what he’d been doing. “I’ve always considered them more decorative than useful, frankly.”
Lydia crossed her arms, trying to focus on his view of literature rather than the way the candlelight illuminated the muscles of his bare forearms. Or on how his dark hair fell over eyes bright with humor. She wished a clever retort would come to mind, but her brain seemed intent on failing her.
Killian was quiet for a long moment; then he ran a finger down the spines of the books. “Why would a scholar like you be interested in books full