Night had fallen and I was usually asleep by the time he returned so after I waited for awhile I figured I was in for a long one.
So I looked around the tent, having been in it for days, I was seeing it for the first time.
The bed was smack in the middle on a painted blue wooden platform that was probably one foot tall. There was a mattress, I knew, what it was made of, I didn’t know but it was thick, tall and soft. It was covered in heavy hides that were also soft, warm and comfy (the day was hot, the sun shone brightly, but when it dropped, it got cold). This was covered in a heavy, light blue silk sheet (which didn’t do much to ward off the cold, I had discovered, so it was lucky we slept on the fluffy hides). The pillows didn’t have cases, they were square or rectangular and, like the big cushions the girls had set outside for Diandra and me, they were silk, satin and brocade, no tassels or fringe and not in rich colors but in pastels.
There were heavy-looking trunks lining the circular tent on one side, all wood, all carved, all with latches with strong looking locks hanging from them. Some of them were inlaid with what looked like mother of pearl. Some of them surrounded by sturdy-looking black iron.
On the other side of the tent, a narrow, rectangular wood table, also carved, two chairs at each end, ladderback, cushions on the seats with tassels. There were silver and copper candlesticks with candles (now burning) of all shapes, sizes and widths that scattered the top. And against that side of the tent beyond the table, two short, square chests with latticework doors and brass latches. In one, I could see a variety of small to medium-sized clay pots and in the other there was what looked like pottery or enameled clay plates, bowls and jugs plus silverware that I already knew was used at the table.
At the back of the tent, a three panel screen made of wood with a light green gauze hiding what was behind it from view. This was where the chamber pot was.
Close to the entrance flaps, a small bed of hides that was at least three feet tall, one hide stacked on top of the other, a bunch of cushions at its head, a squat, carved, small round table also at its head, also covered in candlesticks of all shapes and sizes. A place, maybe, to read (if they had books in this hellhole) or lounge.
There were more tall candleholders, dozens of them; these wrought iron, scrolled, all holding thick candles and dotted around the room, lit. A number of them circled the bed, not close, not far and at what seemed like random places.
The stone ground was covered with thick, woven rugs with rough designs on them. They were, I’d experienced, slightly abrasive on your feet but they were a heckuva lot better than the stone.
I studied the space.
With night having fallen, the candlelight dancing, the silks and satins gleaming, the torchlight from outside glowing against the sides of the tent, I noted that in my world, this would be an exotic and romantic setting. Comfortable. Inviting you to relax, lounge and, if you were lucky enough to be with someone who mattered, engage in other activities that were a little more energetic and a lot more fun.
So it sucked that for me this tent, this whole world, was my torture chamber.
On that thought, the flap to the tent slapped back. I jumped and my determination to get a few things straight slipped as I watched the Dax bend low and enter the tent.
I sucked in breath.
He straightened, walked in two steps and stopped, his dark eyes on me.
Gone was the paint, he hadn’t painted himself since that night.
But still, he scared the shit out of me. I forgot how dark he was, how sinister, how savage and how huge. It couldn’t be said the tent was enormous but it was the biggest tent I’d ever seen and there was room to move, room to breathe.
With him standing in it, his forceful energy invading, his huge, powerful body on display, his brown skin gleaming in the candlelight, the tent seemed tiny.
Another direct hit to my determination.
He moved toward the foot of the bed and as he made it there, I threw up a hand and stated firmly, “Stop.”
He stopped. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me as he moved and he didn’t then, not even to look at my hand.
“You and me,” I went on, pulling up the courage to speak to him, the first words I’d said to him since that awful night, I gestured between his big body and my own, “we need to talk.”
He stared at me.
I pointed between us again then lifted my hand and flapped my fingers in lame sign language to indicate talking, “Talk. You and I are going to talk.”
He looked at my hand then back at me but he didn’t speak nor did his impassive expression change.
All right, moving on.
I pointed to myself. “My name is Circe.”
Nothing.
I leaned in and repeated slowly, “Cir… ce.”
More nothing.