The Serviette — Rosemary McLean

Maria’s burgundy nails run along the edge of her woven blanket, the many bangles along her wrist jingling faintly, unheard over the voice of the man sitting across from her. She nods as he drones on, occasionally smiling or laughing when appropriate; she has gone through this routine more times than she can remember, and knows exactly how to convince a man that she is enthralled. Waiting with bated breath for him to finish an anecdote, lightly biting the corner of her lip when he talks about a moment of danger or incredible success on his travels — she had won this game by the time he opened his mouth. 

She smiles as he finishes his story, angling herself towards him and leaning forwards enough to let him catch a hint of her perfume. 

“That was quite a story,” she laughs. “May I hear another?” He begins another tale, this one longer ago and more boastful than the last — a tale of a battle won in a war long ago, a fiction she had heard many times. 

Her wandering eyes catch those of the figure in the corner, a woman in rugged dress with a sword at her side. A small scar running up her lip contrasted the faint, youthful freckles dotting her nose — a contradiction informing the lady of a life of hardship, of childhood lost before its time. The connection lasts but an instant before the guard tears her gaze away, shifting her wide eyes to the floor. The lady smiles, glancing back at the man to nod and feign interest. 

But Maria’s attention has been won. As the meeting progresses, every smile, every laugh is punctuated in the direction of her guard. As the man begins to make business proposals, she agrees without listening. The game is back on, and she has to win. 

Leaning forwards, she places her hand on the man’s knee. He stumbles over his words, her blue eyes piercing him as she smiles. 

“That sounds like a lovely proposal,” she begins, sliding her hand slightly up his leg, “but surely you have more to offer?” The guard can no longer look away, slowly dragging her eyes back to the woman she has sworn to protect. Even from across the room, Lady Maria's inhuman senses can hear her servant’s heart rate begin to climb. Within her own cold chest, her heart skips a beat. She smiles. 

After the meeting, Lady Maria shoulders through the heavy wooden doors of the office, past her dumbfounded guard. 

“Dispose of this, will you?” she asks dismissively, dropping the serviette into her guard’s hands without meeting her eyes. The guard remains frozen in place, trailing Maria with her eyes as she approaches the middle carriage of the caravan. Maria pauses in the street, turning to her guard with a smile.

“Well? Are you coming?”