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probably wouldn’t even have Robert after this.
    “Come on.” He pulled away from her. “Let’s get you dressed.”
    Leading her to the sink, he once more picked up the washcloth.
    “I can do it.” She tried to take it from him, but he simply wet it under the faucet to warm it again and then began to bathe her. Starting with her face, he washed away her tears and worked his way down. Every time he touched her scars, she flinched, looked away, tried to turn away even, but he only backed her up against the sink and relentlessly kept at it, rinsing the cloth over and over again, past the point that she was clean, until it started to feel gratuitous and his cellphone beeped again.
    He threw the washcloth in the sink, his mouth a hard flat line. She took advantage of the moment to try and take the tunic—at the very least, she could dress herself—but he didn’t allow her dignity even that much and when she tried to force the issue, the flat of his hand caught her fully across her damp and naked bottom.
    “I still haven’t decided whether to put you over my knee or not,” he warned. “Don’t push your luck.”
    He took the tunic from her and she, her bottom stinging and tingling in a way she hadn’t felt in far too long, offered no more resistance.
    The new dress barely covered her. It was backless, a Roman-style slave tunic that was little more than a bib of white over her loins and buttocks and a low cut ‘v’ of cloth that concealed her nipples if she was careful, but which did little to hide the globes of her breasts.
    “I can’t go out there like this,” she said, looking at herself and seeing only the ugliness.
    “Yes, you can, and you will,” Jackson replied. “You don’t have much of a choice at this point. He’s waiting for you, and he’s not exactly patient when it comes to things like this.”
    “Who?” Sara asked, listlessly. Not that it mattered. It was going to be a long walk, no matter where he took her. She’d never be able to hide her scars from all the people who would see her between here and that unknown there.
    “Marshall, Sara,” Jackson said simply. “The Master of the Castle. He wants to talk to you.”

     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    “What’s his name again?” Jackson asked.
    They were sitting on a hard wooden bench just outside the Castle Master’s office. Robert was still inside. She could hear their voices, talking now. Robert sounded quite calm now, actually.
    “Robert,” she told him, rubbing her arms. She was sitting a little sideways, trying to hide her left side every time someone walked past. This was a very public part of the second floor balcony , not far from the stairs at all and right across from two conference-style rooms where an informative lecture on knot-tying had just concluded. At the moment, there were a lot of people walking by.
    Jackson didn’t seem to notice them. “Robert,” he echoed for the second time. He rubbed his hands together. “Right. I won’t forget again.”
    He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. Robert might not be angry any more, but Jackson was something else entirely. Every time the low murmur of Robert’s voice passed through the closed door, a tick of muscle leapt along Jackson’s jaw. Sometimes he looked at the door. More often than not, he stared straight ahead at the opposite wall.
    “How long have the two of you been dating?” he finally asked.
    “Not long.” Sara turned toward Jackson just a little bit more, painfully aware of the couple walking past them. They were looking at her, and as soon as they were past, the woman pressed toward her companion and began whispering. It wasn’t hard to figure out what they were whispering about.
    “I wish I had my shawl,” she said, trying to cover the worst of the scars on her left shoulder behind her hand. Her hands were too small, although in this outfit that hardly mattered. Anything short of a blanket wouldn’t have covered everything that needed it.
    Jackson