Emele raised both of her hands to her mouth before stomping a foot.
Bernadine picked up Emele’s oddly shaped pillow and whacked Heloise in the head with enough force to ruin the bun the woman had her hair pulled back into.
Heloise scowled at the cook, who shook a finger at her. Heloise rolled her eyes and released her grip on Elle’s chin only to meticulously wipe her hand off on her apron.
Heloise twitched her shoulders and sailed from the room.
“It was nice to meet you too,” Elle called, snapping her fan as Bernadine moved to shut the door and almost closed it on Duval.
The barber-surgeon dodged the door, almost dropping his armload of materials and tools. A kitchen maid trotted behind him, carrying a small pot of steaming water.
Duval smiled—which turned into an apple red blush when Bernadine affectionately patted his cheek. He set about organizing bandages and comfrey herb roots before he started removing the plastered bandages that encased Elle’s leg.
Bernadine smiled slyly and borrowed Emele’s slate. She wrote a message on it and showed it to Duval.
The barber-surgeon grated comfrey root into the hot water and considered Elle’s leg. Elle leaned forward to look as well, eager to see how her leg looked without the bandages.
Her skin was smooth but the leg was, in Elle’s mind, appallingly swollen. It was slightly discolored, but at least it didn’t feel like Duval was driving nails through her legs when he touched her.
The bandages on her arms had been removed earlier by Emele. For the most part the lacerations were healed—only the biggest cuts remained.
Duval turned to look at Emele and exchanged hand gestures with her, drawing a large smile from the ladies maid. The well dressed woman glided to the head of Elle’s bed, still smiling as she picked dog hair off the bed blankets—the fat Papillon had become Elle’s nightly visitor.
Emele brushed chalk off her slate and carefully wrote, Dinner party.
“Dinner party? Who with?” Elle blinked, doubling her efforts of fanning herself with the ridiculously frilly accessory. The illegitimate and sour tempered Prince Severin had never thrown a party in his life—even before he was cursed to be a beast. She could hardly imagine that he had any guests stowed away in his monstrous chateau.
Emele shook her head and would write nothing more.
Elle shrugged. “A dinner party. Why not? I am on a holiday.”
Duval glanced curiously at Elle before he finished wrapping new plaster bandages around her leg. He then washed his hands and victoriously thrust something into the air.
“Huzzah, you are right to be proud!” Elle clapped. “What is it?”
The stout barber-surgeon nodded and wrote on his slate. Splint
“I can move with it on?” Elle said, lurching forward.
Duval tried to push his mask up his face—an impossible task as it seemed the servants’ masks were fixed to their faces—and nodded as he wrote on his slate. A little.
“Will I be able to stand?” Elle eagerly asked.
Duval nodded.
“Can I walk?”
Duval shook his head.
Only slightly disheartened, Elle leaned back against her pillows.
Duval set the splint at Elle’s beside before bowing and leaving the room.
When he left, Emele pounced. It took hours for the Comfrey soaked bandages to harden. Elle spent some of that time getting her hair scrubbed by Emele. The determined ladies maid swiveled Elle in bed so her head hung off the side before immersing Elle’s black hair in warm water.
Elle blissfully soaked in the attention—getting her hair washed was relaxing. However, Emele undid all the good by yanking a comb through Elle’s hair, trying to get it to a silky smooth consistency. Emele could do very little with Elle’s hacked bangs, but she wove the rest of Elle’s hair into a braid when it became apparent that it was going to stay frizzy.
After strong arming Elle’s hair, Emele stripped Elle and inventively pieced her into a dress—the pretty blue one Elle saw her hemming the first few days of her stay. Elle suspected it was one of Emele’s dresses, it hung from Elle in places that Emele was more blessed in, and the skirt puffed around Elle like a frilled mushroom. Emele then scrubbed Elle’s hands, arms, and uninjured leg with damp towels until Elle’s skin was rosy pink.
By the time Duval came back to put the splint on Elle’s leg, Elle was exhausted.
“I think I’m supposed to be thankful for the changes in today. I want to make it clear that I’m not,” Elle said, struggling to keep her eyes open.
Emele did not reply and struggled to cram Elle’s uninjured foot in a silk slipper. Duval good naturally patted Elle’s hand before opening the door to let four footmen carrying an upholstered armchair inside.