Leonidas sat on a divan in the courtyard of his father’s mansion.  Unhappiness seeped through him until he felt like he was sweating poison.

His brother was safe.  That was what Leonidas wanted.  Ciphas was still in the cellar, and he had absolutely no plan to come out until the civil unrest had died down.  There would be more fighting, and until he was better, he planned to stay in the cellar and heal like a person who wanted to live.

As far as Leonidas was concerned, he didn’t have much to worry about.  Their village was far from the capital, and the rebels had their hands full establishing their position.

For now, Leonidas’s father, Jokum, was serving a meal meant to celebrate the safe arrival of his two sons.  He was delighted.  Leonidas wished that he could have felt the same way.

Instead, he felt bruised, twisted, and completely trapped.

Leonidas’s mother, Marrica, had heard Ciphas’s story of Samara and her situation and had immediately welcomed the young widow into their family.

Samara had explained to Marrica that she would be a maid, and Marrica had known what that meant.  She fully approved.

Jokum behaved the same way.

Why was everyone in such a big rush to approve of Samara?  Leonidas did not understand it.  Yes, she was striking.  Maybe she was even beautiful.  She was the niece of a king.  She had been the wife of a king.  Yes, all of that was true… But Leonidas did not believe for a moment that those were the reasons she immediately had his family’s approval.  It was because of what Ciphas had said.  She was a prophetess.  Her close relationship with her god was all over her face, in her eyes, and in her voice.

No matter how much Leonidas had benefited from her second sight and her blessings, he still found something displeasing about her.  What kind of God made a prophetess look like a harlot?

He sat on the divan while meat turned on a spit in the courtyard and thought about what Ciphas told him about how nothing was good enough for him until it was perfect in eight different ways.  Was that true?

At that moment, one of his sisters and two maids came out to wash the feet of the men who had been out working in the fields that afternoon.  The sun was setting.  Preparations for the feast would soon be complete.  It was time to wash before dinner.

Leonidas had washed his own feet since he had become a guard.  He was about to rise to get himself a basin when Samara came with a basin with the other women.  She approached his divan and placed the basin on the ground by his feet.

She was out of the clothes he had traded for her.  Instead, she wore an old mourning garment his mother had given her.  She covered her hair, but the veil was gone from her face, and in its place was a smear of ash across her nose and cheeks.  Naturally, she was now in mourning for her husband.

“What are you doing?” he asked, as she took her place at the foot of his couch.

“Rest,” she told him as she gingerly touched him and unfastened his sandals.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,” he said quietly.  His father was next to him, and he did not want him to hear.

She regarded him with large, dark eyes.  “If you will not accept this service from me, I’ll leave this house tonight.  There is no point if you will not allow me to serve you.”

“I just don’t understand,” he began saying, but she silenced him by suddenly rubbing a painful callus on his foot.  The feeling that shot through him was so intense that he forgot what he was going to say entirely.

“Quiet now, my Lord,” she said gently as she submerged his foot in the water.

Leonidas had not realized that he was not doing well at caring for his feet until Samara took over the job.  Then he knew without a doubt that he, and every guardsman he worked with, had no idea how to care for feet.  She scraped away piles of skin with the edge of a knife.  He’d seen knives like those before.  He just wasn’t sure how to use one on himself.  She cared for his feet like he’d never been cared for before in his life.

When she left with her basin, she had worked on his feet for twice the time of the other maids.

When she returned, the food was being served, and she brought him a plate before performing her mourning ritual by refusing to eat any meat and refusing to join in any jovial behavior.  Indeed, there was no dancing in the courtyard, but there was pleasant talk and singing.

She sat alone, and Leonidas found himself completely uninterested in watching anything but her.

He got up and left the party.  He went to the cellar and found Ciphas.  He was sitting with their sister, eating, and chatting.

Leonidas placed a hand on his brother’s forehead.

“Are you checking to see if I have a fever after my injuries?” Ciphas asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t have a fever and I’m not going to get one.  Samara blessed me before dinner, and she promised I’d make a full recovery.”

“Are you romanced?” Leonidas asked crossly.

“Completely.”  Ciphas grinned.