Chapter 3: The Water Bearer's Trial
The morning light crept through the shutters like a thief, pale and hesitant, painting thin stripes across the rumpled furs. Jennie lay still, her body aching in ways she had never imagined possible—a deep soreness between her thighs, the tender marks of his teeth on her shoulder, the raw sensitivity of her lips. She turned her head on the pillow, but the space beside her was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.
He was gone.
A foolish disappointment bloomed in her chest. What had she expected? That he would linger like a lovesick swain, murmuring sweet nothings into her hair? He was a lieutenant, a man forged by war and discipline. Such softness was not in his nature.
She rose slowly, wincing as her feet touched the cold floor. Her reflection greeted her in the tarnished mirror above the washbasin—hair wild and tangled, lips swollen, eyes bright with something she scarcely recognized. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly, completely claimed.
A knock at the chamber door made her jump. A serving girl entered with a tray of bread and honey, her eyes carefully averted. "The master has gone to the stables, my lady. He bid me tell you that he will return by midday."
Jennie nodded, wrapping her shift tighter around herself. The girl curtsied and left, and the silence of the manor closed in around her like a shroud.
She ate mechanically, the bread tasteless on her tongue. Her mind kept drifting to the moment Leonid had pulled her into his arms, the way his voice had softened when he whispered her name. Then the memory would shift, and she would see the hunger in his eyes, the barely restrained ferocity of his passion, and she would feel a thrill that was equal parts fear and longing.
But there were chores to be done. She was mistress of this manor now, and the household would not run itself.
She dressed in a simple woolen gown, the fabric scratchy against her oversensitive skin, and gathered the water pails from the kitchen. The servant girl, Elara, looked up from scrubbing pots, her expression unreadable.
"My lady, I could fetch the water. There is no need—"
"I will do it," Jennie said, perhaps too sharply. She softened her tone. "I need the air. And I wish to meet the village women properly."
Elara's face flickered with something—concern? Pity?—but she said nothing, only nodded and returned to her work.
The morning was grey and damp, the sky heavy with unshed rain. The path to the well wound through a tangle of thorned roses and blackthorn, their barbed branches clawing at her skirts as she passed. The scent of crushed herbs rose from beneath her boots—rosemary, thyme, something bitter she could not name—and the mud sucked at her soles with every step.
She could hear them before she saw them. Voices raised in laughter, the clatter of pails, the shrill cackle of women who had known each other their whole lives and had no secrets left to share.
The well stood at the center of the village square, its stone lip worn smooth by generations of hands. Five women were gathered there, their pails abandoned at their feet, their heads bent together in intimate conference. They fell silent as Jennie approached, and she felt their eyes on her like pins.
The tallest of them, a woman named Helena with a sharp face and sharper tongue, smiled without warmth. "Well, well. The lieutenant's bride deigns to fetch her own water. I thought a man like that would have servants for such tasks."
Jennie kept her voice even. "I prefer to do some things myself. It keeps me grounded."
"Grounded," Helena repeated, savoring the word. Her gaze swept over Jennie, lingering on the visible marks at her throat. "Is that what you call it? I'd say you look anything but grounded. You look like a woman who's been thoroughly—" she paused, her smile widening, "—tended to."
The other women giggled, a sound like breaking glass.
Jennie's cheeks flushed, but she did not look away. "My husband is attentive. I am fortunate."
"Fortunate," the youngest of them, a girl named Marga who had once harbored her own hopes about Leonid, echoed bitterly. "You call it fortunate. We call it a waste."
"A waste?" Jennie's voice was quiet, but something in it made the other women shift.
Marga stepped forward, her hands on her hips. "We all saw him, Jennie. We watched him grow from a boy into a man. We dreamed of him, we prayed for him, we waited for him to come back from the wars with his heart intact. And then he rides into the village, barely a week settled, and picks you. Little Jennie Kim, who never had a word to say to anyone. Who hid in her mother's skirts whenever a man looked at her twice."
The name stung. She had not gone by Kim in nearly a fortnight, and yet to these women, she would always be that shy, silent girl.
"Perhaps he saw something in me that he did not see in others," Jennie said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands.
Helena laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. "Oh, he saw something, alright. A fresh face and a tight cunt. Mark my words, girl—a man like Leonid Manoban has appetites that run far deeper than a pretty little thing like you can satisfy. He's not made for gentle brides. He's made for women who can handle the dark."
A cold chill ran down Jennie's spine, but she forced herself to hold Helena's gaze. "You know nothing of my husband's appetites."
"Don't I?" Helena's smile was knowing, cruel. "I've seen the way he looks at the world, Jennie. Like he's measuring it for a grave. I've seen what war does to men like him. They come back with something missing, something broken. And they try to fill it with—" she gestured vaguely at Jennie's body, "—flesh. But it's never enough. It's never going to be enough."
The words struck her like a physical blow. She thought of Leonid's eyes in the dark, the way they had seemed to look through her rather than at her. She thought of his grip on her hips, fierce enough to bruise, and the way he had commanded her to turn, to submit, to take him.
But she also thought of the way he had kissed her eyelids, so gently, when she cried out in pain.
"You're wrong," she said, and her voice was stronger than she felt. "He chose me. He married me. Whatever else you think you know, you do not know that."
Helena shrugged, turning away with a dismissive flick of her hand. "Believe what you like, little bride. But when he grows tired of your softness and starts looking for something harder, something darker—" she paused, glancing back over her shoulder, "—don't say we didn't warn you."
The women gathered their pails, their laughter trailing behind them as they dispersed. Jennie stood alone by the well, her knuckles white around the handle of her empty bucket.
She filled it slowly, mechanically, the cold water splashing against her skirts. Her mind churned with Helena's words, with Marga's bitterness, with the mocking laughter that still echoed in her ears. She wanted to believe they were jealous, that their cruelty was born of envy and nothing more.
But a seed of doubt had been planted, and it was already taking root.
She hurried back to the manor, the pail sloshing against her legs, her heart pounding in her chest. The path seemed longer than before, the thorned branches snagging at her dress as if trying to hold her back. She broke into a run, mud splattering her hem, and did not slow until she reached the kitchen door.
She set the pail down with trembling hands, gripping the edge of the table for support. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady herself.
"My lady?" Elara's voice was cautious. "Are you well? You look pale as milk."
Jennie forced a smile. "I am fine. Just—the cold air."
But Elara's eyes were knowing, and Jennie saw the doubt flicker across her face before the girl turned away.
She retreated to the pantry, seeking solitude among the sacks of flour and jars of preserves. She pressed her back against the cool stone wall, closing her eyes, trying to banish the memory of Helena's cruel smile.
She was still there when she heard the front door open, heavy boots crossing the threshold.
"Jennie?"
Leonid's voice was deep and commanding, carrying through the manor. She heard him call for her again, heard Elara's soft reply, heard his footsteps approaching the kitchen.
She stepped out of the pantry just as he entered. He was covered in mud, his shirt splattered with the morning's labor, his dark curls damp with sweat. He looked at her, and something in his gaze softened.
"You're trembling," he observed. "What happened?"
She opened her mouth to tell him. The words were there, burning on her tongue—the women, their cruelty, their dark insinuations. But the words died when she saw the look in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed with concern.
She could not tell him. What would he think of her? That she was weak, fragile, unable to withstand the petty cruelties of village women? He had chosen her for a reason, and she could not let him see her as anything less than worthy.
"It is nothing," she said. "I am merely tired. The wedding night—it was more than I expected."
His mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Was it, now?"
She felt her cheeks flush. "You are shameless."
"I am honest," he corrected, stepping closer. His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek. "You are beautiful when you blush. Like a rose in full bloom."
She leaned into his touch despite herself, the warmth of his hand grounding her. But the doubt still lingered, a dark whisper in the back of her mind.
He is made for darkness. You cannot satisfy him.
She pushed the thought away and forced herself to smile. "I will be better soon. A rest, and I will be myself again."
Leonid studied her for a long moment; something flickered in his eyes that she could not name. Then he nodded, dropping his hand.
"Rest, then. I have business to attend to, but I will return before sundown."
He left, and the silence rushed back in around her. Jennie stood alone in the kitchen, the echoes of Helena's words ringing in her ears like a funeral bell.
She did not know fear like this. Not of her husband, but of the truth she could not face—that perhaps the women were right, and she was not enough.
She pressed her hand to her belly, where the memory of his seed still lingered, and prayed that she would find the strength to prove them wrong.