The Scarf Comes Off

Chapter 3: The Road Again (Part 3)

She had been working for perhaps an hour when the wagon hit a particularly deep rut. The entire vehicle lurched sideways, and Lyra---unbalanced on her sack of flour---toppled forward. The knife slipped from her hand. The scarf, already loose, flew forward entirely, the ends whipping over her head and landing in a heap on the floor. For a long, horrible moment, she lay sprawled on her stomach, completely bare from the waist up, her breasts pressed against the rough floorboards.

"No---!"

She scrambled upright, grabbing frantically for the scarf. But her hands were shaking, and Pip was staring, and when she finally managed to drape it back around her neck, the ends seemed even shorter than before---the fall had pulled some of the threads loose, and the fabric was beginning to fray. She clutched the ends together over her chest, her face burning.

"Uh," Pip said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "You might want to... fix that."

"I can't," Lyra whispered. She had no needle, no thread, no way to mend the fraying wool. She held the ends together with one hand and resumed peeling potatoes with the other, her movements stiff and humiliated.

The afternoon wore on. The heat grew oppressive. The wagon rocked and jolted. Lyra's fingers grew raw from the knife, and her back ached from hunching over the potatoes. And through it all, she could feel the eyes of the world on her---Pip's curious stares, the occasional glance from a passing mercenary, even the horses, it seemed, were looking at her with something like pity.

Evening came as a mercy.

The caravan made camp in a broad meadow beside a shallow stream. The wagons were drawn into a circle, the horses unhitched and led to water, and campfires were lit as the sun sank below the treeline. Lyra stumbled out of the supply wagon, her legs cramped and trembling, her scarf clutched to her chest with one hand.

Her assigned task for the evening was cooking. A large iron pot hung over the main fire, and Lyra was given a sack of barley, a haunch of salted pork, and a bundle of withered carrots. Make stew, she was told. Enough for everyone.

It should have been simple. She had cooked before---not well, but competently enough. But the curse, she was learning, did not care about competence.

The first disaster came when she tried to lift the water bucket. The handle was slick with grease, and it slipped from her fingers, splashing cold water across her chest and stomach. The scarf---already loose and frayed---soaked through instantly, the wet wool clinging to her skin like a second, transparent layer. The weight of the water pulled the ends down, dragging the entire scarf forward until it hung from her neck like a sodden rope, plastered against her breasts and stomach. Her nipples, dark and stiff, were visible through the wet wool in humiliating detail.

She gasped at the shock of it, and several mercenaries nearby turned to look.

"Nice view," one of them called out, and laughter rippled through the camp.

Lyra's face burned. She tried to wring out the scarf, but the fabric was cheap and fragile; her twisting only made the fraying worse. The ends began to unravel, threads pulling loose and dangling. The scarf was now a tattered, dripping mess that covered even less than before.

She had no choice. She had to take it off.

Behind the supply wagon, hidden from most of the camp, she lifted the wet wool over her head. The cool evening air kissed her bare skin, and she shivered violently. Her nipples, already stiff from the cold water, tightened further into hard, aching points. She crossed her arms over her chest, but her hands couldn't cover everything---the outer curves of her breasts remained visible, and below, the remnants of her dress did nothing to hide the dark triangle of her pubic hair, clearly visible through the shredded fabric.

She hung the scarf over a wagon wheel to dry and returned to the fire, her arms still crossed, her shoulders hunched.

The mercenaries stared openly now. Some grinned. Some whispered. One---a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his nose---let out a low whistle.

"Looks like dinner and a show," he said.

Lyra ignored him. She had to. If she acknowledged the comment, she would break.

She focused on the stew. Chopping carrots, measuring barley, slicing the pork into chunks. Her hands trembled, but she worked quickly, desperate to finish and retreat back into the shadows. Without the scarf, she was completely exposed above the waist---her breasts swayed and bounced with every movement, a fact that drew the mercenaries' eyes like moths to flame. She tried to keep her back to them, but the fire was in the center of the camp, and she had to move around it to stir the pot, to add ingredients, to taste the broth. Every angle offered a new view of her nakedness.

The second disaster came when she leaned over the pot to stir it.