He stepped in the doorway to ask of her clothing. She was brushing her hair, a drawer on the right side of the chest opened. He couldn’t seem to move. He just stood there, stunned, as his wife tended to her personal care in their private chamber. He leaned against the wall as she opened and closed drawers. Watched as she secured a leather strap in her hair and washed her face. Then she took something from another drawer and dipped it in water before rubbing it against her teeth.

“What do you do, wife?” he asked.

She removed the handle from her mouth and held it up, displaying rows of small bristles. “I’m brushing my teeth,” she explained. “That cloth you use obviously does a great job, but this is better.” She pointed to his drawers on the left. “There’s one in your top drawer.”

Curious, Greylen walked over and opened the drawer. She was right. An instrument exactly like the one she used lay next to his shaving tools.

“I asked your mother to have them made,” Gwen continued. “She liked the idea so much, now everyone uses them.”

He watched her a moment longer, then began doing the same. “You’re right, Gwen,” he said. “This is better.” Then he couldn’t help teasing her as she bit her lip. “Your mind labors, wife. What is it?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It just seems so…” She turned, as if searching for the word.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, reaching out to caress her face. “And the word you search for is intimate.”

“You’re right.” She sounded surprised.

“I’m always right.”

She rolled her eyes and walked to the chest next to the door. Then she took something from the valet and turned to him. “I’ve been wearing your medallion. Do you mind?”

Mind? He loved that she wore it. He tied it around her neck, then hugged her from behind. “I was distracted before. Where are the rest of your clothes?”

“Behind me.” She motioned with her head. “It’s before dawn, Greylen. Where are we going?”

“I told you, I wish to show you something.”

“Will anyone be there?” she asked.

“Nay, only us.”

His wife smiled, obviously pleased by his statement. Then she proceeded to slip on the smallest item of underclothing he’d ever seen. She put on drawstring trews next, similar to what he wore, but she folded the waistband. Then she’d the nerve to look shyly into his eyes. Shy was dead and buried, Gwendolyn.

“I—you’re not leaving, are you?” she asked.

Was she daft? “Not on your life,” he replied, mimicking her words from last night. She muttered something as he continued to stare at her. And in truth, ’twas all he could do. He simply stared in wonder. Wonder of why in God’s name Anna fashioned clothing completely unacceptable for his wife.