Disclaimer: All characters and locations owned by Tamora Pierce. Plot-line and actual written words are owned by myself. 

The Bathhouses 

Not even being seventeen, an age notoriously awkward and self-conscious, could inhibit Sandry's natural confidence. She washed in the public baths, just as she had every day since arriving at Discipline. Tris glimpsed her slipping into the round pool of hot water as she stepped behind a standing wooden screen to where a small, single tub stood, out of the public eye. It had not taken her more than a few months to feel comfortable with Winding Circle's bathhouse arrangements, but somewhere around the age of fifteen, she just couldn't bring herself to bathe with the other female dedicates anymore. She couldn't seem to put the reason in words. Lark had nodded in understanding and reinstated the original arrangement Daja and she had used when they were new.

She heard footsteps on the damp stone floors and could see someone's feet underneath the lower rim of her screen of privacy. The bathhouse was quiet but for the hushed sounds of washers splashing and dripping water, and the more subtle sounds of many people breathing. When the pair of bare legs bellow the screen reached the opening and walked into her little bathing niche, she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees to cover herself. The intruder was familiar and friendly, but she wasn't at ease.

The figure dipped a hand into the warm bath-water and then drew it out, watching the water trickle down her arm and between her fingers, not looking at her. "There's an empty booth next door," the bather said, almost casually. Then the intruder met her eyes. They paused. Electricity seemed to gather in the air as the stare held. "Why would you want a private bath, anyway?" asked the bather softly, breaking the loaded silence. "Things change," answered she. "Maybe now I want a little privacy, like you. With you."

But the damp legs passed by her little booth without event, except maybe a low mutter in Tradertalk about the bather's general and specific eccentricities. Shutting her eyes as tightly as she could, Tris sank under the water's surface, letting it dim even the faint sounds around her. She stayed under until she found her breath short, then surfaced, splashing carelessly on the already-damp stone tiles of the floor. "I've lost my mind," she said to herself. At least she didn't dream of Sandry and Briar's deaths.