Chapter 1208 - Special Treatment

"Yes, yes, I understand completely!" In that instant, Marina knew—this woman was the only person she could rely on.

"Now, do as I say," Mendoza said soothingly. "Don't be afraid—they're here to help you bathe. It's simply the rule here."

Marina forced back her terror and nodded in reluctant compliance.

"I'll wait for you outside the door." Then Mendoza said something that made her heart sink further: "Please remove all your clothing yourself. Believe me, resisting will do no good. Submit to whatever they do—it will be easier for you that way."

Marina took this as the counsel of one who had experienced it herself, and the implications of what lay ahead filled her with dread. Eyes brimming with tears, she nodded silently.

Mendoza disappeared behind the door. The four maids surrounded her. One dropped a wicker basket at her feet and pointed at it, saying something Marina couldn't understand—she assumed they wanted her to undress and place her clothes there. Clearly, if she refused to undress herself, they would have no qualms about stripping her naked.

Even among women, Marina had never undressed in front of anyone. In the convent, when bathing, the students would don large cotton robes, undress beneath them, then enter the bath still covered. Each girl washed herself under the robe; aside from face and neck, not a hint of flesh was ever revealed.

Obviously the pirates weren't going to provide robes. Though she had resolved to follow Miss Mendoza's advice, she simply couldn't undress by herself—her elaborate clothing required a maid's assistance to put on and couldn't possibly be removed alone.

The four maids clearly lost patience. They immediately set about undressing her with rough, forceful motions. After a brief token resistance, Marina went still and let them do as they would, silently praying to the martyred saints she had read about for strength to endure all suffering.

When every piece of clothing had been removed, Marina noticed expressions of astonishment and disdain on the maids' faces. She was then seated on a wooden stool in the bathroom while one maid began undoing her hair—clearly as unfamiliar with European hairstyles as they had been with her garments, they resorted to brute force, tugging and pulling until Marina nearly wept. Finally her thick, long hair was completely loosened.

For an instant, disgust flickered across the maids' faces. One drew a bucket of hot water and poured it over her head, followed by a large cake of soap. Then they used something sharp and hard to comb through her hair—evidently to remove head lice.

Hot water, soap, and the painful comb worked repeatedly through her hair. Marina endured it all with a martyr's determination.

Then they began scrubbing her body with hot water, soap, and some rough yet elastic object. She was roughly pushed down onto the stool, turned this way and that, scoured and rinsed.

Soapy water laden with filth streamed across the white floor tiles like little gray rivers.

Finally, just when the steam and rough bathing had nearly made her faint, the bizarre ablution ended. The maids dried her body with an incredibly soft fabric that absorbed every drop of moisture from her skin.

They examined her body carefully, as if appraising their own handiwork. At last satisfied, they draped a piece of soft white fabric over her.

Then the door opened and Miss Mendoza entered.

Her expression seemed quite apologetic. She walked over and stopped before Marina, studying her carefully.

"Please remove the towel," she said.

Marina drew back slightly, then hesitantly let the towel slip away. Her body was fully exposed—naked, after more than a decade of being carefully wrapped and guarded. A body that even she herself had never properly examined. Now every part of it lay revealed.

With the filthy grime washed away and the elaborate layers of clothing gone, the Spanish girl's figure didn't look too bad. Not tall, not athletic—clearly not a girl who exercised regularly. Obviously, girls of this era couldn't be expected to understand the importance of physical fitness.

Miss Mendoza walked to a wooden cabinet against the opposite wall and opened it. Inside hung a row of garments—they looked very soft and luxurious. She pulled them out: robes.

She took one and handed it over. Marina accepted it hesitantly—the fabric was soft and fine, apparently made of the finest cotton.

"Please put this on."

Mendoza spent several minutes teaching her how to wear a brassiere and undergarments, then dressed her in a short-sleeved blue dress. This was the style commonly worn by senior naturalized female staff in summer. The hem fell just below the knee. Made of Songjiang cotton in the simplest style imaginable, its only features besides back buttons were adjustable waist and bust bands. Mendoza tied Marina's thick hair back with a ribbon.

"Your hair is beautiful," Miss Mendoza complimented.

But Marina felt dressed like a slave—perhaps she was one now. The short sleeves were acceptable, but a garment that so brazenly exposed her calves—even prostitutes wouldn't dress this shamelessly.

Bare-legged and bare-armed, she felt a shudder run through her, as though she stood stark naked. Overwhelmed by immense desolation, she silently put on the straw sandals prepared for her.

"Come now, this way." Mendoza spoke gently as she led Marina out of this "Ali Baba's bathhouse."

Her spirit nearly broken, Marina was taken to a "special room" at the quarantine camp—on the second floor of the very building where she had just bathed. This courtyard was reserved for prisoners and "guests" of special status, where one could enjoy the privilege of individual "purification."

"This will be your room," Mendoza said. "You'll stay here until further orders."

The room was small, the walls whitewashed, the floor wooden. The furnishings were simple: a small bed, a wardrobe, a round table, and four chairs. The room was spotless, without a single stray object. Marina thought it resembled a small Spanish inn, only much brighter and cleaner.

The window was open, but the frame held an iron-mesh screen—a silent reminder that this was not an inn, but a place of confinement where she awaited her fate.

"May I have my luggage and clothing returned?" She tried making a request, testing Mendoza's limits—she sensed sympathy from her. Mendoza wasn't a cold, distant person; here, she was probably the only one with any goodwill that Marina could appeal to. "As you can see, there's nothing here but bedding and blankets."

"Your luggage is the Senate's prize. However, I believe some clothing might be returned to you." Mendoza spoke politely. "I'll see what I can do." She touched Marina's shoulder reassuringly.

Everything now overwhelmed her. Her thoughts were a tangled mess. Miss Mendoza had her sit and calm herself. "Let me make you some tea," she offered.

"What is tea?"

"A Chinese beverage—something like, hmm... like maté."

Marina knew of maté, though in Mexico City few people drank it—it came from far-off La Plata, and only Jesuit priests seemed to partake.

Her eyes scanned the room; every object puzzled her. At a glance she could identify what everything was, yet each differed from anything she had ever seen before.

In one sense, the furniture and furnishings were shockingly simple—almost devoid of decoration, without paintings or carvings, as if the crudest carpenter had slapped them together from raw wood. Yet arranged as they were, they seemed remarkably harmonious and attractive. Every edge was perfectly straight, every angle precisely consistent. The wood surfaces were smooth and fine, revealing beautiful grain. The simplicity didn't diminish their quality—quite the opposite; it lent them a special kind of beauty.

Mendoza brought her tea—in Chinese porcelain! Delicate white china as fine as snow, painted with beautiful blue flowers and foliage. The faintly yellow Chinese tea showed through the thin porcelain walls, casting a soft glow.

A square white sugar cube sat on the saucer, so exquisite she hesitated to touch it.

The tea was Lingao-fermented black tea from Fujian, served with sugar. This method of tea-drinking was the Trade Department's current campaign to promote among Europeans—a way to export two major commodities at once.

Marina carefully picked up the saucer and, following Mendoza's guidance, dropped in a small lump of sugar, stirring gently with the teaspoon. The sweet tea soothed her heart. She noticed the crucifix pendant around Mendoza's neck—besides the bikini, it was one of the few items from the old timeline she still possessed.

"You are a believer in the Lord," Marina said with delight.

"Yes." Mendoza nodded.

"How wonderful!" Marina's spirits immediately improved. If this woman had been a converted infidel, that would have been terrifying—such people were more frightening and detestable than true heathens.

"Are you Spanish?"

"No, I'm Venezuelan," Mendoza said out of habit.

"Ah, you're not a peninsular."

The term made Mendoza pause before she understood—of course, there was no country called Venezuela in this timeline, only the Province of Venezuela in New Spain.

"That's right, I'm not a peninsular. I was born in Venezuela." She hesitated, wondering whether she should call herself mestiza or criolla.

"Why are you here? Where is this place?" Marina asked urgently.

(End of Chapter)