If she were asked, which she never is, Constance would say that her duties when the queen is in the bath are to provide chatter to entertain her, to pour more perfumed petals into the water, and to call if more hot water is needed. A lady in waiting should always be in attendance for the queen, after all.
The truth of the matter is that flower petals are far from Constance’s mind when it is time for the queen’s bath, except for how they stick to Anne’s damp skin, the occasional flicker of blue or rich crimson in the corner of Constance’s eye when she’s taking one of Anne’s nipples into her mouth. The tub is more than large enough for the two of them – a world away from when Constance was doing her best with cool water and a basin at home – and Anne is warm and sleek as her body slides against hers, fingers exploring Constance’s cunt in a way that used to be tentative but, as the weeks have passed, isn’t anymore.
It’s possible one of them will slip one day, or a stray shriek will bring a servant in, but Constance enjoys muffling the sounds she makes when Anne three fingers inside her with a bite to her wet breast. The water is cooling fast, but with Anne grinding herself against one of Constance’s soap-slick thighs, one hand fisted in her soaking wet hair, neither of them will notice until it doesn’t matter anymore anyway.