A flash of fear crosses her face before she turns and runs. I wish I could say that was the last of it, but I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about it from Stepmother. That vile woman. I’m not surewhat it is she holds against me other than being unmarried, but surely Father wouldn’t let her treat me this way if he knew?
He left on a business trip only a week after their ball, and Stepmother immediately implemented her evil plan to destroy me—at least that’s how it feels. Father can’t get home soon enough.
I retrieve the sponge I flung across the room and get back to work, the spill doubling my cleaning time. My soaked dress clings to my legs, and I shiver with cold. There is nothing I want more than a hot bath and some tea, but there will be hells to pay if I leave the floor in this state.
My bath is not nearly asgood as I dreamed it would be. By the time I hauled up enough water from the kitchens, it was barely warm anymore. I’m regretful for taking our servants’ hard work for granted all of these years.
I lean my head back against the cool edge of the tub and allow tears to slip down my cheeks. A pity party serves no one, but the unfairness of it all makes me want to scream. My fingers are cracked from the harsh soaps I use to clean the floors and scrub the laundry, and they sting as I clean my aching body. After not even a month, calluses have formed, and they’re rough against my sensitive skin.
My mind wanders to the needlepoint I started weeks ago that has lain neglected in my sewing basket, the art that has been itching to get out left wanting. Will I even remember what it was I wanted to create? Will my fingers remember the dance of thread and material?
More tears streak down my face as I grieve the loss of my time. Everything I do is to serve another, every task piled on meant to break my spirit, and I fear I’m nearly there.
I’m utterly overwhelmed. As soon as I complete one list of chores, another is handed over. Inundated with all the things I must do, I no longer have time to do any of the things Iwantto do. How long will this be my lot? Will Father put a stop to it when he returns?
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I left the manor—just started walking, never to return. Would they even miss me? Unlikely. They’d only miss the things I do for them.
For just a moment, I try to dream of a better time. Fencing with Father in the training room, the pride in his eyes when I hit targets with his knives . . . and then, almost unwillingly, my mind drifts back to the ball and the handsome prince whom I managed to offend, and I’m depressed all over again.
When I told Father about my run in the sun, he panicked, insisting I could not take that risk again. No matter how much I told him I felt fine, he was certain it would eventually make me sick . . . and he was right. Despite the prophylactic medicine he gave me, I was violently ill for days after the ball, confined to my bed. By the time I felt well enough to rejoin the family for meals, Father was gone and Stepmother decided I was well enough to clean.
I slip beneath the water, letting out a muffled scream. It’s oddly cathartic.
Now that that’s out of my system, I use what little energy I have left to wash my hair. The clock chimes, and I’m taken back to the night weeks ago when I almost caught the thief in Father’s study. Will he come back? Has he come back? With the endless chores Stepmother assigns me, I can barely keep my eyes open after dinner. Forget staying up late to keep vigil for his return. By the time I fall into bed each night, exhaustion pulls me underbefore I can read more than a sentence or two in my book. So many stories I want to read, but my mind cannot handle another moment awake. Not only does my body ache, but my mind is also fuzzy and overloaded, incapable of focusing on one more thought. Every night, I’m plagued with dreams: some of a forested island with a large golden lion pacing its shores and others of smoky grey eyes that pierce my soul.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I rise from the tub and grab a towel to dry off before pulling on a simple dress. Stepmother has disinvited me from formal meals, which is fine with me. The less time spent with her the better.
Out of habit, I reach for the chain to call Sera to come fix my hair but then pause and find tears welling up in my eyes all over again. She’s gone. Unless a miracle happens, my life will never go back to the way it was. I can only hope Father will right some of these wrongs when he returns.
My stomach rumbles, but I try to ignore it. I’m far too exhausted to make my way to the kitchen this evening. No one will care. No one seems to notice me anymore, except for Chess, who loves to torment me along with Stepmother. Even Erika, whom I thought might be on my side out of everyone, ignores me.
Curling up in my bed, I hug my knees to my chest. I miss Father. I miss my old life. I feel completely helpless, but what else can I possibly do? I was raised to listen to my elders, to respect authority. Do I even have another choice? I hate it here, but I have nowhere else to go.
My entire bodyheats in the most delicious way as I awaken to the sun streaming into my room. I stretch my arms overhead before panic sets in. No! Not again. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in my infinite exhaustion last night.
Jumping out of bed, I pull them shut, my heart beating quickly with the sudden exertion. There’s no telling what Stepmother will do if I’m out sick again for days. I send up a quick prayer to the gods for mercy. Perhaps it won’t be as bad as it was. I’m inside, and it could only have been shining on me for a few minutes, right?
My body feels fine. The aches and pains from yesterday have all but faded, and I’m ready to face the day, even knowing there will be a long list of chores for me.
I slip down the servants’ staircase toward the kitchen and peek my head in. Our cook is hard at work on breakfast, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I didn’t eat the night before.
“Good morning, Fred,” I greet him.
He grumbles a response, and I reach out to grab a croissant from the basket, shoving it into my mouth.
“Lady Raelyn! You know you aren’t allowed to eat those,” Fred says, glaring at me as I polish it off as quickly as possible.
“Oops, I forgot.” No, I didn’t.
“Lady Astoria would be most displeased if she knew you were in here eating her breakfast.”
“I’m a lady too, you know,” I huff angrily. “It’s not my fault she’s lost her damn mind and relegated me to staff.”
“Not my problem.” Fred sniffs. “I just do what I’m told, and I’m told you arenotto eat the pastries.” He points over to the corner where a giant tureen of unflavored oats sits. “The staff breakfast is over there. Do not test me again.” His posture softens as he takes in my defeated appearance, and he gives me a sympathetic look. “I can’t lose this job . . .”
I blow out a breath, trying to release my anger as I head over to the . . . slop, and serve myself a small portion. No one respects me anymore. No one treats me like the daughter I once was. I’m just part of the help. I try not to be angry with them—I know how hard they work. Their families would suffer without their jobs and whatever meager payment they are given. My payment is the roof over my head.
“Don’t forget your tonic.” Fred nods toward the shelf.
