After ruffling the thick fur around his neck, I rise and walk toward the stairs. Bruno follows me.
We descend the stairs and make our way toward the kitchen. Bruno doesn’t enter; he sits just outside the door.
The kitchen staff welcomes me in the sweetest way. A woman in her late thirties gestures at me with her knife.
“Hey you, come here.”
Her accent is thicker than the others.
I walk toward her as she speaks to someone in another language. The other woman gives me a once-over, scoffs, and says something to the older woman. I don’t think all of them know English—only a few seem to.
The woman directs her attention to me when I reach her.
She gestures with her knife toward a large sink.
“Wash them.”
Large cookware pieces are stacked inside.Do they cook for an entire district?I assume all these servants are in-house staff. I haven’t seen their quarters yet, but I’m fairly certain this entire workforce resides in the mansion.
At home, we never kept house help on the premises; they worked nine to five unless something important was going on.
I reach the sink and inspect the pots. Almost every single one has a burnt bottom.
I’ve seen this kind of work done before, so I’m not entirely clueless.
I turn on the tap, place the first pot under it, and rinse away the oil and residue. The pot fills with water. Now the challenge: emptying it. I tip it upside down, and it clangs against the others, making a loud, metallic sound.
“What are you doing?” The older woman snaps behind me.
“Relax, Virana. She’s a princess, probably never been near a sink in her life.” The male chef taunts, chuckling. The others join in.
I roll my eyes at their stupid joke, grab a scrub brush, squeeze dish soap onto it, and start scrubbing. The pot is so massive that to reach the bottom, I have to lean my upper body inside it. I attack the burnt bottom with all my strength for minutes, until my arms give out. The bottom is still black. I go back in.
After what feels like half an hour of this, it’s finally clean.
I repeat the process with the other pots and pans. By the time everything is finished, my shoulders are numb. The skin on my hands is raw, scrubbed to the point of blistering, but the pain hasn’t fully set in yet.
I look down at my dress. The front is soaked, covered in stains and soap suds.
“Don’t just stand there idling. Come here and take his soup to the dining room.” Virana orders.
I walk to her. She points at the soup. I lift the silver tureen by its handles, and the moment my hands make contact, the pain hits.
I clench my jaw, lift it, and walk out of the kitchen.
Bruno isn’t here. He must have left after waiting a few minutes. I’ve been scrubbing pots for two or three hours now.
I walk carefully into the dining room and find my monster of a captor and Antonio sitting there. Both of them look at me the moment I enter.
Another maid approaches quickly from behind. She nearly collides with me at the turn but manages to dodge, yet the near miss throws me off balance, and my jerky forward movement sends soup sloshing out of the tureen. There’s supposed to be a lid, but I must have left it in the kitchen. The next moment, hot soup covers my hand.
I wince at the sudden pain. The tureen slips from my hand, crashes to the floor, and hot soup splashes my bare feet.
Before the clatter even fades, a furious voice echoes through the dining room.
“Get out.”
I look up through teary eyes and find my kidnapper seething from his seat. I catch Antonio’s sympathetic gaze for a brief second before turning and fleeing.
