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I bat away those wretched thoughts invading my mind.
“Ok.” Sira rounds on me, her frail hands resting on my shoulders. She holds on firmly and levels her stare with mine. “When you get into his chambers, leave the curtains at the slave’s door closed. He doesn’t like them to be opened, ever.”
She pauses to add a severe glint to her gaze.
I nod.
She goes on, “As soon as you enter, you’ll see his bed against the wall opposite, facing you. He should still be in the sheets, andwillignore you.”
“Invisible,” I say with a nod. “A ghost.”
“Exactly.” She gives a sharp inhale through her flaring nostrils. “Now, don’t be fooled by the table to your right,” she warns me. “He’ll take his breakfast at the desk across the chambers, beside the balcony doors. He always does—and he expects you to prepare his letters and messages on the left side at the base of the silver candlestick on the desk for him to reach easily. If anything—anything—is out of order, he won’t be pleased. Do you understand?”
Pale-faced and suddenly dizzy, it’s all I can manage to simply nod.
“Wait—” My heart stops in my chest for a moment. “Where do I get the letters?”
“They’ll be on the tray,” she tells me. “They are delivered to the butler each Warmth and before you leave, he’ll give them to you.”
My face sours at the mention of the butler.
I have been here some time now, learning, encountered him a few times—and already, I can tell he’s got a rod up his backside. Thinks he’s better than all the other slaves around here, just because he’s a kuri from the light lands and some centuries old and whatnot.
You’d think after a while of being here, I’d know his name at least. But no, he’s too good to wear his name around the likes of us. We’re only to call him ‘sir’ or ‘butler’.
Whatever, it’s not like any of that mulling is going to help me get through my first duty. One I’m so not ready for.
Still, Hilda forces me into it by combing out my tangled hair with a soft brush, then winding up the thick rope of curls into a bun at the nape of my neck. Once that’s been tidied up, she moves onto my bodice and corset, readjusting the strings and fit. There’s an orange stain from some fruit the other Quiet, so she wraps a long apron around my waist to cover it.
“We’ll wash that skirt this Quiet,” she tells me as she fastens the apron strings into a bow at the small of my back. “Now, turn and let me look.”
I do, my eyes downcast as she takes my jawline in her calloused hands and inspects me.
“He made a fine pick with you,” she says. “As pretty as a painting.”
With that—which I think was supposed to make me feel better about my dreaded task—she smacks me gently on the cheeks, then draws away. She fusses over the silver tray now, set out on the kitchen table and slowly beginning to be stacked more and more for the prince. A teapot, a silver cup shorter than my pinkie finger, gold cutlery flecked with crystals at their hilts, and a tureen to mask the smell of whatever meal awaits him on the platter beneath it.
To my surprise, Sira reaches for the tray before I can and takes it into her hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Hilda narrows her eyes on the scarred backroom slave.
“Helping you,” she mutters, then jerks her head to the door leading to a rickety wooden staircase, and it dawns on me why I might need the help.
The prince’s bedchamber is all the way at the fifth level of the castle, near the farthest tower from the kitchens. A long way for the likes of me and my sickness, and really, with these duties, I must do all that I can—or accept all the help I can—to avoid coughing up blood in front of one of these wicked creatures.
So—after the butler hands us the letters and messages—Sira carries the tray for me up the stairs, then down a dimly lit (with only one candle for each metre we walk) corridor made for slaves to get around the castle and not be seen, since we’re eyesores and all of that. Even if some of us come in prettier packaging ...Terry. We’re still human. And to the dark fae, that’s the ugliest of things to be.
Hilda can gussy me up as much as she likes, it makes no difference. When the prince sees me, he’ll be disgusted, not keen on my brushed hair or slapped-rogue cheeks.
“All right,” Sira sighs when we reach the end of a wide corridor—wide to allow for trays and trolleys to be carted through to the royal chamber. She hands off the breakfast tray to me.
I take it with shaky hands. The crystal wildberry jam container rattles.
Sira shoots me a warning glare.
Tightening my grip, I suck in a long and steadying breath to calm my nerves. A trick my Grandfather taught me. Deep breaths and, for some reason, counting to ten.
