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CAMILLE
Iwake up to the year’s first snowfall. Given the thickness of the white coat covering the ground and the motor homes around me, it’s been snowing for hours. Perhaps all night.
There’s no point riding into Pombrio in this weather. I tune in the radio while brewing myself some coffee. The weatherman promises that the snowfall will stop, and the skies will clear by afternoon. Very well. Until then, I’ll stay in, darn some socks, and try to solve a few logic puzzles from my favorite book.
I’ve been restless ever since the Duke of Arrago’s men told me about the imminent visit from Marquess Louis-Philibert de Valois. Several days later and there’s been no sign of him yet.
Did I get pranked by a gang of bored security guards?That scenario appears more and more plausible.
Nursing my mug, I sit by the window. It’s gray and cold, and my chair is missing slats. No matter how I angle my body, the flesh of my buttocks ends up plugging the gap. It’s unpleasant, to say the least. I breathe on the cold window and rub the area with my sleeve. There’s a new RV parked next to my trailer. It must’ve arrived in the wee hours of the morning while I was fast asleep. In the dense fog of the gray morning, it twinkles with colorful Christmas lights that run around the windows and under the roof. The people inside must love Christmas. I don’t.
You won’t find any Christmas lights on, around, or inside my home. Just because I dress up as Santa to boost my pantomime revenue doesn’t mean I like Christmas. The exceedingly cheerful holiday tends to put me in a bad mood.
Growing up with foster parents, Jeannette and I used to be jealous of the presents their real kids got. They were better than ours. Even in the home where the parents insisted on buying everyone the exact same thing, it was the thing their own kids wanted, never the thing Jeannette and I yearned to have. And so, in addition to the material frustrations, Christmas sharpened my sense of not belonging, of being a temporary add-on.
Envy greener than the greenest Christmas tree is the feeling the festive season stirs up in me even as an adult.
The colorful lights on the neighboring RV draw my gaze to its roof.Goodness, that’s a lot of snow!Does that mean there’s just as much on top of mine? Nervously, I glance at the stain on the ceiling. No visible leaks yet. I dart to the kitchenette and return with a plastic bucket and place it on the floor underneath the stain.
Two years ago, we had a very cold winter. There was a lot of snow on the roof. When it melted, all that water got into the seams, saturated the insulation, and leaked into the room. Then it snowed again, and everything refroze, including the water in the pipes. They burst. The mess and inconvenience that followed were monumental.
We’re nowhere near those temperatures right now. One can hope that this winter will be mild, just like the last one.Global warming, don’t let me down!
I listen to the reassuring hum of the power line and the motorway nearby. It calms me a bit. Four years ago, I worked as a print technician for Mount Evor’s biggest printer. The job was hard and the pay was poor, but I loved it, especially the drone of the machines. The other thing I loved was that I was required to wear headphones and a mask. Those accessories made me hard to recognize. I was on the bottom rung of the corporate ladder, always keeping to myself. If someone asked my family name, I mispronounced it. No one ever bothered to check.
I enjoyed that semi-anonymous tranquility for seven months until a manager outed me. The next day, all the technicians on my floor knew who I was. After two weeks of dead rodents in my backpack, feces smeared on my locker, thumbtacks on my chair, and other random acts of unkindness, I quit. I was depressed for weeks.
But that was in the past. I’m in a better place now.
I have a home. My home has electricity, plumbing, and underfloor heating. I have an occupation that allows me to make enough to pay my bills and eat. What’s more, it gives me respite. One day, maybe in a year from now or maybe in ten years, I’ll find a way to prove Jeannette’s innocence. She will be vindicated. Both of us will be vindicated.
Refocusing on the world outside my window, I realize the snow has stopped. Nervously, I glance at the ceiling again. Even though I know that until the snow melts there’ll be no leaks, it’s quite possible that no leakage will happen even after it melts. As for the risk of the extra weight collapsing the roof, it’s negligible. This trailer was designed to support the additional weight. There’s no point—
Argh!I better get out there and clear of the snow.
Tomorrow, management will bring in a team that will remove the snow from all the other motor homes. But not from mine. In theory, the snow cleaners have to clear mine, too. I believe they’re contractually bound to do it. But they’ll refuse just like last year and the year before. Management won’t insist, and I won’t make a fuss. Ever since I was doxed three years ago, gangs of teenagers from the other side of the highway started showing up regularly to harass me.
Because of the hecklers, something changed in the way the site manager treats me. I used to be a charity case. Now, I’m a nuisance.
Cursing under my breath, I shower, pull on my jeans, layer on three sweaters and a jacket, and exit the trailer. I’m not suicidal, so I won’t be climbing on the slippery roof to shovel the snow off it. Nor am I going to use a regular ladder propped against the trailer’s side. Instead, I trudge to the community tool shed and unlock it. I find a stepladder, a brush with a long handle, and a snow scoop.
I set up the stepladder by the side of my trailer, climb on it, and begin to remove the snow from the roof. Half an hour later, I’ve scooped and brushed off all I that could reach. After returning the equipment to the shed, I reenter the trailer and dart to the kettle to make some tea and thaw my frigid hands.
Someone raps on my window. I’ve done my research, so I know the visitor at once. It’s him, His Smashing Handsomeness Marquess Louis-Philibert de Valois, heir to the dukedom of Arrago, and second cousin to Crown Prince Theodor.
With stiff cold hands, I open the door a crack without removing the chain lock.
The marquess strides toward me. “Hello. Are you Camille Mussey?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Louis de Valois. I believe my grandfather’s men told you I’d be paying a visit.”
Instead of confirming, I ask tartly, “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
“Er… You’re right. Of course.” He pulls an ID from the inner pocket of his coat.
I take the laminated card from his hand, read the name, look at the picture, then at his ridiculously well-proportioned face. Having seen dozens of photos of him online, I knew what to expect. I thought I was prepared. But I find myself gasping for air despite the chill.
