PG-13 for suggestive theeeeemes. Or something. Remember: advice, nitpicks not needed! ;)
Days after that first one passed with haste, and I lost track of time rather easily. Hare was friendly and smiling, and hardly ever left Dai or me to wash the dishes alone. Dai took to him rather more than I did, but we both liked him as one might like a silly older brother – affectionately thought of, but always wary of his unpredictability. He taught us a song or two, to give us a rhythm to work by, and I saw much more of him than I did of the rather stuffy Sir Harolk, which failed to bother me one bit.
I heard little news of Therien, or anyone therein, for I was not interested much in trying. The duke would not have widely publicized the tidings that his bride had fled, nor that no one had yet found her – I was waiting for one of the servants in the Grand Count’s house to spread it around, and when weeks passed and nothing was heard, I almost began to wonder what could possibly have been done to keep Liza – or any of Mother’s ladies-in-waiting, for that matter – quiet.
“Y’know, Anni, you’re gettin’ somethin’ of an accent of late,” Hare commented one day, as I came in to grab yet another platter. He flashed his silly smile, holding back the tray so as to keep me listening. “Your h’s have been fadin’, methinks.”
“May’ap,” I snapped, not sure if I liked the thought of such a change. It was most likely Wimbledon’s doing, and that did little to comfort me. “But I ‘aven’t time fer your fooling around, Hare. Gimme the tray an’ I won’t hit you over the ‘ead with it when I come back in.”
He finally gave in after a few more threats, but his remark had not gone unheeded. I listened often to the folk around me, as I flitted in and out of the dining hall. People in Earlkone hardly ever used h’s, and their words were spoken so quickly sometimes, that two or three would fall in together and become one. I was used to it, and I liked the Earlkonian accent best on Hare. His rough, floppy rag of vividly dark brown hair was constantly flapping in and out of his grey eyes, and his smile was something I was unsure I could go without.
“’Ey, Dai-Dai! Where’s that smile yer promised t’give me?” shouted one of the more audacious young men, just as I stepped back through the swinging kitchen doors. I grinned, watching Dai saunter back towards the man’s table. Everyone liked her – she was a little strange to them, with her if you take my meaning’s and her lower-class Therien accent, but her bolder side turned out to be caustic, witty, and even a little mischievous, while my attitude was still leaning towards that of a well-bred lady. I was helpful, and a bit shy, but never as natural with the customers as Dai was.
I rather liked it that way.
“I ne’er sed when I’d give you th’smile, sir, jus’ that I would. How ‘bouts some wa’er, and we’ll figger it out from ‘ere?” she said, careful to keep her lips straightened out. I watched her pick up the water pitcher, giggling as she brought it upside-down on his silly head, and then went to deliver my tray of food while Dai pranced back into the kitchen with a sly smile on her face.
Spring was blooming in Earlkone before I even had time to begin hating winter. Dai and I spent our half-days off basking in the sun on the little hillocks just outside town, or wandering through the market to buy trinkets and admire the colorful displays arranged all ‘round us. The Troll’s Eye was, it turned out, one of the better inns in town, less fleas and sleaze than some other places, and I was always praying my thanks to Aimthaer for his generosity – or, whenever I thought of him. Duke Warrington, and all of my life as a proud count’s daughter, seemed lifetimes away, and I kept it that way through the hectic days of serving – travelers came through Earlkone from many towns in Ape’erafer, for it was like a rest-stop on the way to Therien, the capital. They had stories, some I listened to, and others I didn’t, but nothing about King Manfred, nor Kharles or Jharrim.
Yet how, how can a highbred lady accustomed to being served hand and foot ever grow used to anything but the best? I had a feeling that Wimbledon had helped with that as well, for I hardly ever got blisters from dish-washing, and tiredness only came at the end of the day, as though someone had told it to wait ‘til I could pay attention to it. Besides, whenever I felt I could use a day spent lying in bed ‘til noon, followed by a lazy afternoon embroidering and chattering with Chelsea and Liza, I remembered Duke Warrington.
You, I’m sure, could distract me from my woeful emotions.
On an ordinary day in the later ones of spring, I came into the small kitchen for lunch to find Hare, as always, rushing around and baking the usual things: potato soup, nut-studded bread, hunks of venison and veritable fountains of salad. He shoved a tray at me, saying, “There’s a group of awful impor’ant men out there, all dressed up rich-like. They say they want their food delivered by the prettiest girl in the house, an’ that’s you, Anni. Give them real Troll’s Eye ‘ospitality, won’t you?”
I blushed, nodding. Hare kept eyeing me strangely of late, and I wasn’t quite sure I liked the way he did it – almost covetously, as though he were afraid someone else might try and lay claim on me. I ignored it, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to forever.
“’Course, ‘Are. An’ wot about Dai? Everyone likes ‘er better anyways,” I said, spinning the food-piled platter with one expert hand. I had grown slightly taller from whatever spell Wimbledon had laid on me, so I did not have to look up so much to see his silly face – I wasn’t sure if I liked the closer view of Hare or not.
“Don’ be silly, Anni. They ain’t just talking ‘bout face looks.” His eyes flitted down to my bosom, my almost Chelsea-like shape. It had taken some getting used to, the extra weight and things, but I hardly noticed it now. Hare, it seemed, found it more difficult to forget.
I left his last remark to spoil in the thick, meat-and-bread-scented kitchen, walking with as much confidence as I could muster out of the kitchen’s double doors. I stood, eyes searching the mass of chairs and tables, for one with a pyramid-shaped woodcarving, emblazoned with a white four. Ten, six, nine, a-ha! Four… I looked up from the little block of wood, to see who sat at the table, and suddenly, the entire rowdy hall seemed to grow deadly quiet, to freeze completely for moments uncounted.
Leaning against a small, chipped oak table, with a cool, haughty smile on his face, was Raymond. Prince Kharles’s advisor, friend, and near-constant companion, with his wavy brown hair pulled back with a dark gray ribbon, and one hand playing idly with the salt shaker.
But then the world seemed to start moving again, as I remembered that he could never, would never recognize me. I didn’t even have an upper class Therien accent anymore, or if I did, it was too faint for anyone to notice. I could serve his food, smile as I always did, and then escape back to kitchen – to Hare and other such present things. Raymond was part of my fading past, and I prayed he wouldn’t be around for long.
I swaggered slowly towards the table, ignoring the yelling of those around, whether ‘twas directed towards me or not. Forcing a smile onto my face, I set the platter down, catching but a small tidbit of conversation between Raymond and his unnamed noblemen friends before they realized I was there.
“But if His Majesty is sick, we can’t—hmm,” said one of them, halting in mid-sentence. His dark green eyes glittered as they turned to me. “We asked for the prettiest one, gentlemen. Would you not say we got rather lucky?”
I had learned from some amount of experience to ignore the sometimes-sickening words of those I served, and only smiled graciously before starting to turn away.
“Wait,” said Raymond’s unmistakable voice, deep and cool. He caught my wrist, pulling me back around and smirking. It was not a kind smirk, if smirks can be kind, but one that said he knew he could get what he wanted, and enjoyed rubbing my nose in the fact. “What else do you do, besides waiting tables?”
The idea that Raymond might be just as horrible as Kharles sent a violent shiver down my spine. I heard the chatter of the customers around me, carefree and boring, but perfectly safe. My situation, I could see quite clearly, was not.
“Put up with dullards like you, for one,” I retorted, and the other two men at the table chuckled. Raymond’s grip on my wrist tightened, and I thought ironically of the last time he had touched me – to comfort me from the sharp words and actions of the prince.
“Then you wouldn’t mind coming to my room upstairs at say, ten o’clock tonight, I’m sure,” he said smoothly, and my heart burned with a new hatred. The smirk grew wider on his lips as I struggled to pull my hand from his grasp. He released me, and I turned again to go, when I heard his voice once more behind me. “Or I’ll come to yours. I’ve ways of finding out where it is, and I don’t believe you’ll realize aught amiss until much too late.”
I had to keep myself from dashing back to the kitchen as they laughed quietly behind me. “Room thirteen,” he called after me, and I fled before the other men got any such ideas.
I know. I know. But we all knew Raymond was secretly a slimeball, anyhow. Questions? Opinions? Faces?
