by Emily Deady
“Welcome, Your Majesties,” Mistress Cedrice piped in. “Please, Princess, I’ll help you into your gown in the back room.”
Princess Meena followed Mistress Cedrice through the small door at the back of the room.
Ashlin moved slowly, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
“Mother,” Stasiya hissed.
“Ah yes.” Lady Cabril rose stiffly from her deep curtsy. “Your Highness, may I introduce to you my daughter, Ashlin Cabril.” She indicated Stasiya.
“Miss Cabril.” Onric gave her a tight nod of his head and then looked at Ashlin, confused.
Lady Cabril laughed a nervous laugh, but there was a grating edge to it. “That is just our maidservant, Stasiya.”
Onric’s eyebrows furrowed deeper.
Ashlin shook her head again, just the tiniest bit. She was trying to signal to the prince not to inquire further, but she realized too late that her stepmother had noticed the motion.
“Ash—Stasiya!” her stepmother said. “Package our purchases and carry them home.”
They had not yet made any purchases, but Lady Cabril held out the burgundy gown. Glad for something to do, Ashlin took the dress to the back table to fold and wrap it in the brown paper that Mistress Cedrice kept for such a purpose.
“I will finish our business with the seamstress,” Lady Cabril continued, “after she is done serving Her Highness, of course.”
Onric stood in the center of the shop, his hands behind his back as he observed the interaction. His face was impossible to read, but his eyes kept glancing at her in confusion.
“What a fine cloak, my Lord,” her stepmother said, drawing the prince’s attention. “Don’t you think so, Sta . . . Ashlin?”
Out of habit, Ashlin looked up at the sound of her name.
Stasiya was nodding emphatically while batting her eyelashes. Without the seamstress to hold the back seam of her dress open, the collar had started to loosen, and she did nothing to fix it.
Onric nodded curtly but did not let his eyes linger on her. Rather, he turned them back towards Ashlin, raising his eyebrow slightly.
She quickly looked back at her hands, tying the paper tightly closed to protect the dress.
“Hurry home, maid, and be sure to tell cook we will be hungry for supper upon our return.”
“Yes, my lady,” Ashlin responded. Picking up the heavy package, she avoided Onric’s eyes and dashed out of the shop. They did not have a cook. Likely her stepmother thought that by mentioning one they would appear less destitute. Ashlin did not try to decipher her stepmother’s erratic actions any deeper than that.
Arriving home, she placed the package in the family parlor and went to the kitchen to start preparing supper.
About an hour later, the front door slammed open. “Ashlin!”
Ashlin cringed.
She moved to meet her stepmother at the front door, but the woman was already striding into the kitchen. Her face was red from the bitter cold outside, and her eyes were alive with a fire that Ashlin had never seen before. Remembering the strike her stepmother had delivered to her hardly an hour previously, Ashlin pressed herself backwards into the counter behind her.
Stasiya looked into the kitchen behind her mother, but Lady Cabril closed the door in her face.
“What happened back there?”
“I’m sorry, Stepmother . . .” Ashlin shrank into the counter behind her.
“Madam.”
“Madam. I, I dropped the mirror. It was clumsy, but I was taken by surprise.”
“Not that, you fool. He recognized you.” She took a step further into the room.
“I do work at the palace. Perhaps he thought I looked familiar.”
“You scrub floors in a kitchen. Does the royal family pay attention to their scullery maids?”
“No, madam.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No, madam.”
Lady Cabril stared at her.
“Then why did he move towards you first?”
“Because I clumsily dropped the mirror, and perhaps he has a kind heart and merely wanted to see if I was alright. Surely he could see that I am merely a servant. He would not have taken a second glance at me otherwise.”
Lady Cabril nodded, her iron facade beginning to crumble. “That’s true. Why would he pay attention to a mere servant when a girl as lovely as Stasiya was in the same room. He seemed quite smitten with her after you left. They talked at length.”
Ashlin swallowed, nodding at her stepmother’s words and wishing the woman would step backwards.
Instead, Lady Cabril reached forward. “Let me see your face, girl.” She held Ashlin’s chin and turned her head to the side. “I am terribly sorry about that. He was looking at you far too closely for comfort.”
After an uncomfortable moment, her stepmother finally released her chin and Ashlin inhaled, feeling lightheaded.
“Here.” Lady Cabril grabbed a rag from the kitchen table and dipped it into a pail of water. Squeezing it out, she folded it and placed it over Ashlin’s cheek. “That should help.”
“Thank you,” Ashlin whispered. She put her own hand on the rag, pressing it into her cheek so that her stepmother could pull away. She wanted her stepmother to leave. The lightheadedness was making her stomach turn, and she wanted to be alone. She would rather be in the small, dark bedroom behind the kitchen wall than anywhere else in this house with her stepmother.
She could not think of the appropriate words to ask her stepmother to leave, though, especially as she was being so kind at the moment. Maybe she could try what Stasiya did to get out of difficult situations. “I’m sorry, madam, but I am not feeling well . . .”
“Of course, my dear, you must take a rest.” Lady Cabril turned to leave, but she paused at the door. “Ashlin, I hope you know that I no longer hold you responsible for your father’s death. I . . . realize that you have proven yourself in working so hard to keep our family together.”
Ashlin had no room to experience any more feelings at the moment, but she tried to believe that her heart had grown lighter. “Thank you,” she breathed.
“Unfortunately, though, since a member of the royal family has been introduced to Stasiya as Ashlin Cabril, she must attend the ball with that name. I hope you understand.”
Before Ashlin could respond, Stasiya stepped into the room with a large mass of blue silk in her arms. “Ashlin, I brought you your dress.”
“Of course, of course,” Lady Cabril said, “place it on the table here. Ashlin can alter it to her size when she has time.” She put her arm around Stasiya and guided her back to the door. “Get some rest, dear,” she said back to Ashlin, “we don’t mind if dinner is late.”
She stopped again at the door. “Oh! I almost forgot. Did you hear the news? King Frederich has ordered Prince Onric to choose a bride at the ball.”
Ashlin dropped the wet cloth from her face. “He what?”
“It is all over town, I’m surprised you have not heard. Is that not wonderful for our dear Stasiya? She will have two princes to choose from!” Lady Cabril smiled down at her daughter.
Ashlin felt faint. She had already accepted that nothing could happen between Onric and herself. Or, at least she had thought she had accepted it. But had he known this whole time that he would be choosing a noblewoman from the ladies at the ball?
“Excuse me.” Ashlin nearly ran to the small door that led to her room. She closed it behind her and sank to her knees. She would not cry. Why had he toyed with her? To get her to help him with his magic search? To get her to do all the work for him? She was tired of being used.
No more.
He had no responsibility to her. Why would he offer her anything once her usefulness to him had run dry? The only people who could not toss her away were family.
Chapter 23
Onric paced across the small tower room. Where was she?
The sun had already set.
As soon as he’d returned from the se
amstress’s shop, he had spoken with Steward Daniel to ensure that the palace had extra room in the house staffing and reserved a place for Ashlin . . . or was it Stasiya?
He walked until his face was nearly touching the wall before he turned back around to pace the room again. She did not seem like the type of person to lie, but was her name really Ashlin?
He paused to look over the tapestry as he walked by. The new stitching now covered nearly half of the damaged panel, but it was still impossible to tell what it depicted.
If he was going to believe in the words of one person over another, he would choose to believe Ashlin over that woman in the seamstress shop. At the very least, he decided not to jump to conclusions until she had a chance to explain herself.
Finally, the door creaked open and his favorite person walked into the room. The weight of his waiting for her finally fell from his chest as the tension left his shoulders.
The moment her eyes noticed him, though, she looked away, dropping into a curtsy and avoiding his gaze. “My Lord,” she said as though trying to put distance between them before moving towards her usual spot at the tapestry.
He stepped in her way, forcing her to stop.
“You must move to the palace. I’ve already spoken to the steward about it, and you can live here with the other servants for now.”
“You what?” She looked at him then, and the shock in her eyes was not what he expected to see.
“If you are losing your other work because of it, he can offer you extra duties here to compensate for that.”
“I cannot.” She tried to step around him.
“You have to.” He continued to step in her way, trying to catch her eye again. He had to make sure she understood the gravity of what he was saying to her. “I saw what happened at the seamstress’s shop today.” His voice had dropped to a lower register as he could not keep his concern out of it.
She turned away from him, working her way around a pile of crates to reach the table that was her destination. “She apologized later.”
Her excuse increased the uneasy feeling in Onric’s stomach. “Does she do that often?”
“Apologize?” Ashlin had worked her way around the crates and was standing on the other side of the table. She busied herself with preparing a length of thread, still avoiding his eyes. “Yes, she does do that often.”
That was not what he was referring to. He had wanted to know if her mistress struck her often, but the girl had evaded his question. He stepped directly opposite her on the other side of the table. “So, she often does things that need to be apologized for?”
“She is . . .” Ashlin traced the tapestry with the end of the iron needle. “. . . a person who has endured much in life.”
“So have you, apparently.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but her defense of that cruel woman was getting on his nerves.
“Quiet please, my Lord. I need to feel what should be sewn next.”
She used his title again, but the way she said it did not hold the usual deference. It sounded more like a challenge for him to leave her alone. The knots of concern in his stomach had dissipated, leaving a heated tension of frustration in his chest.
“Why did she call you Stasiya?” he said, his voice rising.
She clenched her jaw but otherwise ignored him. He made his way around the table, demanding her attention.
“Has she ever struck you before?” When he was at her side, he reached out over the tapestry and gently placed his hand over hers, stopping her motion with the needle.
“No.” Her voice was short and frustrated, and she tried to pull her hand away from his touch.
He gripped his fingers to let her know he was not ready to break the contact.
She looked up at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time.
He squeezed her more firmly, repositioning their grasped hands to be between them instead of over the table. He searched her eyes, hoping she was telling the truth, but not convinced after the behavior he had seen that afternoon.
“Once before,” she whispered, the frustration now replaced by shame. “But I deserved it then.”
“That absolutely cannot be true.”
She wrenched her hand away from his, turning away. “You do not know everything about me. Apparently, you are not even sure that you know my name.” Her voice had risen again, and she moved away from the table towards the door.
“Whether your name is Ashlin or Stasiya, I do know you,” he called after her. “You are the most gentle, kindhearted, and captivating person I know, and I can imagine no scenario in which it would be acceptable to raise a hand against you.” His own voice rose in anger as he recalled what he had witnessed. “You need to leave that woman.”
“No.” She turned back around, her arms crossed, and her face held an odd mixture of hesitancy and anger.
“No?”
“You said I was free to say no to you.” She held her head high, but her neck seemed to tremble, as though it pained her to hold her ground.
He deflated. “Well, yes, you are, but . . .” His thoughts tumbled against each other. He wanted to make sure she was safe, to wrap his arms around her and never let go. But he sensed that if he stepped forward now, she would disappear through the doorway, possibly forever. “I am glad that you are brave enough to say no to me, but why can you not also say no to your mistress? What hold does she have over you that you refuse to leave her and come work here in safety and for better pay?”
Ashlin turned her back to him, grabbing the handle of the open door as she stepped through the doorway. “She is my mother.”
She shut the door loudly behind her.
Chapter 24
Ashlin’s eyes drooped as she stepped out into the side courtyard of the castle. Her mind felt as though it were weighted with a heavy black curtain. Perhaps she would not be so tired if she could save her energy for external tasks instead of wasting it on the emptiness in her heart.
She had returned to the tower room a short time after the prince had left and spent the rest of the night stitching until her eyes burned from the strain. The tapestry had to be ready to grace the ballroom in two days, and she needed to finish the damaged panel before then. It was a large responsibility for one person, but they only had one spelled needle. Although, she thought bitterly, the prince could have entrusted his secret to someone else who could work on it during the day.
Her heart fell. Again. She did not want to think about him. For the first time in nearly twenty days, she knew he would not be waiting for her in the courtyard with Blossom. On any other day, her stomach would be fluttering in anticipation as she looked forward to the warmth of his cape wrapped around her and the feel of his stable arm at her waist. He would lean down to whisper in her ear and listen as she engaged with him in quiet conversation through the dark streets.
After she had argued with him, told him no, and practically slammed the door in his face, he surely would not be waiting for her this night. She stifled a yawn and rubbed her forehead, trying to keep herself awake.
Sure enough, the dim courtyard was empty. Empty and cold. She sighed, tears stinging her eyes as she made her way to the gate that led out onto the street. She was on her own now.
“Wait!”
She turned around. A breathless Onric jogged toward her, tugging along a dancing Blossom. The fog in her mind dissipated, replaced by a feeling of furious anger. “I didn’t think you were still coming tonight.”
“Just because we had a disagreement doesn’t mean I am going to withhold help from you,” he replied. His tone was short, and she could feel the frustration still rolling off him.
“That doesn’t mean I am necessarily going to accept your help, though, does it?” She turned around. “Thank you very much, but I will be walking home tonight.” She walked down the road towards the city with long, quick strides. The cold air felt refreshing, and her hearing grew dim for a few moments as the blood rushing through her head drowned out all other sounds. As it
returned, however, she noticed the soft clop of a horse’s hooves a few steps behind her.
She picked up her pace, not quite running but walking quickly, her tight fists swinging energetically.
The horse trotted forward to her side, matching her speed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she looked up at Onric. He was wrapped in his cloak and his hood was up, shadowing his face in the darkness. His head faced forward, though, so she could tell he was not looking in her direction even if she could not see his face.
How dare he? How dare he tell her what her life should look like when he lived in a palace with a perfect family, all he could ever desire at his fingertips. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” She sent her words out into the darkness in front of her. They were quiet words, filled with heat. “You have no idea what I’ve been through or what I need, and yet you have the audacity to try and control my life . . . ‘Already talked to the steward.’” She fumed over the last words.
He gave no indication that he had heard her at all, but without someone to cut her off, she carried on, letting the feelings of anger and resentment flow through her.
“I have worked so hard for everything I still have, and . . . and you have no idea what I am saying ‘yes’ to or saying ‘no’ to. You have no idea what measures I have to take to survive, or what will make me happy. You don’t even know what it is like to strive for anything!”
He plodded along next to her, still quiet.
“I am trying to keep my family together, and you are telling me to leave them. Would you ever leave your family? What would you have me do? Run away from the only people in the world who have any attachment to me and throw myself at the mercy of those who don’t? People don’t bow at my feet when I show my face in the market square. They ignore my existence or haggle me out of the very food I starved myself for in order to sell.”
His silence was grating on her nerves, and her anger had reached a boiling point.