All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  I could not see the rats, scuttling in the shadows, or hear the crunching of termites, feasting on rafters and braces. I could not feel the ivy, ripping at stone, turning towers into sand. I knew nothing yet of the cloying sickness of relations in that house. To me, the manor was simply beautiful. I was, after all, a child.

  2

  The Laundry

  For those unfamiliar with Aviceford Manor, it is the smallest of three manors that lie within the grand landholding of Ellis Abbey. The Abbess Elfilda (yes, the godmother of Princess Elfilda) appointed Emont Vis-de-Loup, youngest son of Lord Henry Vis-de-Loup, 4th Baron of Wilston, to act as manorial lord at Aviceford. Emont would inherit little from his family, and he could never hope to be a tenant-in-chief like his father, but the manor provided him with a comfortable living even after the abbey took its share.

  Emont was unmarried, and gossipers in the village liked to say that he saved his affection for barrels of ale and bottles of wine. This shifted more than the usual burden of manorial supervision to the chamberlain. Geoffrey Poke had been well ensconced at the top of the servants’ hierarchy when Emont became lord, and the combination of Geoffrey’s craving for authority and Emont’s disinterest allowed the chamberlain to expand the power of his position. By the time I met him, he had become an iron-fisted autocrat who did not brook even the most trifling opposition from his inferiors.

  As I first stood before him in the hallway by the buttery, I might have been a disappointingly small wood pigeon he was considering having plucked for dinner. He slowly circled, examining me from my sodden hair to my humiliatingly exposed foot—I had been obliged to leave my muddy stocking outside along with my shoes.

  Abruptly, he said, “What is your father’s name, and where does he live?” His voice was thin and nasal.

  “William, sir. William Rolfe. We live in Over End.”

  “Over End, Aviceford Village?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you, fourteen years old?”

  “Ten, sir. Nearly eleven.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “What use are you?”

  “I am a hard worker, sir. I am strong, and my mother taught me well.”

  “What would your mother know about laundry?” He brought his hatchet face close to mine. “You smell like pigs’ dung.”

  I stared at his fat lower lip, peculiarly fleshy in his narrow face, glistening with spit. His mouth was so crowded with teeth that his lips did not fully close. I wanted to back away from his unpleasant breath.

  Geoffrey continued to stare at me, moistening his lips again with his tongue. He made a grunting noise in the back of his throat. “I suppose you will do,” he said finally, moving away. “The laundry has been piling up since the last girl left, and I am running out of linens. I shall take you to Elisabeth.”

  I had been thinking of bacon since my conversation with John. As the tall chamberlain led me away from the kitchen, I felt like a savory morsel had been snatched from my hand. “Sir?” I said. “I have had nothing to eat since daybreak.”

  He looked at me with irritation. “Dinner has already been cleared. If you are lucky, you might get some supper.”

  As we traversed a narrow passageway of stones, their surfaces cracked and rough as ancient cowhide, I noticed the chamberlain’s awkward gait. The sole of his left shoe was several times the thickness of the right, and the blunt toe angled in a strange direction. What grotesque deformity hid beneath the oiled covering?

  The hall tapered away in front of us into the gloom, disappearing into the black maw of an open doorway. Geoffrey jabbed a long finger toward the entrance. “There is the laundry room. Go find Elisabeth.” He limped away, leaving me alone in the passage.

  I peered from the doorway into darkness. Weak light from a solitary window near the ceiling illuminated a shallow, stone-lined pool of water on the floor, but the rest of the room lay in shadow. Gradually, the shadows assumed recognizable forms. An enormous wooden bucking tub squatted near the pool, raised on four stout feet. Along the back wall was a cold fireplace, ashes spilling over the edge of the hearth, wood strewn in disorderly piles. A mountain of linens towered in the corner. There was no laundress.

  When I considered returning to the chamberlain, my stomach clenched sickeningly. I would wait for the laundress to return. I looked for a seat, and as there was none, I perched on a smooth stone at the lip of the pool. The stones formed a low wall around what presumably functioned as a laundry basin. I decided to put on my clean stockings while I waited. I was hungry and damp, but at least I would have warm feet.

  As I bent forward to peel off my single wet stocking, a deep sighing breath broke the silence of the room, like a rock thrown into a still pond. I froze, the hairs rising on my arms.

  A stirring in the heap of linens should have returned me to my senses, but instead, I panicked. I scrambled backward, splashing loudly into the slack pool. The water must have been standing unused for a great length of time to have accumulated such a thick layer of slime, and my disturbance released an evil stench. A shrill screech filled the room, echoing, as the laundress rose from the pile of soiled linens and bore down upon me.

  “Get out of there!” Her massive bosom heaved. “Get out, you little brat! What are you doing?”

  Slipping on the slime-covered stones, I did my best to oblige. “My name is Agnes, miss, and I am the new laundry girl.”

  The look she gave me was impenetrable. She placed incongruously doll-like hands on her ample hips. When she began again, her tone was measured. “If you are the new laundry girl, we had better see what you can do. Considering how much work you have,” she jerked her head toward the pile of laundry, “you had better get started right away, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes, miss.” I shivered. The room was cold, and I was dripping wet.

  “It is cold in here, but lucky for you, your first job will be to build a fire.” She stepped into the shaft of sunlight, and for the first time, I saw her properly. She was as plump as a Christmas goose; I marveled at her girth. Yellow curls escaped from the edge of her dirty bonnet. Her face might have been pretty if her delicate features had not been enfolded in doughy flesh. “What are you waiting for?” she asked sharply.

  I hunched my shoulders and slid over to the fireplace to sweep the hearth, keeping my head down. Weeks’ worth of ashes choked the fireplace. I filled the bucket with as many cinders as would fit, clearing some space, and I built a small bed for the fire using twigs and straw. Next to the fireplace, I found a good flint and a supply of char cloth, and the fire was soon lit. I then began to organize the haphazard piles of wood and kindling on the floor.

  “Never mind that,” said the laundress. “Get the ashes ready.”

  I looked at her, confused.

  “Spread the ashes on the bucking cloth, you idiot!”

  I had never used a bucking tub before. Gingerly, I reached up and sprinkled black soot on the cloth that stretched taut over the opening.

  “Afraid of straining your wee delicate arms, princess? Dump those ashes and fetch water from the rain barrel.” She handed me an ancient, blackened kettle.

  My footsteps echoed dully as I retraced my steps through the narrow hallway, past the cramped and lightless buttery and into the back foyer. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, dazzling my eyes and coalescing in bright pools on the flagstones. I could see that a coating of ashes clung to my wet frock; brushing at them only made dark smears.

  As I approached the heavy doors of the kitchen, which hung ajar, an invisible wall of sound and scent—clanging pots, muffled shouts, the aroma of roasting chicken and baking bread—arrested my feet in midstride. I inhaled greedily, which only goaded my hunger into sinking its claws deeper.

  Outside, my shoes were hardly drier than I had left them, but I knocked off the mud as best I could and put them back on. A path snaked along the rear wall of the manor, leading to the gardens and dovecote. As the stone slabs were slippery with rain and moss, I walked al
ongside, in the coarse and dripping seedling grasses, swinging the empty kettle to make raindrops scatter from drooping stalks of dogtail.

  Over the low wall surrounding the herb garden, I recognized the back of John’s leather jerkin and his frayed hat. He yanked up fistfuls of young mint and comfrey, which ran amok, covering the soil in a riotous froth of green. Doubtless he was beating the shoots back to make room for herbs that still slumbered in the earth.

  “Little mouse!” he said with a laugh. “You have turned from a pretty little white mousie to a black one; did you meet a witch?”

  I grimaced, and his smile softened.

  “Cheer up, little mouse. Miss Elisabeth is hard-hearted, but she is a practical woman. You look like a clever girl who can find a way to work with her. Keep your chin up.”

  I nodded and carried on. Nothing was served by arguing.

  A rain barrel was located at the far side of the herb garden, where it could be used for watering. I plunged the kettle deep into the clean, chill water. The cold was both painful and delicious, and I pushed my arms deeper, leaning against the barrel. Light rippled across the surface of the water, and as it calmed, I could see my reflection peering back at me. If my heart had not been so heavy, I would have laughed. My face was almost entirely black; only my serious brown eyes were recognizable to me. I released the kettle with one hand to splash water on my face.

  John was nowhere to be seen as I struggled back toward the house, holding the kettle with both hands, trying to keep it from knocking against my shins. Once again, I paused at the entrance to the laundry room, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  The laundress had stretched herself out on the pile of dirty linens, and I hoped that she had fallen asleep. She stirred as soon as I entered the room, however, and sat up.

  “What took you so long? You will not sleep tonight at this rate.” She adjusted her cap primly. “Put the kettle on the fire. You will need to keep fetching water and heating it until the tub is full. If you are lucky, you might be done before the compline bell, but I doubt it.” She rose, smoothing her skirt. “I am going to supper.”

  “But, miss, I have not eaten since daybreak!”

  “Then you had better hurry.” She crossed to the door with a surprisingly light step. “When you finish here, you will sleep in the kitchen. There will be a trundle next to the larder.” Her shadow, which had eclipsed the doorway, disappeared.

  I confess that I felt very sorry for myself in that moment. After she left, I sat by the fire and had a cry. It was the first time that I had been away from my family, and my sister’s absence was a hole through my chest. I had never been thankful enough for Lottie’s bowls of filling pottage, or for the comfort of nestling against her solid back, rocking with each sleeping breath. I yearned for home, but even as I watched my tears splash into the feathery ashes, I was aware of another feeling. Deep beneath my piteous thoughts curled something else, something hard and vengeful.

  My arms tired from carrying loads of water and lifting the heavy kettle over the tub. Light faded and then departed from the window. Though it became more difficult to see, I did not much miss the cheerless light. The firelight was not enough, but it was hearty.

  I was preoccupied when John came into the room, and I started when he coughed.

  “Sorry, mousie, I did not mean to frighten you. I just brought you a little supper.”

  As he set a cloth-covered bundle and clay bottle on the floor, I had a giddy impulse to run to him and throw my arms around his narrow chest, like I used to do to my father when I was a tot. Instead, I said, “How can I thank you, sir?”

  “Ah, Agnes, it’s nothing. And everybody here calls me John. I saw Elisabeth in the kitchen and figured that you might be needing a bite of food to keep you going. I brought you some cold chicken with onion and a bit of bread, as well as a spot of ale. One thing you will like about working at the manor is the food!”

  “God bless you, and thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  He looked amused by my effusiveness. “I am going to bed. The menservants sleep in the outbuildings, but the laundress and laundry girl sleep in the kitchen.”

  “Miss Elisabeth said that there will be a pallet near the larder.”

  He must have heard my discouragement, for he sighed and said, “I came to the manor when I was near your age. Elisabeth was even younger. I remember how she ran away. Came back with a black eye and probably worse. Her father had too many mouths to feed. It can be hard here for a child, I grant you. Some people let it get to them. Don’t you do that. You do your best to get by, and one day you will be head laundress, and you will have a laundry girl working for you.”

  His words were no comfort, but I said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night, Agnes.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  I fell on the tray when he left and ate with relish. Chicken was a rare treat; the food and John’s kindness lifted my spirits. Though my arms were sore and my body drained, the remaining hours of work did not seem as onerous as the first. I kept my mind occupied with fantasies about manor food and the approach of May Day, when I would have the whole day free to celebrate at the parish church.

  After banking the fire, I gathered my bag and made my way to the kitchen. The passageway was dark as pitch, but pale moonlight from windows in the back foyer guided me to the kitchen doors. The room appeared too grand to be a kitchen; its lofty height seemed more fitting for a cathedral. Shafts of moonlight illuminated lingering blue smoke near the vaulted ceiling. Scattered streaks from a skylight pierced the gently roiling smoke, like the Holy Ghost descending.

  Embers glowed in a fireplace massive enough to contain a whole ox, silhouetting a heap of blankets on the floor that must have contained my new enemy. Even her bulk was dwarfed by the size of the hearthstone. She had told me to look for my bed by the larder, which I deduced was the dark entrance yawning in the back wall. It did not surprise me to see how far it was from the fire. I circled the trestle tables and found in one of their shadows the straw mat that the laundress had left for me. A thin blanket had been placed atop the pallet.

  I removed my cloak and collection of stones from my bag, dropping the sac at one end of the mat for use as a pillow. Though I wanted to collapse from exhaustion, I first aligned my stones in a row across the head of my bed, a tiny wall of soldiers to guard me in my sleep. I then wrapped myself as well as I could in my cloak and blanket, and I sank into the sleep of the dead.

  Journal Entry

  The Royal Court

  Solitude is the commodity in shortest supply at the palace, but Princess Elfilda has succeeded in carving out a generous portion for herself. She has always been happiest in her own company. It pleases her to have familiar faces nearby, but she does not enjoy social intercourse. If she could do away with ladies-in-waiting entirely, she would, but as that is not possible, she has relegated them to a suite separate from her own. My daughters are among those ladies, and though their duties are light, they are not allowed to stray from the retinue. It pains me that I so seldom have the pleasure of their company.

  Today is a joyful day, because they came walking with me, my daughters, Charlotte and Matilda. The king and queen have left for the summer palace, and with most of the royal family and courtiers absent, it feels like a holiday.

  “Mother!” Matilda called when she found me in the nearly deserted garden; she ran to me and threw her arms around my shoulders in an enthusiastic embrace. Even as I staggered to keep my balance, I reveled in the solidity of her body, the vital warmth and heft of her precious flesh and blood and bones.

  Charlotte followed in a more stately fashion, reproaching her sister. “You should never run, Tilly. Stop acting like a baby. God be with you, Mother.” She kissed my cheek fondly. “You look lovely. This style suits you. Your waist is as tiny as a maiden’s.”

  “And my brow is as wrinkled as an old crone’s.”

  “Ha!” Matilda kissed my other cheek. “You are as fair as th
is spring day.”

  “If by fair you mean argent.”

  “You are insufferable, Mother,” Matilda said. “There is hardly a gray hair on your head.”

  The girls each took one of my arms. They are both a fingersbreadth taller than me, broad shouldered and sturdy. They leaned in close and gripped tightly, ushering me down the path like a couple of palace guards removing an unruly petitioner from the throne room. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant; I floated through the garden on strong currents of their affection.

  The palace grounds are impressive but austere. There are no flowers, only fancy topiaries, fountains, and statues. The groomed footpaths take straight lines and cross at sharp angles, their geometry unsoftened by shade and ungraced by the prolific disorder of nature. I feel exposed there, exposed to the harsh sun and to the many pairs of eyes that gaze from palace windows and passing coaches.

  As we skirted the central fountain, the sun’s rays burned through a straggling skein of cloud and spread a hard glitter over the onyx pool. We turned toward a side trail that meanders through a copse of trees, a corner of the grounds that had been allowed to retain a glimmer of the wild.

  “It’s such a relief to be rid of Lady Margaret,” Matilda said. She referred to the mistress of the robes, an imperious woman who kept a strict watch over the ladies-in-waiting.

  “Even Cinderella is more cheerful now that the shrew is away.”

  “You should refer to your stepsister as Princess Elfilda,” I admonished, “and please don’t let anyone hear you calling names. We have enough trouble.”

  Matilda stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes comically. “Well, Lady Margaret is a shrew, and everyone knows it, including Princess Oblivious.”

  “Ella isn’t oblivious,” Charlotte said. “She just doesn’t care about gossip and intrigue.”