by Jill M Beene
Artem seemed to understand her need for silence and speed. He didn’t speak, his long strides at the top of Samiris’ capability to keep up. His warm hand was an irritating comfort at her arm. Samiris glanced up at him from beneath the rim of her treacherous hat, trying to read his mood.
Artem’s lips were clamped together, his jaw clenched. His eyebrows were drawn toward the crease between them. He was angry. Well, of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? She had ruined the first formal dinner of the season, embarrassed his precious court.
No matter that she was the one whose back and head were smarting from the fall, no matter that she had shown everyone her ruffled underskirts. Tears pricked at her eyes and her throat closed around the emotion. Artem wasn’t rescuing her. No, he was trying to get her out of there before she ruined the dinner completely. Scowling, she yanked her elbow from his grasp and he looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, never breaking stride.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated, her embarrassment the perfect tinder for the anger that was beginning to rise within her. “Have you looked around lately? Everything’s wrong.”
“I mean, what’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“Oh, how about the fact that I just humiliated myself in spectacular fashion in front of some of the least forgiving people on earth? Or that I have a one in twenty chance of being burned to death in a few months? Or the fact that I’m away from my family and home, with no friends?”
“You have friends here. Besides, tonight was the hat’s fault, not yours.”
“Yes. A hat that I was forced to wear. You think I like this?” she snapped, gesturing down at the wide, billowing dress. “You think I was walking past a shop, saw this in the window and just had to have it? Tell me, Artem, what about this ensemble screams, ‘me’?”
They had reached her door. Artem looked down at her, frowning. “That’s what women wear here. You look nice.”
“I look like a walking theater set! And I don’t know if anyone has ever told a man this, but dressing like this is painful! My feet are pinched into these stupid shoes, my head and neck are aching from this monstrosity of a hat, my waist is clamped so much to hold the dress up that I can barely breathe!”
His frown deepened.
“But as long as I look nice, as long as I fit in... well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Sorry I ruined your stupid dinner.” With that final statement, Samiris flung open the door to her room and escaped, slamming it in Artem’s face.
Aster took one look at her face when she stormed in the sitting room and rushed to her.
“What happened?” she asked, already pulling pins out of Samiris’ hair.
“This hat tried to kill me,” Samiris said, yanking at the pins on the other side of her head.
“What happened?” Aster repeated.
“I fell over backwards at the dinner table. I don’t want to talk about it, and I’m sure that you can get a full recounting from someone who was there. Everybody saw it.”
“Are you alright?” Aster’s words were gentle, kind, and they doused Samiris’ anger like a bucket of water on a fire.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Just please get me out of this stupid dress.”
She had told Tamrah that she would try her best to make the Crown Prince love her, but at this rate, with all the mistakes she was making, she wouldn’t last the week.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Her stomach moaned low and loud, like a disgruntled cat. Sleep had eluded her all night. Samiris kicked the heavy blankets off her feet and sighed. Mortifying images of last night’s dinner flashed through her head… her chair tipping over, her feet flying up over her head, her ruffled underskirts smothering her face. Samiris sat up, swung her legs out of bed and groaned. She felt like she had fallen from Behemoth while he was running full tilt. Her neck ached where the enormous hat had jerked her head back.
Through the window, a blue-gold dawn emerged on the horizon. The fog had not yet been roused from its bed at the floor of the garden. This time of day was the difference between those with money and those without. These hours were the extra, unwanted ones that the wealthy threw back into the stream of life like so many too small fish. This time was the starting line where industrious, hard-working people queued up early to chase survival. Like them, Samiris was well acquainted with the brisk chill of dawn, of the way the whole world woke up steaming in the sunlight like a fresh-born foal in a cold barn.
She wiggled into her breeches and a white tunic, pulled on boots and a belt, and wound her hair up and out of her face in a haphazard bun. Like so many times before, she was going hunting. This time, her target wasn’t mobile. There had to be a huge kitchen in this castle, and she was going to find it. Maybe she could pinch a cherry tart from a tin without anyone noticing. Maybe there was a small loaf of bread or cookies or bacon sizzling in a skillet on the stove. Her stomach sounded its low lament again, twisting within her.
Samiris cracked open the door to her apartments and looked both ways. The hallway was still dim, the first rays of sunlight not yet hitting the windows. When she saw no one, she slipped from her room. She remembered seeing a glimpse of the kitchens when Lady Elise first herded her and Cyra through the castle. But the day had been such a cacophony of strange sights that she could barely place the direction they had come from, let alone how to get back to a single room.
So she thought about it. The kitchen would have to be on the first floor, to make fetching wood easy. Samiris turned left and walked toward the staircase. She had never been alone in the halls of the castle, had never had time away from prying eyes to see how beautiful the artwork was, to see how intricately cut the stonework was. Lengths of elaborate, plush carpets softened her footfalls, making her feel that she was back home in the forest, stalking an animal on moss-covered ground.
The staircase was as wide and lovely as the hallway. She met no one, but thought she could feel the servant inhabitants of the castle stirring, like the first rustling of birds in the morning. Samiris wound all the way down the staircase, and at the bottom, she caught a scent on the air. Porridge. She was sure of it. The smell was as familiar to her as her own skin.
The stairs opened up into another hallway, narrower and sparser than the first. On instinct, Samiris opened a door that was set into a small antechamber, and was greeted by a gust of warm, bread-scented air that sent her stomach roaring anew. The kitchen was a long stone room with a low ceiling that was currently warm and smelling of porridge and bread, giving Samiris the impression that she had just stepped into an oven.
As Samiris entered from one end of the room, a middle-aged woman bustled in from the other. She was short and well-fed, a thick cotton apron covering the black silk shirt over her ample bosom and tied in a perky bow behind her waist, a neat pin with what looked like a real diamond on the end stuck through a riot of red curls to keep them in some semblance of order. Her sharp eyes landed on Samiris immediately, and Samiris thought there was a glint of recognition in them.
“My name is Marla. Shut the door behind you. You’re letting out the heat.”
Samiris did as she was told, and Marla opened a well-oiled cupboard door and plunked two sturdy white bowls on the table.
“I suppose you didn’t come down here to meet everyone,” Marla said, ladling a heaping portion of porridge from the stockpot on the stove. “But meet them you will. Dawn is when servants get up, to stoke the fires, empty chamber pots, and lay out clothing. I see you have no problem dressing yourself, though...” Her eyebrow rose with this last comment.
“Are you the cook?” Samiris asked, her eyes on the tray of brown sugar, cream, raisins, and chopped nuts the woman was deftly assembling.
“Cook, baker, scullery maid wrangler.” Marla set the steaming bowl of porridge on the tray and placed it in front of a stool. “Sit. Eat.”
>
Samiris obeyed. She took her first bite of porridge and the familiar taste transported her. She closed her eyes. If the smells were different, if there had been the smell of drying pine sap instead of the heady smell of fresh bread... she could almost have been sitting at her own kitchen table with Tamrah beside her.
“That good, hmm?” Marla said, interrupting Samiris’ fantasy.
“Yes. I don’t know how all these women survive on pastries all day.”
Marla chuckled. “You’re from one of the Southern regions. I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re more grounded than the others. And apparently hungrier,” Marla said, as Samiris tucked into her bowl of porridge.
Marla dished out another bowl of porridge and sat down next to Samiris. She added showers of brown sugar, raisins, and nuts to her bowl, then drowned it in a flood of cream before stirring it all together and taking a bite.
“I heard about dinner last night,” the woman finally said.
Samiris winced.
“I’ve always thought those hats were ridiculous, myself,” Marla said. “Just another way for those ladies to show off.”
“Ridiculous doesn’t cover it. That hat tried to kill me.”
“Why did you wear it?” Marla asked, her eyes fierce on Samiris’ face.
Samiris was shocked by the question. “Uh... Cloris told me to.”
“Did you even like it, when you saw it?”
“Of course not,” Samiris said, aghast.
Marla looked at Samiris, waiting.
“I... I’m trying to fit in,” she finally said.
Marla nodded, satisfied with her honesty. “But you are different from those other Ladies. Wearing their clothes won’t change that. Why are you trying to fit in?”
“I promised my sister that I would try to break the curse.”
“And how would wearing a murderous hat help you do that?”
Samiris sat stunned, porridge slipping off the end of her spoon into her bowl like snow melting from a roof.
“I don’t know,” she said. “To help the Crown Prince fall in love with me?”
“If I’m not mistaken, the curse says that it’s you that has to fall in love with him.”
Samiris stared at Marla, her mouth opening, then slamming shut again like a door left open in the wind. Her thoughts were a school of frightened fish, darting quickly in several different directions.
“Then I’m not going to be able to break the curse. There’s no chance I can fall in love with that moron.”
The second the words slipped from her mouth, she clapped her hand across her lips as if she could scoop them up from the air and shove them back in.
Marla chuckled and patted her shoulder. “If I were in your position, I wouldn’t be able to break the curse either.”
Samiris resumed eating. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders, but at the same time, a rock had found its way into her gut. She didn’t know if she was more relieved or more disappointed. She would not be the one to heal her father, to bring prosperity back to the land.
If breaking the curse meant that the Crown Prince had to love her, this was something, perhaps, that she could control. She would wear the dresses, attend the dinners, smile, simper, and prance. But Samiris knew, without any doubt, that there was no way she could ever fall in love with Fitzhumphrey Augustus Monterosso.
Maybe she could get past his rotund body shape, his crooked teeth, his acne and fleeing hairline. But she would never not care about his stupid indifference toward his people. She would never be able to see past his irrelevant focus on wagon improvements, plumbing modifications, and self-winding wells while his citizens starved.
Love required respect like flames needed air. And she would never respect that man.
Marla nodded again, as if she had heard every thought pass through Samiris’ head. “So then the focus shifts to what else you can accomplish while you are here.”
Samiris tilted her head, a curious bird. “What do you mean? What else could I accomplish if not breaking the curse?”
Marla shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s for you to figure out.”
The far door swung inward and a chattering trio entered the kitchen. Aster and the two young men went silent when they saw Samiris sitting at the table with Marla, like birds who spotted a cat.
Samiris swiped her mouth with a napkin and started to stand. “I should really go,” she said.
Marla’s hand clamped down on her arm. “Nonsense. You’ll stay until we’re finished with breakfast. Come on, you three. Get a bowl and sit down.”
The trio did as Marla said, but Samiris could feel their eyes darting back to her often as she resumed eating. She felt guilty somehow, as if she had interrupted a couple kissing or tracked mud into a church. Samiris ducked her head and focused on her porridge as Aster and the two young men sat across from her at the table.
Samiris chanced a glance at them. Aster was inspecting her bowl of porridge as if she would be tested on its appearance later. The boy sitting closest to Aster had brown hair and soft blue eyes. The other had hair the color of sand and eyes the color of roasted chestnuts. He was taller, broader, and wore a frown on his full lips.
“Of course, you know Aster,” Marla said. “The brown haired one is Deems, who works in the stables, and that’s Marcus, who works in the boiling room.”
Samiris nodded. “Good morning.”
“Morning, my lady,” they all murmured, but only Deems made swift eye contact and gave Samiris the hint of a smile.
She was an intruder here, whether Marla would admit it or not. Samiris hurried to finish, taking enormous bites of porridge, one after another, barely tasting it anymore. She dashed her napkin across her lips and stood.
“Thank you for the porridge. It was delicious,” she said. “Where would you like the dishes?”
“I’ll clear them, Lady Samiris,” Aster said.
“They go over there, dear,” Marla said to Samiris, pointing to an enormous ceramic tub in the corner. “We all wash our own.”
Samiris did as she was told, washing her bowl and spoon in steaming, soapy water and setting them in a wooden rack to dry. She made for the exit, her shoulders hunched around her ears.
“We’ll see you again, same time tomorrow for breakfast,” Marla said, no question in her voice.
Samiris paused and looked back. “Um...”
Aster and Marcus stared at Marla, their eyes wide. Deems frowned slightly, looking back and forth between them.
Marla’s eyebrows rose in challenge. “Yes. You’ll come down for breakfast again tomorrow, or I’ll be quite offended and think that you dislike my cooking.”
Samiris didn’t know what to say, so she nodded and ducked out the door, closing it soundly behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Aster found Samiris in her rooms later.
“Marla says to tell you that you must come down tomorrow morning for breakfast,” Aster said, brushing Samiris’ hair at the dressing table.
“Oh,” Samiris said, glancing at Aster’s face in the mirror.
Aster took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I made you feel unwelcome. I was just surprised to see you in the kitchens.”
Samiris’ eyes flicked to Aster’s. They were as open as a book on a table, and Samiris could read the honesty there.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“And I know what it is like to be alone in a strange place, without friends.”
“You do?”
Aster smiled sadly. “I’m an indentured servant. Most of the palace servants are. We’re brought in from all the provinces. There are strict rules about indenture, and not just anyone can do it.”
“What do you mean?” Samiris asked.
“Well,” Aster said, around a mouth full of hair pins. “Your family
receives a large purse in exchange for your servitude, but you have to enter into the agreement willingly. The process includes three separate interviews that can only be attended by the individual applying.”
“Why is that?” Samiris asked, watching Aster’s fingers weave nimbly through her hair.
“It’s to prevent young people form being forced into indentured servitude by their parents.”
Samiris gave an unladylike snort and rolled her eyes. If a child was being pressured into servitude, where would they go if they did not wish to comply? If matters were that desperate, the door to their hearth would be slammed in their face if they tried to return.
“It’s considered a prime arrangement, working at the castle,” Aster added.
Samiris understood better than most. For an empty-bellied youth, porridge every morning, bread and meat every noon and a hearty stew every night was rapturous gluttony. There was wood in the fireplace, clean linens on the bed, and clothing on your back. Add to that the proud knowledge that your family wouldn’t starve, that you could ease the ceaseless burning in your younger siblings’ stomachs, and it was an agreement that many were willing to sign their mark to.
“It is not ideal, being so far from home,” Aster said, pushing the final pin into Samiris’ hair. “But it’s only for a few more years, and it has helped my family so much.”
Samiris had bristled when Aster explained the arrangement, but she thought carefully. Every servant in the castle, and there were many, represented a family who wouldn’t starve. She nodded in understanding. If Tamrah and her father were starving, Samiris would gladly sign up to work so that they could be fed.
“Has it always been this way?” Samiris asked.
“No,” Aster said, adjusting a braid on Samiris’ head. “Before the curse many foreigners worked in the castle. But they all left because they were able to go. The curse didn’t hold them.”
“So whose idea was it, the indentured service?”
Aster patted Samiris’ hair one final time and gave a satisfied smile. “I heard it was Captain Trego who came up with it,” she said. “And they hired more servants than they let go. The new boiler rooms alone each have ten men working in them.”