Ambriella
My father's last word had been 'eighteen'. When he left for that trip and never returned, that's what they told me. Lucia Tremaine didn't understand it. Drisella didn't understand it. Anastasia didn't understand it. To be honest with you, a great many things often escaped their understanding. But not many things typically escaped mine, so when I heard the word 'eighteen', and couldn't understand it, my first rational thought was that it had been the fever that took him.
And then I heard it again. It hadn't been madness. 'Eighteen' had not been the delirium of fever. 'Eighteen' had been my only hope.
.`.
"Eighteen," said Mr. Coatsworth the first time Lucia slapped me.
It had been shocking. My parents had never hit me. And the sting across my cheek had been enough to make my eyes tear up and my face burn for hours.
Mr. Coatsworth hadn't seen the mark on my face—I'd thrown on some flour and pretended I was baking. But let it not be said that estate managers are imperceptive people.
"Eighteen?" I repeated. "What about it?"
"Your eighteenth birthday," he said. "That's when you can do as you please with them. All of them."
"Father never left a will—"
"He didn't need to," said Mr. Coatsworth. "The terms of inheritance of House Allandale state that if you are unmarried and still living in this house by your eighteenth birthday, then the property and the fortune will pass onto you. If you stay here and wait that time out, then these women will—in nine years' time—be at your mercy. Think on this, child. All that is wrong will be right. But you must be patient."
At the time, nine years had seemed so short. It's always seems so easy when you're just talking about it.
"Nine years," I repeated. "I can do it."
"Do not tell the Tremaine woman," Mr. Coatsworth said to me. "Do not tell a single living soul. If word gets back to her about the rules of inheritance, she will wed you off at the first opportunity. An Allandale must always own Royce Manor."
"I will not," I promised him.
One year later, Mr. Coatsworth died of pneumonia. A lifelong friend and loyal servant of House Allandale—and my last ally—gone from the world. And thus began my descent.
8 ¾ Years Later
'You are cordially invited to attend the festivities of His Highness King Alexander on the nights of April 8th to 22nd to celebrate the birth of the Honorable 3rd Duke of Burlington.'
This is not the sort of thing that you hide in the loose floorboard under your bed. But because I'm me, I couldn't resist. Yes, yes, I'm fully aware of what the penalty for something like this is. A whipping. A right and proper whipping. But I just couldn't hold it in. I just want to see them squirm a bit.
Ambriella is small. Ambriella is weak. Ambriella is insipid and stupid and dull and harmless—too harmless to do something this sneaky and conniving. No one would ever suspect her. I suppose that's the reason why I should keep it. Because I'm small and weak and insipid and stupid and dull and harmless and no one would ever suspect me.
Downstairs, they're breakfasting to the cheery sounds of tears and Anastasia's agonized gasping. It gets worse and worse every day. I suppose today is as good a day as any to give it to them. The eighth of April is nearing. If they're going to be ready, then they'll need time to prepare. Ideally, I'd love to burn the invitation. I'd love to see their miserable faces when the eighth of April arrives and everyone they know goes to the palace and they have to face the shame and misery of not being invited. I'd have to put more work into pretending that such a sight wouldn't fill the empty void in my heart than I've put into anything I've ever done before. I don't know if I'm that good a liar.
I've already resealed the thing. All the same, I double check it for any signs of tampering before I head downstairs. My old room is now used as a dressing room. They relocated me to the room the farthest upstairs years ago. It's not bad, just that it's big and I don't have much to fill it with, so it gets a bit empty. During the spring and summer I fill it with flowers. It ends up looking the nicest. But during the winter months it almost sets in the new ice age since there's no fireplace. I removed some of the decorative stone from the wall beside my bed and now when it gets cold I just stuff it with dry hay and light it. It's a functional solution and probably would have been perfect, except the cinders always get onto my face. It gave Drisella one of her rare (and I mean rare)strokes of genius the first time they saw it.
"Cinderella!" she had shrieked with excitement, doubling over laughing like it was the best thing since honey roasted peanuts.
Shallow as pigeon shit.
Fuck it. My fingers are bleeding again. Lucia downgraded to this cleaning agent a few years back that works like a charm when you're scrubbing the floors, but it's unnaturally harsh on the skin. During the dry winter months, my fingers crack and bleed at the slightest provocation. It's less prominent during the spring and summer, but exertion is usually what does it. There's a salve I make from the stuff in the garden that puts a stopper on it, and now I mostly work with gloves.
Two more months. Two more months. Two more months.
The breakfast room is my favorite part of the house. I don't care what Lucia's presence has done to stain the memories I have here. The sunlight peeks in through three walls of windows. Drisella hates being in here in the early mornings because it's too bright and her routine drinking doesn't agree with it. I don't think Lucia even notices her hangovers. Just goes to show you what sort of family I'm dealing with.
Lucia is sucking on the end of a long pipe. The smoke is light and fragrant. I don't mind that she smokes in here. It's a nice scent. But she's distressed, so I just sink into a curtsey and pick up the empty plates, setting them aside.
"We'll be the laughingstock of Amonta," Anastasia laments. Her voice is muffled because her head is buried in her arms on the table. It's thick and heavy. She's in tears.
"We could steal Alexandria Hildegard's," Drisella suggests.
She's not in tears like Anastasia. Her brows are knit together closely in frustration. Lucia doesn't say anything. She just rests her chin on her hands and stares resolutely ahead. I fill her cup with milk wordlessly.
"They'll all be married by the end of the month," Anastasia's voice says. "And we'll die old maids!" A fresh peal of sobs escapes her.
No response from Lucia. Drisella stabs an egg with ferocity. I'm surprised she didn't crack the dish. Careful with the china, butterfingers. That thing is worth more than you are.
"I'll not die an old maid," Drisella says. "I refuse to die an old maid."
"Neither of you will die old maids," Lucia says. "You're far too pretty for that fate. Even Ambriella will someday wed. If she can, then by God, why can't you?"
Not that you'll ever get to see that—on the off chance that it ever happens. In two months' time I'm going to shove my foot so far into your crusty asshole that my toes will tickle your brain.
"All those other girls get to go," Anastasia is whining again. "We'll be holed up in here and all the good husbands will gone!"
Well, Ambriella—better late than never. If I'm going to give it to them, it had better be now.
"Good morning, Mother," I say quietly. "A letter arrived for you this morning."
I unearth the letter from my pocket and hold it out to her. Anastasia raises her head. Her face is blotchy and tearstained and her nose is bright red. I never thought it was humanly possible for anyone to look this bad.
"An invitation?" Drisella asks as Lucia takes the letter from my hands and pries it open.
"It appears so," Lucia says, reading through it. A smile breaks across her features. For a moment, she's almost the smallest smidge less of a snake than usual. "I knew it had to be some sort of misunderstanding."
Drisella and Anastasia are quiet. "Praise the Lord," Anastasia whispers. "We are saved."
And I have to move aside before they run me over as they waltz around the table together.
"Did this just come in, Ambriella?" Lucia asks.
"I only just came in from the garden and found it in the post box," I lie.
"It must have been delayed in the post," Lucia says. "Of course we'd be invited. Oh, we must head to town immediately. Ambriella, run ahead of us and schedule an appointment with the tailor, will you? We'll be along soon. Meet us at the jeweler's."
"Yes, Mother," I say, gathering the empty dishes. Drisella's muddy brown eyes are on me.
"Save those macaroons for me, Cinderella. I'll have them later this afternoon."
"Yes, Drisella," I say.
She doesn't want them, the macaroons. She just wants to ensure that I don't get to eat them. Well, honey, you can have them. I've learned over the years from your steadily expanding ass what happens to people who Spite Eat as a hobby.
"On second thought—take them with you into town. I'll get hungry while we're shopping."
"Yes, Drisella."
Die, bitch.
Amonta town is a small one, not very significant. It's pretty, though. Cobblestone streets and flowers everywhere. And it's the closest town to the palace. You can see the tops of the towers from the town square. People come through here all the time, strangers coming to see the palace, traders from foreign lands coming to sell to royalty and nobility. We get all kinds of new faces here.
Buxton's Tailor is the finest one in town. People say that the queen once commissioned Master Buxton for a gown. Of course, no one has any proof since she bit the cheese twenty years ago and the only time anyone ever heard about it was from Master Buxton himself. He hates Drisella and Anastasia more than I do, if that's possible. They stimulate his suicidal urges almost as much as the pain they inflict on me. So when I tell him they're coming, I'm careful to do it with an appropriately solemn expression. I'm suddenly feeling really bad for having held onto the letter for so long. The first of the balls is only a week away and he doesn't have much time to be working on fourteen gowns for two girls—well, technically seven gowns. Drisella might have to consider wearing a tent because I doubt anything else will fit her at the rate she's going.
Now, now, I know it's not right to go poking her for being the size of a humpback whale. And in truth, I would not typically mind her being the size of a humpback whale. But do you have the slightest idea how difficult it is to press a gown that could fit a humpback whale? To wash one? To tie a corset? Do you have the slightest idea what her fin—I mean hand—feels like every time she lands it on my cheek?
Once I've given Master Buxton the news, I leave him to pen his will and testament and make for the jeweler's. I've got the macaroons in the basket dangling from my arm. I half debated for a while about spreading boar fat in them, but then it occurred to me that that sort of thing would only make my life that much harder. So no boar fat.
It's when I'm turning the corner that I bump into a boy. Normally bumping into someone wouldn't do any harm, but I lose too much weight during the winters and I'm only just putting the pounds back on. So I end up nearly falling over.
"I'm so sorry, Miss," says the little boy as he reaches his skinny hand out to steady my arm. "I'm so sorry! I'm hardly watching where I'm going these days—"
Jesus, kid, I'm not gonna eat you.
"It's fine," I say, shaking my head. "It's fine. Hey—don't I know you from somewhere?"
"Miss…Ambriella?" he nods. "I'm…the chimney boy."
Fuck. That's the kinda thing you remember. I guess he expected me to remember. I don't recognize his face since usually when I see it it's covered in soot, but I guess if I squint I can recognize his skinny legs that stick out of the fireplace as he scrubs the inside of the chimney. Edmund, is it? Or Edwin?
"That's right," I say. "I remember. It's just…you look so different."
Well, everyone's always a little cleaner on Sunday. Even I get to dress nicely—well, nicer than usual.
"You're headed to the jewelers' are you?" he asks. "To prepare for the ball?"
"I'm not actually going to the ball," I say.
"Why not?" he asks. "Did you not get invited?"
"Well…I did, actually."
"Then you must go. Everyone is going."
"Are you going?"
"I meant every maiden."
"Well, maybe I will," I say, smiling at him. "Have a good day…dear."
Dodged a bullet there. Can't understand why I can't recall his name. I'm usually great with names. Or at least calling people names.
Lucia and the girls are poring over necklaces when I reach them. I hand Drisella the basket of macaroons and watch her stuff her cheeks with a satisfied expression.
"Master Buxton expects you within the hour," I say to Lucia. "He has a very busy day today, so you mustn't be late."
If Master Buxton hasn't blown his head off already.
"Right. Of course he's swamped with work," Lucia nods, her eyes still on this string of pearls. "I'll take three of these," she says to the jeweler.
"Oh, Mother—" I'm sort of taken aback at this gesture. "I'm not sure that one will fit me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The…the necklace," I say, tilting my chin to the string of pearls.
"You…" her brow furrows. She smiles. "You seriously think I was getting this for you?"
"You asked for three," I say. "Anastasia, Drisella, and myself."
"No, darling," she says, taking my hands in hers and rubbing them carefully. "Anastasia, Drisella and myself."
Oh, shit. I can feel it coming.
"I…see," I say, nodding. "I understand, Mother."
Don't say it, woman. Don't say it. I am a spiteful machine and I will want it only if you say that I cannot have it. I am perfectly happy to skip the royal balls of my own accord. If you tell me to stay put, the likelihood of my staying put will drop down to zero. Do not do this to us.
"You are not to go to the balls," she says.
Shit.
"Yes, Mother."
I have got to go to those balls.