One day, she would get out of here. All of them would look at her with wonder and awe in their eyes, and regret everything they had done to her for they were now out of her favour. One day.

Until then, she was stuck here, but she wouldn't allow simple physical confinement to prevent her from devising a plan. She knew she was smart – she would think herself more intelligent than her stepsisters were – and she was quite certain that this plan of hers should work. Well, technically, it should work. It was all up to fate and destiny whether she caught the prince's eye, but if she really managed to win his attentions, then she had a clear ticket out of here. Elated, she giggled to herself.

"As always, you behave like a lunatic," her older stepsister snapped at her, brown eyes narrowed. "Why can't you be normal and quiet for once, like a proper servant? And help me arrange the clothes in my wardrobe," she added as an afterthought, "I need to prepare for the ball tomorrow night, and it would be much easier if I could see everything arranged nicely. What, why are you glaring at me?" her voice sharpened. "Are you seeking punishment, Cinderella?" she sneered.

She forced a saintly sweet smile upon her face. "No, of course not, I wouldn't dare," she simpered, turning away from the gloating girl before the smile was instantly wiped away from her face. How dare she talk down to her as though she was nothing, as though she was her lowly servant – even going so far as to order her to arrange her wardrobe! What were the other servants for?

If their mother had not married her own father after her dear mother died, then they wouldn't even be in her home, leeching off their wealth – her father was no longer around to keep an eye on them, and the sisters did as they pleased. Their mother, and now her stepmother, rarely interfered in their activities, and so the sisters practically had free rein of the house. If their families had not become legally bound together, the sisters would still be living in the gutters, while she would be free.

She knew they were just jealous of her, jealous that she had a pampered life the whole time she was growing up whereas they were poor, and had married into the aristocracy. It was why they locked her away in the mansion, her mansion, and forced her to sleep in the attic. All day, she was meant to cook and clean and garden, though her saving grace was that she never had to do all the heavy chores – they had other servants for that. No, she was only a symbolic servant they gloated over. She only had to attend to them personally, but it was more than enough for her wounded pride.

She was not even allowed out of the gates. The most she saw, nowadays, was when she was out in the gardens and she could see the carriages driving past, far out at the main road. She wished she could leave the place and see the world, because ever since she was twelve all she saw were these four walls and the sprawling gardens. She saw nothing else, was not allowed to exist outside of this gated community. Leaving here was her only true wish; she desired only that, and nothing else.

The wet cloth she held in her hands wiped over the already polished, clean surface of the wardrobe. She could see her reflection in the dark mahogany – green eyes, narrowed and intent, and long, teal hair, done up in two pigtails. She hated this hairstyle for it made her think of a child, but her darling stepsisters insisted that she keep her hair in this do, probably just so they could mock her. They liked to pull on her long pigtails for added emphasis when they spoke, and she had long gotten used to the pain.

"Anastasia!" came the high-pitched wail of the younger stepsister as she burst into the older one's room, looking distressed, her hair in complete disarray around her face. "I can't decide what to wear to the ball tomorrow, and my hair – my hair is a disaster, I couldn't possibly leave the house looking like this. I need to win the prince's heart. I must be the princess of this kingdom!" she insisted.

Anastasia didn't even look up from her crocheting. "You have come to the wrong person, Lucinda, and you know it," she said primly. She hated that prim, proper way of speaking Anastasia had – it seemed too forced and artificial. "You should ask Mother for help, she's probably hiding in her room again, crying or the like," she said dismissively. "Or…you could ask our dear stepsister," her voice became sly, and she could practically feel Lucinda's stare boring into her as the younger girl turned to face her, finally deigning to acknowledge her existence. She pretended she was not listening.

"Her?" Lucinda sounded disgusted, but she was none too pleased to be associated with the little brat, either. Anastasia was older, bossier and haughtier, but at the very least she was not an obnoxious little fifteen-year-old who thought that the world revolved around her and whined the very first instance she did not get what she wanted. Lucinda was the very definition of a brat – it was only in terms of her impression of Lucinda that she was similar to the older stepsister. "I don't want to be touched by her. She would probably ruin my hair, or cut holes in my dress out of sheer spite."

Lucinda was not wrong in thinking that. If she could get away with such behaviour, she most definitely would, but the knowledge that she would be punished kept her in check. Nevertheless, fantasising about dashing Lucinda's self-absorbed dreams of being the princess kept her entertained. "You know hairstyles and fashion are not really my forte. I am only interested in crocheting, knitting and needlework," Anastasia's tone was heavy with irony, as this was the exact same phrase Lucinda had used to describe her sister just days ago. "So I'm afraid I cannot help you, Lucinda. Now get out."

Lucinda glared at her older sister for a while, who just peacefully continued to crochet, before she shot her a displeased look and beckoned to her to leave the room with her. She knew she had no choice but to leave, for if she chose to ignore the younger stepsister she would no doubt kick up a gigantic fuss, so she left the damp cloth on top of Anastasia's wardrobe and followed the bratty child.

Lucinda's room was a little distance away from Anastasia's, and as different from Anastasia's as it could possibly be. Anastasia's room was a fuss to clean because of all the fancy embroidery and knits she kept everywhere. Lucinda's room, on the other hand, had few such embellishments – all she had were the lacy, flowery curtains that came with every room other than her attic, and the heavy, floral carpet that covered the floor. Other than that, there was a bed, a dresser and a wardrobe, and little else. However, she knew perfectly well where the mess in Lucinda's room was kept, and sighed in resignation.

The brat opened her wardrobe, and instantly about eight dresses, some formal and some not, slid out of the wardrobe into a heap on the carpet. Lucinda screamed in horror as some of her precious dresses touched the floor, and started demanding that she pick up all the dresses at once and arrange them properly and neatly in her wardrobe for her. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but did as Lucinda told her, for fear that she would have to put up with a hysterical fit if she did not.

"I want to wear something frilly, and perhaps pink or white," Lucinda was now saying as she picked up yet another heavy ballroom dress, made of taffeta and silk and entirely too decadent for a girl like Lucinda, who did not know how to truly appreciate such finery. "The prince shall be utterly charmed by me, and he will have eyes for me alone! And we will fall in love and live happily ever after," she said dreamily, her hands clasped together. "So you must not ruin anything for me," she suddenly snapped back into reality, voice hardening as she shot her a glare. "I will never forgive you if so."

"I would suggest that perhaps you do not try to overwhelm the prince with your gift of the gab if you wish to make a good first impression," she said, semi-sarcastically. "Men generally prefer a woman to be demure and…quiet," she let the word linger in the air between them, while Lucinda stared at her with an expression of affront on her face. She knew she might regret what she said later when Lucinda ran screaming to Anastasia about how disrespectful she was as a servant, but she honestly could not care. Girls like Lucinda were like…vermin. They would simply never stop irritating people.

"Well, at least I would get to meet the prince, whereas you are cooped up here, never able to meet someone as darling as him!" the brat fumed, finally regaining her voice. "It's because you're utterly filthy, just like what we call you – Cinderella. I bet you don't even remember your real name anymore because you don't deserve a real name. You're all ashes and dirt, and you're worthless!"

She whipped around, glaring at the redhead, who suddenly flinched back – rarely had she allowed her temper to show before the stepsisters, but she was tired of putting up with this nonsense. She had been putting up with Lucinda's temper tantrums and insults for an entire week already, ever since the household received notice of the prince's ball, hosted for his birthday. Even she, with her fear of punishment, had her limits, and Lucinda had finally crossed those boundaries. "Yes, I do remember my real name," she said evenly, though her gaze was filled with bitter poison. "My name is Hatsune Miku, not Cinderella. And one day, you little brat, I will regain my fortune. Your luxuries are a result of my family's wealth, do not forget that, and even if I am in this state now because of your interference, at the very least I was never a pathetic little street urchin like you," she spat.

Lucinda paled. She looked like she was mortally wounded, her hand placed exaggeratedly over her heart, before she flounced out of the room and ran, no doubt, to Anastasia. Miku rolled her eyes, already knowing she would tattle, and that she would no doubt be punished for her insolence, but it felt good to tell Lucinda to her face that she was an annoyance. She left the rest of Lucinda's dresses on the floor and went back up to her room, deciding to hide there as long as she could before she was found and dragged to the cold, dank cellar for her punishment. She hated the cellar.

But at the very least, this time she had the bright memory of shutting Lucinda up to tide her through the cold, the dust, and the very hopelessness and despair that came with being shut alone in the dark.


"Romeo died to be with Juliet," he said flatly, sipping from a glass of wine he held in his hand. "And quite unfortunately, I am not dead, so I'm afraid that I am unworthy of that nickname. Stop referring to me as that," he was facing away from his adoptive father, the king. The king sighed wearily.

"You know I'm not the one who calls you that. Everyone else in the kingdom decided that was an apt nickname ever since tales of your attempted suicide over the death of a girl spread here from the neighbouring town. Perhaps, if you did not want this nickname, you should not have tried to kill yourself," the king said, his voice heavy with irony. The prince did not rise to the bait, still looking out of the window. The hedges needed trimming, he decided. He would tell the gardener later.

"Perhaps, then, I should not have been saved," he said simply, and the king did not respond to that. He swirled the deep burgundy liquid in his glass, looking at his reflection – sharp blue eyes framed in a pale, angular face, with high cheekbones and a furrowed brow. A contemplating angel, he would be described. People called him beautiful. He didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or as a burden. He would rather not be known as handsome, for what use was beauty in the world, really?

"Is it necessary that I host this ball?" he added, the main reason why he came to seek an audience with his father to begin with. "I am not interested in meeting new people, and would rather just celebrate my birthday with the people in the castle, the servants who I already know well. Why must you always force me into awkward social situations, Your Majesty?" the last two words sounded forced, because he was still unused to referring to his father as the king. Even after all these long months, these years, it was still strange to him. To think that he was a prince now…

"Because I am tired of you pining, and I want to establish a bloodline for the throne before we get caught up in politics once more," the king answered calmly, almost placidly, though the prince had already asked the same question at least five times before. "Go to the ball, meet someone you can at least tolerate for longer than five minutes, then have a heir. Is that really so difficult for you?"

At this point, he did turn around, sending his adopted father a look. The king simply smiled, his eyes closing. "Well, it's also time for you to move on. How long has it been…three years already, isn't it?" the prince did not answer, so he took his silence as an affirmative. "You do not have to do this out of love. It's just…a duty. Duty to your bloodline, the throne and your country. That is what a prince does. A prince, above all, honours his country. This is what you must do to continue the royal bloodline, and prevent the messy, bloody struggle that came with an uncertain throne a decade ago."

Suddenly, the prince laughed. "You know, speaking of politics," he took another quick drink, the wine dark as poison, "back during the turmoil, I was already this close to becoming the prince," he held his thumb and index finger together, indicating just how close it was. "It was only because you won that I ended up here, though. Funny thing, isn't it, fate? Makes you wonder what sort of bad luck it will decide to throw at you next. Good people never have any luck," he laughed bitterly.

The king merely gazed steadily at the prince, who stared back with a firm, if challenging, resolve. He knew the moment he chose this boy to be his adopted son that he might one day regret his decision. He might one day wish that he abandoned him on the streets, left him to die – for he was a total, complete stranger, and he wasn't obliged to rescue a stranger. Yet, when he saw the boy, this young adolescent threatening to kill himself, somehow the blond haired youth with the desperate blue eyes reminded him of himself. That same desperation and passion, that same drive and fury he once possessed in his own youth – he couldn't let such fire just extinguish itself like that, could he?

"Some people would say it's due to luck that you're here, and say you have good fortune for you're still alive," he finally answered, and the prince flinched, dropping the glass of wine. The sparkling wineglass fell to the ground and shattered, the deep burgundy liquid within splattering over the carpet, a red stain spreading quickly over the scarlet and gold embroidered tapestry. The prince simply stared down at the stain, as though he could not believe what he was seeing. Both of them just watched the stain spreading…it looked almost like blood to him. It brought back memories, of things he both had to but didn't want to remember – dead eyes, pale, cold, waterlogged skin, staring accusatorily at him, asking why

"Call for Gumi, ask her to come quickly and clean up the mess," his father ordered him. There were no guards present to carry this out, since he had asked for a private audience, and he was trusted enough to not be suspected of planning an assassination attempt. The kingship was still in turmoil, and the allegiances of people had yet to fully settle. Everyone who walked into the throne room was subject to doubt and suspicion, even him – especially him, he who was not related by blood to the throne. But then again, he, as the prince, had never before shown any sign of coveting the throne.

He did as he was ordered, walking away from the stain on the carpet to the grand, ornate doors that led to the throne room. He knocked once on the doors, and slowly the doors opened as the guards situated outside, on either side of the double doors, created the path for him to pass through. He beckoned to one of the guards outside, and the man leant towards him. "Yes, Your Highness?" he asked.

"Go and find Gumi, ask her to come here now. There's a mess she needs to clean up," the guard looked curious at the mention of a mess, but did as he commanded and went off to look for the head servant, who most likely was bustling around the second floor, ensuring that the other servants were cleaning the rooms enough to meet her very particular standards of cleanliness. When the guard was gone, he went back in, leaving the remaining guard to his station. His fingers trembled.

He could still taste the slight sourness of wine in his mouth, and suddenly, the liquor that had always been used as an escape seemed terribly foul. He wanted to spit, and rinse his mouth out with water to wash away the feelings of guilt and fear. "I've done as you asked me to," he told his father.

The king nodded, having gotten up from his throne. His robes were long and luxurious, snow-white fur trimming the finest silk, dyed in bright, commanding red. He wore no crown, for he needed no elaborate headpiece to show that he had power, that he was the ruler of the land. The crown was usually locked away in the highest part of the palace, along with the king's sceptre. "The stain will be difficult to wash out," he observed, "especially since the carpet is too big to remove and dry. Gumi will have a migraine scrubbing it clean, but I can't imagine her giving the job to another servant."

"Gumi would rather die than allow someone else to clean this room," he replied, and that was perfectly true. The head of the servants, Nakajima Gumi, was the king's personal attendant and did everything for him. She was the one who wrote letters and arranged his meetings – she was secretary, cook, cleaner and gardener all in one. Her twin brother, who also served in the royal household and was the prince's personal butler, often helped Gumi when she had too much work on her hands to finish alone. The Nakajima twins were perfectionists who terrorised the rest of the castle's servants with their high expectations and practically unrealistic standards.

Nevertheless, they were friendly. He found that they were a delight to talk to, both of them being fairly well-educated and capable of holding their own when it came to debate on arts and culture. He would not admit to anyone, however, that it was starting to get boring, always seeing and talking to the same faces every single day. "She is too attached to her job," the king snorted. "I should get her out a little more, so she can see that there is more to life than just…scrubbing floors and making desserts," he shook his head. "Which is exactly why the ball ought to go forward," he edged the conversation back to where they were earlier, and the prince let out a groan. "Holding this ball will keep the servants busy, and allow them to have a change of pace and scenery for once. You know that holding this ball will do you some good, too. Put a little colour back in your face," he noted.

"Maybe I don't want colour in my face," he retorted snappishly. "I've always been paler than most, even compared to other aristocrats. And I don't want to talk to anyone now. All those women who come to the ball for my eighteenth birthday…" he shook his head. "What more are they after other than my status as royalty? I do not want to mingle with such social climbers. I will host the ball," he glanced at the king, expression hard, "but I know you want me to find a wife, and I will not do that at this ball," his voice rang with finality, and even the king did not wish to start up another argument.

"Very well, if that is your wish. But I fully expect you to have taken a bride, or at the very least, find someone to be interested in, by your twentieth birthday," the king said, just as sharply. "You should have found a fiancée years ago, after you recovered. Your refusal is one reason why these social climbers, as you call them, are flocking to you so. With or without a fiancée, I would have expected you to hold a ball anyway. Eighteen is a monumental year," the king walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder – a surprisingly fatherly move. He was rather taken aback by the gesture.

"I might not dislike them so much if they would all stop clinging on to me and simpering. It's annoying," he folded his arms, subtly nudging the king's hand off his shoulder. The king either did not notice what he did or simply ignored the gesture, letting his hand fall back to his side. "And they like to call me by this accursed nickname – 'Prince Romeo, it is absolutely delightful to meet you'," he mimicked the ladies, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I hate that nickname. Do I really seem like a Romeo?" he asked the king, who shrugged, smiling a little. "I'm not a tragic, lovelorn hero. Just because I tried to…" the words wouldn't come out. He struggled to speak, then gave up.

Before the king could respond, there was a loud knock on the door, and suddenly Gumi, the head servant, burst into the throne room, her green hair tied in a perfectly neat bun as her sharp green eyes flashed at both of them. "Now, who created this mess?" she demanded instantly, pointing aggressively to the dark stain – it had finally stopped spreading, and was about the size of a dinner plate – that marred the otherwise grand carpet. Despite her tone of disrespect, the king and prince batted not an eyelid, for they knew that Gumi was good at her job, save for her one flaw – whenever something went wrong she would explode at the perpetrator without fail, disregarding utterly their status. Of course, she would apologise for her behaviour, but only after she calmed down.

"I did," he admitted, trying to inject some guilt into his voice. Gumi narrowed her eyes at him, then started to mutter things so quietly he could not hear her – probably something to do with the mess, his carelessness, and how much work it would take to get the stain completely out of the carpet. He did not know whether to laugh or remain silent, because this head servant was honestly the first person he had ever seen – her twin brother being the second – who was so…fussy about tidiness.

"I have asked you before time and time again, Your Highness," she said, sounding imploring, as one of the other servants came puffing and wheezing into the room, carrying a bucket full of cleaning supplies, "please do not drink wine in the throne room. Do you know how difficult it is to get wine out of wool? It took two entire weeks' worth of scrubbing the previous time. We beg you to make our lives a little easier," she continued, kneeling down on the carpet and grabbing a wet cloth from the bucket the other servant set down next to her. Gumi nodded at the servant, and the servant scampered out of the throne room, shooting the head servant a nervous look as he left.

"I'm very sorry, Gumi," he said, contrite, aware that the king was outright smirking beside him. The smirk was wiped off his face when Gumi looked up – it would not do well for the king's subjects to notice his amusement. The king was always expected to be strict, calm and rational, not easily amused by the sight of his adopted son being lectured by a palace servant. "I will be careful next time, I promise. If you can get the stain out perfectly, I'll give you permission to arrange for only carrot-themed dishes for a week," he promised, though the king now looked horrified. Gumi blinked, looking pleased at the prospect of a week full of carrots, but then quickly caught herself and frowned.

"Do not try to distract me, Your Highness!" she exclaimed, furiously scrubbing away at the dark stain. It didn't seem to be budging. "I will not be swayed from this topic just by the mention of my favourite food. There must not be a next time. This shall be the final time! We lowly servants are only here to serve your every comfort, but nevertheless there shall not be dirt or stains allowed in this castle – this is my vow, and I shall uphold it. Your Highness, I beseech you – please drink wine only in the dining room or your own room, where it is much easier to clean up any spillages."

"We'll see about that," he answered, shrugging and exchanging a look with the king. Gumi seemed to give up, knowing that to press the royal even further would be outright disrespect, not just plain, simple nagging. She went back to muttering under her breath, lips moving too quickly for him to decipher what she was saying, but he guessed it was nothing too good. Gumi had been a servant here for longer than his adoptive father was king – Gumi was born and raised in the castle, while the king had only been in power the last eight years. As a result, everyone had a certain respect for the head servant of the royal household, even the king himself. She knew things, she heard stories.

As he made to leave, deciding that he had done enough here and perhaps it was time for him to return to his room or to the stables, Gumi looked up from her scrubbing, her green hair starting to come a little out of her bun. Her face was red from exertion as her arms continued scrubbing away. "They say that you might find your true love at your ball, Prince Romeo – that maybe someone else will be your Juliet now. At least, that's the rumour around the palace," he froze at what she said, turning to look back at her. Gumi was staring at the king, who himself seemed to be rather curious about this particular rumour. "Probably started by one of the servant girls…but what do you think, Your Highness? Do you think that we might finally have the chance to serve a princess?"

"No," his answer was sharp and cold, and Gumi actually stopped scrubbing the carpet at the tone of his voice, uncertainty flitting across her expression. No one had ever heard him sound so brutal before, though it could not be denied that the prince was far from friendly. "No one would ever replace her. If the solution to my misery was simply to hold a ball, then another person would have entered my life ages ago, and I wouldn't be in this state now. There is no possible way to replace someone who has already died," he hissed, unable to help himself – it was not the servant's fault that he was so sensitive about this topic, but the very mention of his circumstances angered him.

"I…I'll let the servants know," she answered – calmly, he gave her credit for that, but he could see the shock in her green eyes at how strangely he was behaving. For all his faults and his moodiness, he rarely lost his temper so completely. "It'll be difficult to squash the rumours, though," she added, "the ladies who are coming tomorrow night are excited because of them. They all believe they might be the fated one, so to speak. After all, Your Highness, you're at a marriageable age."

He was already almost out of the door, one hand placed against the wooden surface. He paused when she said that word – marriage. It made him uneasy. "I don't want to marry, nor do I want to find a fiancée yet," he said shortly. "Father forced it upon me, but it doesn't mean I will," he shot his adopted father a meaningful glance. The king ignored him. "And…" his voice trailed off, and he remained silent for a while, to gather his thoughts. He could feel Gumi watching him, the sounds of her cleaning having paused for a moment. "I don't want to be known as Romeo anymore," he finally said. "I have a name. It's Kagamine Len. I'm not willing to take on the name of a dead lover, because it's not my right. You could call me suicidal, depressed, or even outright insane, but call me by my name, not by a tragic euphemism for the experiences I went through."

With that, he exited the room, the guards closing the double doors behind him. Gumi stared at the closed doors, her brow furrowed. "Is there something wrong with him today?" she asked the king, the man she was the most loyal to. He was a fair ruler, not cruel and hard-hearted like the previous king, and he treated all his staff with respect. She enjoyed working under him. "He normally is not like that. Moody he may be, but he rarely gets angry and expresses his opinions even less."

The king sighed, reaching down into the bucket and passing her another soap-laden cloth before she could protest against him participating in manual labour. "He's growing up," was all the king said. "Some people have to grow up before others, and when one is thrust into adulthood like he was…well, they change, which is only to be expected. Just that sometimes, the change isn't…always for the better."

He sounded wistful, deep blue eyes staring off into the distance as he stood over her. She knew better than to question him while he was reminiscing like this, so she just ducked her head and went back to her cleaning, secretly glad that as a servant, she had the ability to become invisible. Servants were meant to be seen but not heard. They did not have a presence, so for now, she hid hers.