The servant boy is staring at her again.
Jaws clenched in irritation, Regina scrubs a little more furiously at the rags in her basin, splattering murky soap water across her bare arms and the side of one cheek. She drags an elbow over her face to dry it, glowering all the while. No matter where her chores have taken her this morning, the damn fool hasn't seemed far behind, which she wouldn't have minded so much if he had least bothered to make himself useful while staring so intently at her.
But every time she throws him a pointed glare he merely returns it with a smirk, never lifting a single finger. He had leaned casually against a marble column while she mopped every dust-lined crevice of the ballroom floor, had loitered near the entrance to the kitchens as she polished all the fine china that was only brought out for very, very special occasions.
Such an occasion is upon the castle now, which had been a flurry of activity for several weeks, and only further magnified within the last two days, into a hustle and bustle of last-minute preparations for the arrival of the marquis' eminent son. To Regina's knowledge, he hasn't been home in years—the last she can vaguely remember of it, she'd been just a girl—and as far as she's concerned he can very well stay put where he is. It's not like the castle is going to clean itself, and it appears as though she's the only person competent enough to do it.
Regina pauses in her glowering and makes the mistake of catching the man's eye once more. He would be handsome if he weren't being such a pain in her ass, she sighs regretfully, and almost as though to prove her point, he chooses that moment to wink at her. She's seconds away from wiping that smug grin off his face with a few choice words when the pitter-pattering of Mrs. Lucas draws near, scattering her thoughts.
"Wash the dishes, do the mopping," the head housekeeper is muttering to herself, "then the sweeping, and the—oh, Regina, there you are." She rifles through a long list of items that have yet to be crossed off. "I have some additional demands from the marchioness with regards to the linens—"
"Perfect timing," Regina interrupts, wringing water from a towel. "Can you please give them to that useless man over there so he has something else to do other than to just stand around like a damn coatrack?"
Mrs. Lucas swings her gaze toward the direction Regina's pointing in, then back around and from side to side with apparent confusion; the wall he had been leaning on moments before (one arm slung leisurely over the other, a grin playing at his lips) is bare, and the man is nowhere to be seen. Regina grits her teeth, somehow even more irritated with him now that he's gone.
"Who?" Mrs. Lucas asks in her typical brusque fashion, looking twice as exasperated as usual, as though Regina has been wasting her time on purpose.
"Nobody," she grumbles in response, drying her hands so the ink doesn't bleed through to the other side of the parchment as she accepts it from Mrs. Lucas. "Clearly nobody."
.
.
.
Regina retreats to her quarters for a brief moment to catch her breath before tackling all the one million other tasks that await her. If she can somehow manage to accomplish everything by suppertime she may be able to sneak off to the stables just after dusk, but the list she's holding only seems to double in length the longer she stares at it.
She senses his eyes on her back before she's even turned and has to stifle a groan.
"What are you staring at?" she asks tartly, hands defiant on her hips, and he holds up both of his, the picture of innocence save for that infuriating smile, and the foot he's placed rather boldly across the threshold of the door.
"Forgive me, milady," he begins, his voice deep yet boyish, rough around the edges yet musical at the same time, and she shivers as the sound scratches not so unpleasantly at her nerves.
"I am no lady," Regina retorts, feeling like her body has just betrayed her. "And you, sir, are standing in my way. What is it that you want?" She folds her arms across her chest, scowling, acutely aware of the unkempt state of her makeshift bed on the floor behind her—blankets in disarray, books strewn open where her pillow should be, yellowed at the edges and falling apart at the spines, the stub of a candle she'd jammed into a rusty metal bowl tilted sideways despite her repeated attempts to coax it upright—and she hates how he can see it all, hates how exposed it makes her feel. "How did you even find me?"
"You're not terribly hard to track," he shrugs, with an unmistakable twinkle in his bright blue eyes. "What with the wash water you've trailed halfway across the castle by now."
She's opening her mouth to object (loudly and aggressively) when she realizes this must be his idea of joking with her, and she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's riled up her temper. "Someone has to keep this place in working order." In fact, she's fairly certain it would fall apart if she didn't.
"Ah, right." He's smiling warmly at her again, and she wants to slap the dimples right off his aggravatingly handsome face. They feel like an intrusion somehow, disturbing her safe place with strange and unwelcome thoughts. "For the pride and joy of his family to return home at last."
God. As if she needed reminding.
She tries to muster up a "Mhmm" as noncommittally as possible, but there must be something about the stiffness of her posture or the permanence of her scowl, because he's raising an eyebrow at her, looking a combination of curious and amused.
"You don't sound terribly pleased about it," he remarks casually.
As a matter of fact, Regina has heard plenty about this prodigal son, and nothing that she finds to be a particularly compelling account of his character. She'd catch snippets of praise from his doting mother at mealtimes: "Top marks in his class," the woman would simper to a visiting duke as Regina set down a platter of cold-cut meats and hard-boiled eggs—"on an extraordinary journey of self-discovery across the world"—"oh but if only he could settle down and have someone take care of him for a change"—"so brave and focused and committed to principle"—"just like his mother in every way"—which, if that last part were to be believed, did not reflect advantageously on the son.
(And then, the only time the marchioness had addressed Regina directly, touching her primly on the wrist as she refilled their goblets with wine: "Do be a dear and make sure his rooms will have a constant fire going, are heavily stocked with fresh linens and blankets. A horrid draft is coming, and I'm afraid my son won't be up for such inclemency of weather. He is most sensitive to the touch of cold in that way, just like his mother." Regina had had a good laugh about it on her way back to the kitchens, picturing this frail, feeble thing, blown entirely out of all realistic proportions in the loving eyes of his mother, delicate as a twig and just as easily swept away by the lightest of the northern winds.)
"I'm sure he's lovely," she says now with a reasonably straight face.
A chuckle. "And I'm sure he'd be quite delighted to hear firsthand what you truly think of him."
Regina balks at that, suddenly very conscientious of the fact that though she's said very little to this man, he seems to know too much already. She scrutinizes him more carefully than she had bothered to earlier, her gaze narrowing at the freshly laundered look about his clothes—which, though clearly plain and modest, are of a fabric she does not recognize. She begins to wonder for the first time just who exactly he is, and how he has managed to escape her attention until today.
"Robin, milady," he answers the unspoken question in her dark, dubious eyes as he mock-bows, "at your service."
"I'm not sure that clarifies anything," she tells him stoutly.
He grins, teeth catching his bottom lip, and her heart does a traitorous flip-flop in her chest. "I arrived with my lord just this morning. I'm his personal manservant. Valet, if you will."
"Oh," is all she can say. Then, as the implication dawns on her, "he's here? But—he wasn't to arrive until tomorrow!" Idiot, she curses herself frantically, back already aching at the thought of the lashes she's sure to receive tonight if the marchioness knows she's dallied too long with this ridiculous man. She doesn't even realize the sheet of parchment is now a crumpled ruin in her fist until he—this Robin character—is prying it gently from her white-knuckled fingers.
His smile softens now. "Let's see what we can do about this, then, shall we?"
.
.
.
Despite her protestations, he makes a sharp left outside her door and begins walking purposefully off down the corridor; and because he's now holding Mrs. Lucas' precious to-do list hostage, Regina has no choice but to follow.
"Milady," he interrupts sternly when she makes a grab for the paper in his hand, insisting that she can take care of it all herself, thank you very much, "it is on my account that you've fallen behind. Please, let me help. Now—" and he looks questioningly at the suits of armor lining the hallway he has accidentally led them to, "I'm guessing this is not the quickest way to the parlor?"
And because he's right, it is his fault, she has him do all the heavy lifting as she dusts under crimson chaises and velvet ottomans, even lets him hoist her up by the waist so she can reach the cobwebs decorating the corners of the chimneypieces. When his hand lingers on her back even after her feet are firmly back on the ground, she swats it off, but she can't seem to get rid of the warmth his palm has left there, and it spreads treacherously up her spine into the base of her neck, coloring her cheeks. It certainly doesn't help matters when she notices that he seems just as incapable of tearing his eyes away from her up close as he had been from afar; and now that it's harder to avoid it, she finds herself pausing a second too long when her eyes meet his, noting the baby flecks of hazel amidst the blue before she forces herself to look away.
To his credit, he works diligently by her side, without stirring up more trouble than he's worth. She has to admit, rather begrudgingly, that he does not prove as useless as she originally took him to be, though she'd rather die than see the smug look on his face were she to say it out loud.
"You never did tell me why you refuse to leave me alone," she finally comments well into the afternoon, hefting the basket of apples more securely to her side as he leaps elegantly down onto the grass, another sack full of lush red fruit slung casually across his shoulder. The sun has started its descent, throwing warm shades of rusty orange over the orchards she has tended to since she first arrived at the castle as a young girl. Apart from her bed and her books, this is the only other place she has ever felt safe in her solitude (excepting the occasional thief—she recalls one boy in particular, when she was still but a child herself, who had been obnoxiously persistent, sneaking an apple a day until she had lost all patience and pelted one at him, hitting him square in eye; he'd made himself scarce after that). The quiet rustling of the leaves, the crisp fragrance of ripening fruit, are all the company she desires, and yet she finds that she doesn't mind this, sharing it with someone else, with him.
Robin smiles now, teasing, "Perhaps I simply enjoy the view," and the husky lilt in his voice tells her he's not talking of the blossoms or the sunset. She rolls her eyes, turning away before he can detect the flush blooming over her cheeks.
He wrestles the basket from her arms, pointedly ignoring her when she objects, and strides jauntily off, in the exact opposite direction of the castle.
"Where do you think you're going?" she's spouting out incredulously even as she follows.
"I believe this concludes our obligations to that infernal list," he responds cheerfully, winking at her as she grabs it from under his arm for verification. To her immense surprise and relief, he's right, though she can't quell the niggling feeling that something seems to be missing from it.
"I should still go prepare for supper," she says haltingly, can't help but marvel at his absurdly lackadaisical approach to the whole notion of waiting on royalty, hand and foot, when the only person he seems committed to waiting on is…well, her. "And I'm sure his lord has things you'll need to tend to before—"
"He can fend for himself a little while longer," Robin dismisses as the stables come into view, and her spirits take an unexpected leap at the sight. "The lad's not as utterly incapable as you seem to think."
"I said no such thing," she counters defensively, but he's no longer listening as he rummages into the knapsack for an apple, tossing it her way.
"Here, this should tide you over," and he takes a generous bite from one of his own.
"I didn't mean supper for me," Regina huffs impatiently, thinking of the permanently pinched look of disdain on the marchioness' face every time she lays her meals out in front of her.
Robin wedges his apple between his teeth for a moment, freeing up a hand to heave the barn door open. "Do you ride?" he asks once he's motioned for her to pass through and taken another bite.
Regina relishes the familiar scent of hay and horses, the soft whinnying from within the stalls, before forcing herself to answer, "No," suddenly very self-conscious and unsure of herself—two things she'd been unaccustomed to feeling until this man had strolled into her life, wreaking havoc with his eyes, his voice, his smirk. "My…my father would've taught me, but he passed away when I was very young." And now, apparently, he's inspiring her to confess things she's never breathed to another living soul, not even Mrs. Lucas. Wonderful.
She feels his startled stare fall on her and turns purposely away from it, fingering the apple in her hand before offering it to the gray spotted Shetland clomping his hooves directly to her left. The pony devours it in a single bite and she rubs his muzzle, stalling.
"I'm sorry," Robin says finally from behind her, a gravelly texture to his voice now. "I…can't say I know what that kind of loss feels like. And I am very sorry you had to find out."
She tilts her head to the side, gaze dropping down to the dirt floor before rising back up to peek at him over her shoulder. He's looking at her (well, when isn't he?), with such tenderness in his eyes and in the gentle furrow of his brow, that she has to swallow and avert her gaze once more.
"And your mother?" he's inquiringly softly. "Where is she now?"
"She's the one who sold me to the marquis," Regina replies, her words clipped at the edges, and he catches on to the finality in her tone, doesn't press her any further.
Longing for something to distract her from the dull ache that's settled into her chest, her gaze falls on the stall tucked away into the far corner of the stables, which had been empty the night previously. Now there stands a beautiful white mare, with a long, silky mane to match that glides up into the air as she tosses her head with an inviting neigh.
"Oh," Regina utters softly, and she hears Robin chuckle beside her.
"Come, I'll introduce you to Shadowfax," and he's steering her forward with a palm on the small of her back. She doesn't shove him off this time. "We rescued this one from an abusive master during our travels. She takes a bit to warm up to you, but if you—" And then he's chuckling again when the mare bumps her muzzle eagerly into Regina's hand.
"She's not used to being cooped up all day," he tells her, innocently enough, but the suggestion in his eyes is clear.
"That's really a terrible idea," Regina tells him, frowning exasperatedly when he unhooks a saddle from the wall anyway.
"Or it could be a really excellent one," he argues, and her answering protest sounds feeble even to her own ears as Shadowfax begins nudging a warm, wet nose into the crook of her arm.
"Easy, darling," Robin's murmuring to her as he situates the saddle around her middle, runs a comforting hand through her glossy mane, "this is the lady's first time riding. Let's be gentle on her."
"You're incorrigible," Regina says, her half-resigned sigh jolted into one of surprise when warm hands grip her firmly at the waist and hoist her up.
"Perhaps," he agrees as he jumps into the saddle behind her, clucking his tongue, and Shadowfax takes off without warning through the open door, trot quickening into a gallop as Regina grips the horn of the saddle for dear life. Then Robin's whispering into ear, "It's all right, I've got you," the words tickling her skin, and she relaxes into his embrace, feeling terrified yet somehow safe in a way that she's never known, not by her own accord, but in the arms of someone else.
And despite the three lashes she receives later that evening for being unable to explain her absence at suppertime (not that the marchioness listens anyway, letting out a bored yawn as the whip cracks down with brutal force), the memory of his chest firm against her back, the arm he tightened around her middle as the wind blew her hair into a glorious tangle and they flew, flew through the air—the kiss he pressed to her knuckles when they parted, the look in his eyes as he promised they would meet again soon—makes it all worth it.
It's not until well into the night, when she's lying gingerly on her belly while Mrs. Lucas applies a cooling salve into the raw wounds on her back, that she realizes he'd never even asked for her name.
.
.
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The fanfare the following morning is a blaring spectacle of trumpets, pomp, circumstance. All subjects of the land—from rambunctious families of modestly dressed villagers, to the more primly behaved, splendidly clothed children of barons and viscounts alike—have gathered in the coronation hall to officially welcome home the marquis' beloved son. Regina weaves delicately in between restless limbs to keep the banquet tables properly laden with various fruits, cheeses and goblets of wine, all the while keeping an eye out for Robin should he appear. This is ridiculous, she chastises herself every time she catches a glimpse of someone of the right build, with a similar profile, and the foolish hope that swells in her heart is quickly crushed when it's never him.
The violins join in as the trumpets pick up the rhythm, announcing the arrival of the marquis and his wife. Regina steps back from the tables to blend in with the hushed crowd, not altogether thrilled at the prospect of seeing the marchioness again. Then there's a delighted noise from somewhere to her right, and a heavy murmuring spreads throughout the hall as elbows nudge and fingers point at the resplendent figure making his way down the center of the room.
She can't see his face, but the rest of him is clad in a finely woven, deep crimson tunic with a vest of gold brocade, and the sight temporarily dazzles her, until he turns, and she lets out a gasp that's muffled by the ever-growing excitement that surrounds her.
It's Robin.
A little overdressed for the occasion, she smirks with a slight shake of her head as she cranes it now to look behind him for this mysterious son. Honestly, she's surprised they involved Robin in this procession at all—but she supposes if they have been traveling side-by-side for years, they're probably quite close, practically brothers, maybe—
But the only people she sees standing behind him are the outskirts of the crowd as they form a tight circle, closing off the marble columned doorway to the coronation hall.
That can't be right, Regina thinks, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this, even as a gnawing pit settles deep into her stomach.
Her mouth drops open as an elderly man steps forward, kneeling in front of Robin. "My Lord," the villager begins, but whatever words that happen to follow are muted by the dull roar of her heart pounding in her ears.
His what?
Robin is chuckling, bending forward to persuade the man back onto his feet, as the pit in her stomach expands like a cancer and a tidal wave of embarrassment floods through the rest of her body. She recalls all the menial tasks she had put him up to the day before—how he had done them all without a single complaint, or any indication of how unaccustomed he actually was to such labor—how he had held her to keep from falling as they flew, how he looked at her and made her feel as though she were the only thing that mattered.
Bile rises up in her throat, hot and acidic. Had that all just been an act too? A passing fancy of his, a diversion to occupy an otherwise dull afternoon as he awaited this absurd parade, found fun novel ways of defying his mother by dallying with a servant girl?
She feels like she's going to be ill.
No wonder he'd never asked her name. He hadn't cared to know.
The thought of how her pulse had quickened with the kiss he dropped onto her hand and the hope he'd expressed of seeing her again soon—an empty promise, she knows it to be now, true enough but devoid of all meaning—it positively sickens her. Her hands feel cold, clammy, fumbling at the edge of the nearest table for purchase as she turns to run, she doesn't know where, as long as she is anywhere but here. Her sweaty palms catch against the cloth, dragging it with her, and tureens of food fall to the floor in a resounding clatter, loud enough that heads start to turn despite the general racketeer of the room, but Regina is already disappearing into the crowd.
She thinks she hears someone call out her name, but she can't be certain.
The atrium is blessedly silent save for the echoing of her frantic footsteps on the marble staircase. Still reeling from her stupidity—oh how he must have laughed and laughed at her expense when the clock struck midnight and her dream turned out to be nothing but a nightmare—her eyes burn with unshed tears, and a cold fury sets the nerves in her raw and tender back aflame—she's halfway to the top when a new revelation brings her to a breathless, shuddering halt.
Of course. She knew something had been missing from that list.
She'd forgotten to light that stupid fire in his bedchambers.