A/N Okay, people. Next chapter already (I really should be revising. Oh well! Don't tell anyone!) Leave a little review for me. It would make me very happy.
Part Eight
"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" Carlotta said idly as Meg yanked upon the strings of her corset. "Tighter, Meg, tighter."
The little maid's face was flushed with the effort as she finally tied the knots at the back, and turned away to sweep up the deep green gown with the plunging neckline from the door of the wardrobe.
"Your Most Royal Majesty," the mirror was shaking so hard that Carlotta could barely see her reflection through the ripples in the silver. "I regret to inform you that the Princess Christine Snow White is still the fairest in the land."
"What?" Carlotta screamed, pushing Meg aside so that the little maid's head was knocked into the bedpost as she approached the quaking mirror. "How can that little bitch still be alive? Why won't she stay dead?"
It was to be borne in mind that the Queen made quite the hysterical sight, shouting at a quaking mirror in her corset and hoop, with her hair piled inelegantly on top of her head, so in all honesty, it was not Meg's fault when out of tiredness and the pain of her bumped head she began to laugh.
The Queen glared at her furiously, but Meg just doubled over with tears pouring down her cheeks, leaning against the carved rosewood bedstead for support.
"And just what do you think you're doing?" she screamed. "I will not have my own personal maid laugh at me!"
She stormed over to her hysterical maid, taking the unfortunate girl by the front of her apron and slapping her twice, viciously. Meg coughed, and the laughter stopped as tears swum in her eyes, blurring her vision and her cheeks stung as though she had been burned.
The Queen's enraged face was inches from her own, and Meg suddenly realised how stupid she'd been with fear rising in her chest like the turquoise tide. "You will not be my personal handmaid any longer. Do not bother to return tomorrow."
She let Meg drop, and fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. In a moment of stupidity, she had lost her way of survival, her way to earn money for her family…because of her stupidity, her family would starve.
The Queen seated herself at her dressing table with an air of wounded dignity. "Go on," she snapped. "Send another girl to finish your job, you insolent cow. And before you leave my castle, send Buquet up to me. I must see what is to be done about our darling little princess."
Meg did not notice Buquet until his fat little fingers were around her waist, pushing her up against the side of the spiral stone staircase. "The Queen wants you," Meg said automatically, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. She had often been accosted by his drunken self, and knew all too well how to escape.
But this time, it seemed, he was neither drunk, nor willing to give up that easily. His hands tightened, and she took in short, panicked breaths, using all of her strength to try and push him off. "Get off me, Buquet. I said the Queen wants you."
"The Queen can wait." The stench of his foul breath made her want to retch as he placed sloppy kisses across the line of her jaw.
"I'll scream," Meg threatened, but then his hand was over her mouth, pressing her closer into the wall, the roughness of the stones scratching her back through her uniform.
"I'm doing you a favour, little Sorelli," his eyes had become cold as one hand came to rest possessively against her breast. She felt sick. "No other man in his sane mind would have you…"
"I would highly suggest that you unhand Miss Sorelli," the voice cut through the air like a knife, and Buquet was sufficiently distracted that Meg was able to ram her knee into his groin, side stepping as he collapsed with a shout of pain.
Blonde tendrils fell out from her cap, and her skirt was ruffled up, the petticoats and her worn, torn boots showing beneath it. The Prince stood there, his eyes hard as he stared down at the unfortunate man on the floor. "Are you alright, Meg?"
Somehow, his lack of formality made tears spring to her eyes and her knees wobble beneath her, and then his arm was around her shoulders, holding her steady. "I'm…I'm fine," she stuttered, his closeness and the scent of sandalwood making her head spin.
He narrowed his eyes, taking in the bright handprints across her cheek, but did not speak, merely turning her around and helping her down the steps, away from the still groaning Buquet.
Once outside, the fresh air did much to clear her head, and the Prince let go of her arm. "You won't see me again," Meg suddenly said, feeling knots twisting in her stomach, sadness and loneliness clouding her mind. "The Queen sacked me."
His blue eyes met hers, and he took a deep breath. "I'm leaving, anyway."
"What? I thought the Queen was talking about marriage and everything…"
"My parents want me to marry her, but I don't believe I will," he told her curtly, and for a second, joy overcame the guilt at losing her job, at being the one who would cause her family to starve. He would not marry the Queen. That was worth all the jobs in the world.
He took her hands, and she felt the calluses from riding and writing in the palms of them. When he spoke, his voice was very low. "The lords and ladies say good things about her. But I can always tell what a person is like by the way they treat their servants."
A gentle, butterfly kiss against her cheek. Then he pulled away, gave her a sad smile. "Adieu, Meg Sorelli."
He turned and walked away. And in that moment, she knew that she loved him.
She was still sitting and staring into space, her mind whirling in fevered circles when the knock came. Sighing heavily and sliding the books between her woollen blankets, she headed down the stairs, new heaviness in every step. How could he have kept such things from her?
Downstairs, she peered through the keyhole to see a young woman with hair as red as fire and a scar twisting the skin above her eyebrow waiting outside.
"Combs for sale!" her voice was as light and pretty as a feather, so Christine opened the door, once again unaware of the existence of a potion created to change one's appearance.
The young woman smiled as the door creaked open, and Christine wiped her hands against the coarse skirt of her dress, suddenly nervous for some inexplicable reason. Recently, she had noticed, her hair was becoming more and more unruly, curls growing this way and that and no amount of ribbon could keep it from falling in her face.
She had often wondered in the past few days if Erik could magically procure a comb for her as he did with so many other objects that now lined the set of rough-hewn shelves in the corner of her room. But it seemed as though her wish had come true without her having to see Erik – especially when he stomach was knotting into a tangle at the thought of confronting him.
That she would have to confront him was undeniable. How could he have hidden all of this from her…especially when…when…she got this fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, and felt sparks burn against her skin whenever he accidentally brushed against her? Was it love?
If it was, then he certainly owed her the truth.
Shaking her head, Christine took a few steps out of the safety of the doorway to where the young woman was now riffling through her wicker basket.
"I have a very beautiful comb somewhere, that would suit you very well," the young woman murmured, a frown creasing that jagged red line upon her smooth forehead. "Aha, got it."
She laid the comb in Christine's palm, and Christine gasped. Silver whirls formed the body, set with sapphires and tiny scalloped shells, with silver prongs that were long and elegant and would look picturesque nestled in her dark locks.
"This is beautiful," she said, a stab of longing in her chest. "But it looks far too expensive for me."
"Nonsense," the young woman smiled slyly and held out her hand. "Two silver pieces and a promise that you'll try it on."
Transfixed by the beauty of the comb in her hand. Christine found the required sum, and ignoring the sense of foreboding, ignoring the screams of her mind, she swept up her hair and pushed in the comb.
There was a moment of utter stillness.
Then she collapsed against the door, her knees giving way like water.
The young woman laughed, and went on her way. The Queen would be pleased.
