Chapter One:
"Noble Blood vs. Karma"
Marguerite slung a heavy basket of freshly ironed linens onto the table, wiping the sweat off her brow. As she went to fold the laundry, she caught a glimpse of her hands. They were cracked and red with blisters. She'd never worked a day in her life, and the past month of working in the palace scullery had been a rude awakening. She heard whispers and giggles behind her—it would seem some of the other maids had caught a glimpse as well. Marguerite swallowed her embarrassment and ignored them. The last time she'd reprimanded another maid for making fun of her new station—or lack thereof—her temper had gotten the better of her, and she received a 10-stroke lashing on her back as punishment. She did not care to repeat the experience.
"Ugh," Marguerite heard a complaining grunt from behind her—she knew it was her mother. As strained as their relationship had become, Marguerite and Rodmilla were the only confidant the other knew downstairs in the servants' hall, and begrudgingly, had once again become necessary allies.
"A month we've worked down here in this hell-hole, and still they treat us as such," Rodmilla struck up a conversation with Marguerite, referencing the maids' snickers.
"Yes, well, I have no intention of fighting back this time," Marguerite replied. "I listened to you and look what it got me! Ten scars across my once fair back."
"That's exactly what I mean," Rodmilla snapped. "A beating over something as simple as defending yourself? What do they expect from us? Blood is thicker than the dish water down here, and no one can take away the fact that we are of noble blood."
The housekeeper glared at Rodmilla from across the room, a signal that Rodmilla needed to find something to do. Rodmilla faked a laugh and a smile, and began helping Marguerite fold her laundry.
"This is my chore, go and find your own!" Marguerite scolded. She frequently sought after jobs that would harm her hands the least, and took her time finishing them.
When Rodmilla was sure the housekeeper wasn't looking, Rodmilla whispered, "Marguerite, if we work together, we're bound to come up with some way out of here."
"What do you mean?" Marguerite asked.
"I mean," Rodmilla subtly continued, picking up a piece of laundry, "finding some way to revenge ourselves on that grubby, back-stabbing Danielle."
"But how, when she's up there, and we're stuck down here?" Marguerite asked hopelessly. "We can't recover what they've taken from us."
Suddenly, a thought came to Rodmilla. Her eyes lit up, then she haughtily smiled. "Darling," she said, "Nothing is final until you are dead—and even then, I'm sure God negotiates."
Marguerite thought for a moment, then looked up at her mother, and slowly smiled at the reference.