Ambriella

Week One. Day Two.

Going to the ball was a stupid idea. But dammit, she gave me no choice. You know how some people get irritated when people tell them to do things they were already going to do? Well, for me it comes with a twist. I have done very difficult things that have been terribly inconvenient for me—things I did not plan on doing—simply because Lucia forbade them. Like painting my room pastel peach. Or growing pumpkins in the garden. Or wearing violet perfume. I hate pastel peach. The color offends my eyes. I don't even eat pumpkins. They're my least favorite type of squash. The scent of violets makes me nauseous. But I have overcome all of these terrible inconveniences simply because they irk her.

This, however, would have to be the greatest inconvenience to me ever. I've outdone myself.

So going to the ball was no real challenge. Getting a carriage to take me was a bit of a pickle. There is a man, Arthur Blake, who drives coach for Master Buxton in town. Most of the people who attend the ball go with the intention of staying until the end of the party—nearly sunrise. Master Buxton's dislike of my step-sisters—and the fact that I have to live with them while he only deals with them a few times a month—compelled him to allow me to use his coach provided I have it back before midnight to return to the palace and collect Master Buxton's daughter Talia, who also attends the ball but—unlike me—stays until sunrise. It's a good deal. And not to mention that if I get home as early as midnight, then I get the chance to clean something up or bake something to give Lucia and the girls the impression that I'd been home all night.

The next big hurdle was finding a gown. None of my Sunday dresses would do at a royal ball. Master Buxton came in handy here. Our mutual hatred of Drisella and Anastasia can only take me so far with him, after all. He deals in trade with the outlanders who come pouring into the town every few months, bringing with them fabrics and jewels and perfumes and strange and beautiful things. All I have to do is present him with some collateral to hold onto while I rent one of the exquisite gowns he has made. I used an old ring last time—my mother's. It's an old thing, true, but like most things owned by House Allendale, it's worth quite a bit of money. Last night I traded the ring for a gown made of dark blue gossamer. It moved so fluidly and beautifully that I didn't actually feel like I was really inconveniencing myself by being there—at that pointless ball—wearing it. He gave me back the ring when Arthur dropped me off and now the whole thing has gone so smoothly that I'm wondering if maybe I should go back.

Maybe I should. I mean…it was all just too easy. I wasn't planning on going to any more. Just one would have been enough for me. But it's just so simple. How hard would it be to arrange it all again? And how satisfying it would be to me to know that—despite Lucia's warning—I had attended not just one, but multiple balls?

Haha, bitch. I'm going for the gold. Go big or go home, right?

But not tonight. Tonight I have to clean the hearth. Anastasia saw fit to tip candle wax all over the thing and now I have to scrape it off.

Two more months. Two more months. Two more months. Two more months. Two more months.

Technically, less than two months. A little over a month and a half, actually. See how far you've made it, Ambriella? All of that will be undone if you get thrown in prison for strangling Anastasia with a cheese wire. And her boney ass is not worth your life in the slammer.

"Where's the coachman?" asks Drisella as Anastasia spins around in the foyer. They're all dressed and ready to go. "We're going to be late!"

"He'll be here soon," Lucia says, staring out the window. "Anastasia, stop spinning about. You'll make yourself dizzy or tear your gown on somethi—"

Spoke too soon. She didn't even finish talking before Anastasia bumped into the china cabinet. We all pause at the sound of the crash inside.

Absolutely positively hell fucking no. Do not tell me that your clumsy ass just knocked over something in that china cabinet. You did not just break something from my mother's china collection. Do you have any clue how old that stuff is? Or how much it's worth? I'll give you a hint—your hideous dress would have to be sold and resold maybe fifty or sixty times over—with you in it—to pay for whatever you just broke. This collection was precious to Mother. It goes back to the days when House Allendale was still politically relevant.

"Cinderella, take care of that," Drisella says, waving it off. "The coach is here, look!"

"Excellent. Hurry, girls! We mustn't be late!"

Lucia rushes them out the door, leaving me to mad dash to the cabinet as soon as the door has closed behind them. I pull open the doors and take a peek inside. Let's see what the damage is, shall we?

Oh my God. I am going to skin that boney fucking trout.

I don't think that Anastasia could tip the scale at a hundred and twenty pounds on a good day. But by some miracle (disaster) she has managed to break three bowls and a tea cup. Well, in a month and a half when they're working for me, I'm gonna pimp her out to pay for it. Let's hope that there's some blind, deaf, old rich guy somewhere in the kingdom with standards below ground who'd be willing to pay me to let him sleep with her. Or maybe I'm just reaching for the stars here. So maybe I could sell her hair or something. How much would it be worth? Not enough to pay for this—that much is certain. So I'll sell her hair, and then I'll yank out each of her teeth and use that to make up for the deficit. I grit my teeth together and reach into the cabinet to pick up the broken pieces. Ouch. Should have lit a candle before I did that. I think I just sliced my palm. I pull my hand out quickly and look at it. Lovely. Dripping blood all over the floor. At least floor-waxing day isn't until Tuesday.

So my fingers have been bleeding harder than usual as well. My hands are in rotten shape. I can't find my gloves, okay? Drisella might have hidden them. Normally, I'd have shoved a severed fish head into her mattress—that's my usual response to her when she annoys me. Well—that or spitting into her soup. But with the magical number eighteen on the horizon, I've kinda been doing my best to float under the radar. Withholding the letter was my last intended act of sabotage/defiance. But this whole ball thing had to come along and God only knows I have a hard time obeying them.

Two weeks home alone was something I had been looking forward to. I don't know who to damn now—Lucia for forbidding me (and making attendance a vital need) or myself for being unable to live without defying her?

So I'll go back tomorrow. Maybe if it goes just as smoothly as yesterday night, then I'll consider going again. But I don't want to make this a habit. The balls only last a fortnight, after all.