Ambriella

Week One. Day Six.

I was half tempted to go back to the ball tonight. Some tingling of excitement in the back of my mind lingers from last night. I can't believe that I spoke to the prince. If I had known it was him who had been watching me on that first day, who had danced with me later…I probably would have put in the effort to be politer. But he was…nice. It's weird, to say the least. Nice people aren't easy to find much anymore. It seems that the closer I get to the date of my liberation, the meaner and meaner the world around me gets. How could a prince of all people be so...sweet? I hadn't imagined he'd be like that. I had imagined a skinny, spoiled little inbred brat. Suffice it to say I was pleasantly surprised. Not enough to go back again tonight. Only enough to make me consider it.

The chimney boy (whose name turns out to be Edward) is hard at work. I can see his skinny little legs from the fireplace, the fabric of his trousers covered in cinders and ashes. He came in shortly before Lucia and the girls took off for tonight's ball and he's been scrubbing up there ever since. It's only when I hear a dull 'thud' from the space that I even look in his direction.

"Are you alright up there?" I ask him through the brick.

"I've cut my hand!" I hear him say.

"Come out here and I'll have a look at it," I say, tugging the fabric of his trousers.

He emerges in a puff of ash. I cough and fan it away from my face. The tears streaming down his face leave clean lines of pale skin visible underneath the gray and black ashes. Poor thing.

"Let me see it," I say, pulling his arm towards me and opening his hand. It's not too deep, but it's bleeding and it's ugly. "Oh, come with me, love. Let's get that patched up."

I take him to the kitchen, where I sit him down at the little table where I take my meals. I can boil some water to use on his hand, and then maybe some of my finger salve could help as well. His hands are so tiny. He whimpers as I dab at the cut.

"There, there my dear," I smile at him reassuringly. "Tell me, how old are you?"

"Eleven, ma'am," he says.

I frown. "Do you get injured like this often?"

"Every now and again," he says, determinedly wiping away his tears. "Occupational hazard."

"Do your parents know of these occupational hazards?"

"I suppose my Dad did," Edward says.

"Did?"

"Before he died last year."

Oh.

"I see. And your mother?"

"The year before."

Now doesn't this sound familiar?

"So where do you live now?"

"11 Pullings Lane, ma'am."

"Edward?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"11 Pullings Lane is the clock tower in the square."

"That's where I live. The clock keeper lets me stay as long as I clean the gears."

I could die. My bones seem to shake at the idea of this boy's skinny fingers being caught and crushed in the enormous gears of those things.

"My parents are dead, too," I tell him.

"But you don't live in a clock tower."

"No, I don't. I live here."

"When did Lady Allendale hire you?"

"She didn't," I say. "I've always lived here. She only arrived ten years ago."

"But then…you are an Allendale?"

"I'm the only blood-born Allendale at Royce Manor. Those daughters of Lady Allendale's are not my father's children, but her own from a previous marriage."

"If that is so, then why do you work as her maid?"

"Because…the world is sometimes cruel to people like you and I," I say to him. I've dabbed on the salve, but I forgot to get something to wrap it with. I reach into my hair and pull loose the ribbon I have tying it together. I wrap his hand up and pat it delicately. "There we go. How about some cherry tart? Would you like that? I baked it just this afternoon."

Edward wins my heart around the time I watch him snarf down this tart like he's never had one in his life. My God. Poor child. I give him a few more in a basket to take with him along with his pay.

"But I haven't finished cleaning the chimney yet," he says, refusing the money.

"I'll not hear of you working with that hand of yours," I say, pushing the money into his pocket. "Go to a doctor and get it properly treated and then you can come back another day. The chimney isn't going anywhere."

"But the filth will pile up."

"No matter," I say. "I'll clean it this week. You just come back when you're good and ready, alright?"

He sighs, taking the basket. "Goodnight, Miss Ambriella."

"Goodnight, Edward," I pat his cheek and watch him move through the front gardens. He disappears quickly in the dark.

I wait until he's gone, then I close the door and turn to face the half cleaned fireplace. Oh, joy. Won't this be fun?