Ambriella
Week Two. Day One.
Staying put today is more of a punishment for myself than anything else. I absolutely refuse to go to the ball until I've gathered my thoughts. What happened last night? Did I seriously almost get to talking about my mother? How many years has it been since I've talked to anybody about her? I've lost count.
I scrub the floor with a little more ferocity than usual, ferocity I ought not to use—I still can't find my gloves. Lucia certainly hasn't complained.
"I want this floor clean enough to eat off of by our return in the morning."
Well, considering I've been wiping the floor with the potatoes I've been serving you all evening, and seeing as you haven't died of poisoning, I'd say it's quite clean, wouldn't you agree?
"Yes, Mother," I say.
Drisella nearly slips on the wet floor. I catch her by the hem of her dress. Just the smallest droplets of water catch on the fabric.
"You clumsy little fool!" she screeches, pushing me back.
Her hand might have left a bruise on my arm and I can feel that before I've even hit the floor. Dammit. Landing on your ass on a tile floor is never a good thing.
"You've gone and soiled my gown!" she says. "Mother, look at this!"
Lucia swats the side of my head. I inhale slowly, keeping my head down and my eyes on the floor.
"A thousand pardons, Mother," I say stiffly. "Apologies, Drisella."
"Apology not accepted!" she says. "I want this gown re-pressed when I return."
"As you say," I nod, picking up the brush and resuming the scrubbing.
No need for things to get nasty, Drisella. In two months' time you'll be cleaning the chamber pots, anyways.
I don't usually go this far. Rubbing their food on the floor or sabotaging things in any equally serious way. But it seems that the closer I get to the Big Day, the worse my mood becomes. Little things that I once told myself I'd handle with a straight face have suddenly made me monstrous. Like the bill for the gowns. Allendale gold being made to finance the designing of 42 gowns for Lucia, Drisella, and Anastasia. Allendale gold pouring out of their hands to pay for three custom carriages. Allendale gold being made to pay for Brown's finest gray ponies. Allendale gold paying for lace and parasols and chiffon and fans and the Allendale heiress to keep Royce Manor from looking like a stable. I have to keep my head on, I know that. I can't boil over until then. I'm almost there. I'm almost free. So I scrub that tile until my hand is screaming in protest, the fingers red and the skin cracking again.
Though I'm hardly complaining about my task for tonight. I need the distraction. What was I thinking? He was nice and sweet and he asked questions and listened to the answers and how long has it been since anyone has done that to me? Has it been so long that I'll melt for the first person who offers their attention? Who knows what's going through his head? What on earth was going through mine? Hell no I'm not going to start spewing memories of mother to the first stranger. I'm not interested in crying into the glass of wine someone offers me.
But he was so nice and pure. Why can't other people be more like him? And what's wrong with wanting to talk to someone who honestly seems interested in hearing what I have to say?
No. Absolutely not. I have a mission—two months and then it's done. Under no circumstances may I tell that prince my name or anything about me. He'll talk and whoever he talks to will talk and word will eventually reach Lucia and then I'm likely to die before I get the chance to turn eighteen and make her kiss my shoes.
So no more talk. Especially not of mother. Even if I wasn't worried about having my throat torn out by my angry stepmother I'd never tell anyone a word about mother anyways.
Maybe I should stay put. Maybe it'd be safer for me—for the both of us. I think of the bouquet I got out of yesterday's visit sitting upstairs in my room. That was too personal for my taste.
But he was so nice.
Snap out of it. It was a single conversation with a total stranger. Stay put and keep yourself in the safe zone—you need to be completely invisible until the Big Day.
Though kindness is a really rare trait these days. And how bad would it be to have someone to talk to every now and again? I mean—it's not like it's a permanent thing. These balls only last a fortnight.
So…what then?
Go, Ambriella. You don't know that many people anyways, and that means that you won't be able to invite that many people when you turn the magic number. So this is likely to be as close as you'll ever get to a victory party. So…go. But mind your distance from the fucking prince. Don't ever come close to talking about Mother. You've come too far and sacrificed too much of your dignity to throw it all away for a stupid prince. A ball, however, will only ever be a ball. You've earned the night out. But be careful. She may be spending Allendale gold and she may be living the Allendale birthright, but right now, it's still Lucia's to use. It's yours, Ambriella—that much is true. But not legally. Not yet. So go. But be careful.