Ambriella
"There are too many plates on the table, I can't even eat in peace," Drisella says. "And where in God's name is my bread? Ambriella!"
One week, Ambriella. Even Drisella can't fuck up your mood.
"Apologies, Drisella," I say, laying the bread basket on the table and collecting the plates.
Anastasia jerks her hand back as I take the plate beside her. "You're filthy. What have you been doing?"
"Cleaning the hearth," I say. "As Mother told me to."
"I expect you to clean mine next."
"Yes, Anastasia."
Don't look the slightest bit chipper. It'll fuck you over. Don't glow. Don't glow. Don't glow.
"You're looking awfully colorful today, Ambriella," Lucia says.
"It's Sunday," I say. "There is no better day than a holy one."
"Simpleton," Drisella mutters under her breath.
Anastasia giggles. "Well, before you go to church, make sure you clean this tablecloth."
"The...tablecloth?" I look at it. It's spotless. I cleaned it just yesterday.
Anastasia wipes her jam covered fingers onto the end daintily. You dirty bitch.
"It's an atrocious sight," Drisella agrees, tipping her orange juice over and watching several feet of white fabric change color.
"Of course," I say. "It's filthy. I'll see to it right away."
Lucia watches with a smirk. "And get my coffee, now. Less sugar in this one."
"As you say, Mother."
I dash out of the room and hurry to the kitchen. Cook Agnes eyes me as I pour a fresh cup of coffee and toss in some sugar cubes. I'm not in much of a good mood anymore, though nothing they do will stifle my excitment. They've picked up on how happy I am and they're going to do everything they can to ensure I never glow again.
Go ahead. Everything you do will only make it worse when the Big Day comes.
I take the cup back up to the breakfast room and place it before Lucia. She's still laughing at whatever miserable joke the girls have cracked about me while I was in the kitchen. She takes a sip and spits it back up.
"How am I supposed to drink this?" she asks. "It's far too sweet."
"I'm sorry, Mother," I say, reaching for the cup. "I'll get you another."
"You do that," she says, splashing the coffee at my gown. I wince and jerk backwards quickly. Lucia likes her coffee hot—and I mean hot.
She decides to finish off the conversation by tossing the cup at me. It hits my cheek, then falls down into my hands. Shit. Right over that same bloody slap mark she gave me.
I contemplate throwing some rat poison into the coffee, but ultimately have to remind myself that in just seven days, I can break her cheekbone with a mallet.
This is the worst last Sunday ever. It's the worst Sunday ever. It's the worst day ever. Operation: Kill Ambriella's Buzz is on their priority list now. I get slapped three times before noon. All by Drisella. Anastasia settles for throwing things at me. Lucia is the only one who is gentler than usual. She just decides to go about giving me extra chores and 'accidentally' tossing my gloves into the fireplace and insisting that the floors aren't clean enough so now I have to concentrate the detergent that makes my fingers peel.
Drisella gets in one more slap before sundown, which she does with a flyswatter. I should point out that this is all on the same cheek. I think the skin is numb now. I swear I didn't even feel the last one.
When I look into the mirror at the end of the day, there's a dark red bruise forming on my face that no amount of powder would ever be able to cover up. It doesn't matter, Ambriella. They've done worse. You've looked worse. They'll be on their knees in a matter of days. On their knees kissing your shoes.
My fingers look terrible. I have to use three times more salve than usual to ease the sting and stop the bleeding. Twice as much gauze is needed to wrap them up.
Nevermind, Ambriella. Wear this. Wear it like armor.
"Ambriella," Lucia's voice says at the door. I freeze. She doesn't come in here often.
"Yes, Mother?"
"I want you to run into town in the morning and get a little something for Drisella's birthday surprise."
Right. The great cow is turning twenty in three days.
"Of course. What would you like me to get her?"
"Tell the baker to prepare a massive macaroon cake," Lucia says. "Something exciting. I want designs all over it. Pink ones."
"Yes, Mother."
"And perhaps she could do a with a few new pearls. She hates her blue ones."
"Of course," I say.
Lucia takes a seat on the edge of my bed. Shit. Don't sit there. Her foot is directly above the loose floorboard where I've hidden one of two embellished shoes. My eyes flicker over it before quickly looking back up at her.
"And maybe some more ribbons," she goes on. "It won't be a birthday without ribbons. And lace, while you're there."
"As you say, Mother."
"And I don't like the job you've done on the floor," Lucia continues, sensing my apprehension. "Concentrate the soap and scrub it again."
"I'll do it first thing in the morning, Mother," I say.
"Oh, I don't see why you can't do it right now," Lucia says, tapping her foot right onto the floorboard. "Yes, now will do nicely."
"Yes, Mother," I say almost breathlessly.
"And I'll be having no sugar in my coffee tomorrow," she adds, tapping her foot again. The glint of silver is visible for a split second as the loose board rises and falls.
"Yes, Mother," I say.
She pauses, eying me. Something's wrong and she knows it. I hold my breath.
"You seem awfully—" Lucia begins.
Ding dong.
"Ambriella!" Anastasia yells. "Go get the door!"
Who on earth would show up this late?
I head downstairs and find the maid Louisa holding the front door open. Edward is there on the step with his little hat in his hand.
"Miss Ambriella," he smiles a little when he sees me. "I'm sorry," he pauses. "I know it's late."
"No trouble at all, Edward. Come in, won't you?"
Edward steps inside quietly.
"What's the matter?" I ask. He's off. Different. It's only when I hold my candle closer to him that I see the ugly mark on his forehead. So we've both had rough days, then. "Edward, what happened?"
"One of the gears got funny so I just wanted to see what was wrong...and..."
And he pulled the hat back onto his head, and then I see that he was using it to cover a hideous black and purple mess forming on his skin.
"Oh, Edward!" I take his arm and pull him closer to get a better look at it. "Come with me."
I'm suddenly grateful that Lucia and the girls are the extent of my problems. Dammit, I knew that those gears would do something bad. I never liked the idea of him and his tiny hands getting caught in one. I clean his hand up and wrap it in gauze if only to shield it from view. I'm much easier when I can no longer see the black and purple of his wound. Gauze is a weak approach because I'm positive he must have dislocated something, but I can't take him to a doctor. No one will treat him this late at night. It'll have to wait until morning.
"Don't you ever touch those gears again," I say to him. "I mean it. Ever."
"Yes, ma'am," he says. He allows me to kiss his cheek. "I can't thank you enough."
"Yes, you just did," I say. I pause as he goes back onto the front lawn. "Wait!"
"Yes?"
"Could you—could you do something for me?" I ask him.
"Of course, Miss," he says, hurrying back to the steps. "Whatever do you need?"
"I need you to hold onto something for me," I say. "Can you do that?"
"Of course," he says.
"Wait right here," I say, running up the stairs to the attic.
Lucia is gone, praise the Lord. I half thought she might go digging around while I was down here. The shoe is still there, glinting dangerously in the light. I wrap it up in my apron and run back downstairs, handing the bundle to Edward.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Do not open it," I say. "Take it straight back to the clocktower, hide it away somewhere no one will find it, do you understand?"
"Yes, Miss. I'll hide it."
I kiss his cheek and watch him leave. I can instantly breathe when he's gone from view. No risk of anyone finding that shoe now.
My mind wanders briefly to it's twin, sitting in the palace. Nevermind, Ambriella. You've made your choice. Seven days to go.