Ambriella

This morning, I wake up and tie on my apron for the final time. I head down to the kitchen and help Agnes cook the breakfast, then I help Louisa and Jane set the table, then I serve Lucia and the girls. My hands hurt terribly, but I ignore them. My face throbs, but I ignore it. My sore stomach muscles protest at the slightest movement but I do not care.

Since the day Officer Buckley turned up at my door, everything's been oddly quiet. No one needs to talk much anyways. I do my job perfectly, make them think they've succeeded in breaking me down. And there's no fun in kicking a dead dog, so they just stopped.

My stomach twists into knots of excitement as the day goes on.

"Ambriella, get the post."

"Ambriella, tie my corset."

"Ambriella, fix my skirts."

I don't fucking care. I'll do it all with a smile. But I don't smile. I can't. All I feel is apprehension as the hours drag on.

"We're going to be hosting a dinner here soon," Lucia says to me as I pour out her afternoon tea. "So you'll be heading into market later this week to collect ingredients for the menu. I want to serve a raspberry Bavarian Crème for the dessert course."

"As you say, Mother."

"And Lucifer's been looking a bit under the weather. Take him to the doctor tomorrow and let him have a look at my poor little snuffykins."

"Yes, Mother."

"Drisella said something about a bonnet. Find out what that's all about and sew it for her."

"Yes, Mother."

"And I want you to rewash the linens. They've been looking slightly beige."

"Yes, Mother."

"And once you're finished with that, I have a few other little things."

"Very well, Mother."

I'm not allowed to use gloves anymore. Go figure. I stitch Drisella her bonnet and I wash all the linens and then I end up scrubbing the tubs and washing the roof tiles and cleaning the windows in the sunroom. It's when I'm pouring out the bucket of water when I hear the doorbell ring.

"AMBRIELLA! GET THE DOOR!"

I've never been so quick to obey. I pull the door open.

"Good afternoon, Miss," says the man, tipping his hat. He pauses for a moment, taking in my face. Go ahead, pal. Stare to your heart's content. I would too if I were you. I've been looking absolutely horrifying ever since Lucia and the girls got wind of my attending the ball. "My name is…"

Take your time, buddy.

"Is?" I urge him after a moment.

"William Garrison," he says, straightening himself up and taking off his hat. "I represent Morrison and Associates. Might I request an audience with Lady Allendale?"

"Come right in, Mr. Garrison," I say, holding open the door and letting him inside. I want to dance. I want to hug him. I want to do something, but instead I'm just calm and cool.

I lead him to the drawing room, where Drisella is failing a music lesson and Anastasia is drawing a bouquet of flowers. Lucia sits idly by the window, petting Lucifer.

"Mother," I say. "Mr. William Garrison for you."

"Hello, Mr. Garrison," says Lucia. "Come, take a seat. What may I do for you?"

"I represent Morrison and Associates," he says.

"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the name," Lucia says.

"It's a bank, Madame," he says. "The bank responsible for the Allendale Estate."

"I see. And what is it that I can do for you?"

"I'm…forgive me, Madame. I arrived here with the understanding that the Lady Allendale I am to meet with is no more than eighteen years old."

Lucia's brow furrows. Drisella stops playing.

"I am Lady Allendale," Lucia says. "The late Lord Allendale was my husband."

"I'm…I'm sorry, Madame," says Mr. Garrison, shaking his head. "But I am here to speak with a bloodborn Lady Allendale. I understand there is a trueborn living here named…Ambriella?"

"That would be me," I say, stepping forward. "What can I do for you, good sir?"

"Well, it would appear that today is your eighteenth birthday," Mr. Garrison says.

"It is," I say. "I did not think anyone noticed."

"The terms of inheritance of House Allendale dictate—"

"There is no inheritance," Lucia says, laughing. Though her laugh is uncertain. Nervous. "Her father left no will."

"Her father did not need to," Mr. Garrison says. "The fate of the Allendale fortune is dictated by the rules of House Allendale. These terms state that if—by the eighteenth birthday—the bloodborn Allendale is unmarried and living in Royce Manor, then the estate and all of its details should pass onto that heir. My Lady Ambriella," Mr. Garrison turns to look at me. His eyes travel over my face distastefully. Get over it, bro. "Are you married?"

"No."

"And you are still living here?"

"I am."

"Then as the manager of the Allendale estate, I can safely say that Royce Manor and the Allendale fortune is now yours. Happy birthday, my Lady."

He holds out a certificate for me to sign. Here it is. I always imagined in my mind what the terms of inheritance would look like but here it is. It's old. So many signatures printed on the page. All ending in 'Allendale'. I take the pen from Mr. Garrison's extended hand and sign my name beneath my father's. Mr. Garrison blows on the page to dry the ink and closes the folder.

"Well, then," I say, clapping my hands. "Now that's been settled, why don't we all settle for some tea? Tell me, Mr. Garrison, do you take earl grey this late in the afternoon?"

"Well, I suppose it's never too late for afternoon tea," Mr. Garrison says, smiling at me. I turn and look where my eyes have so desperately wanted to go.

There they are. Frozen in place. Eyes travelling over everything in sight. And those eyes should travel over everything in sight. Because everything in sight is just what they've lost. This house. Those heinous paintings they've had put in over the years. The gowns on their backs. The plush chairs they've been sitting their asses on. Finally, their eyes land on me. They take me in carefully. My hands, my face, my mouth, my torso, my legs, my clothes, my own eyes at last, reflecting everything they've ever done to me.

You are finished. You can try to ignore that now, but it just keeps coming back, stinging you over and over again. You know exactly how fucked you are. And there it is. In their eyes. Exactly how I imagined it would be. Not worry. Not anger. Not shame or sadness or anxiety.

Terror.

You know how cruel you were to me. You know it was wrong. You know that you were wrong. And now that you're at my mercy, you're terrified petrified stupefied horrified scared stiff of me. What are you trolls afraid of? That your nastiness might have rubbed up on me? That your creative torture tactics over the years might have taught me a thing or two? That I'll be as horrible and ugly as you've been to me?

Of course I will. You reap what you sew, and you girls have sewn a whole lotta misery.

I smile. "I'll get the tea trolley," I say.

I'm floating on fucking air. I get the trolley and dance back to the drawing room. Never have three women been so quiet.

Mr. Garrison smiles and laughs and soon forgets about the state of my face. I fill him up with tea and macaroons and then send him on his way. He's whistling a tune to himself the whole way out the door. It's only when the door is closed that I turn to look back at them.

They're standing there in the foyer, huddled up together like it'll keep them warm. But it won't. Not from my blizzard. My blizzard has been kept at bay for too long. It's time to roll in, and it's coming with the full force of a hurricane.

"This is a curious scene," I say, leaning against the marble pillar by the door and crossing my arms.

Lucia is the first to react. "Miss Ambriella," she says, and she gathers her skirts in her hands and sinks into a bow. Drisella and Anastasia watch her in terror, then they slowly follow suit.

"Oh, there's no need to be so formal with me, Lucia," I say. The name sounds so strange rolling off my tongue. Thinking it, sure, but saying it? That's going to take some getting used to. "'Mademoiselle' will do nicely."

Lucia is silent for a moment. "Pardon my…excessive formality, Mademoiselle," she says after a moment. Her words are slow and careful. She's walking on eggshells and she knows it.

"I suppose I can afford to forgive your 'excessive formality'," I say, shrugging. "I mean, I forgave your excessive 'brashness' these past ten years as I awaited my eighteenth birthday."

Her eyes find me slowly.

"I've waited a long time for this day," I go on. "Every Allendale knows the terms of inheritance. But you and those great cows of yours are not Allendales. I'm not entirely sure what it is that you are, though I'm fairly sure it's far lesser than human."

She sinks into a curtsey again. The girls follow her like jack in the boxes. Beauty. True beauty. "A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle," she says.

"Pardons," Anastasia repeats quietly, though her voice is shaky.

"I suppose I can afford to pardon your many crimes against the heiress of House Allendale," I say casually, pushing my weight off the pillar and stepping towards her. "But unfortunately, there are certain…other debts that need to be paid."

"Mademoiselle?" Drisella looks up at me, and she's got to be the only one who has even the slightest tint of regret mixed in with her terror. Not regret because she's feeling guilty, you see, but regret that she got herself into this situation in the first place. What did I tell you? Less than human.

"Debts must be paid," I say. "And you owe House Allendale quite a bit. Notwithstanding everything that you've taken from me personally, every cent that you've spent in the last ten years, you will put back in Allendale coffers. And once you've paid off that debt, then I'll toss you back into whichever gutter you crawled out of. I mean—you do, of course, have the option not to pay the debt. I'm sure Mr. Garrison will be more than happy to ensure your cells are all right beside each other in debtor's prison."

Drisella's eyes close tightly, as if willing herself to wake up from a bad dream. Nope. Sorry, biscuit butt. This ain't a dream. It's the real deal. I've been dreaming about it for a decade, but it's here and you're about to walk into Hell and I'm the fucking devil so welcome to the Seventh Circle.

"And how does Mademoiselle suggest that we go about repaying such a debt?" asks Anastasia with a trembling voice. Just yesterday morning she threw a spoon at my head. Oh, how the tables have turned.

"You can start by licking this floor clean," I say.

Their eyes fall on the pristine marble floors. I tip a nearby flowerpot and watch the soil scatter.

"Whoopsies," I say. "Make sure you get under the rug. And do me a favor, would you, Lucia?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle?" Lucia asks stiffly.

"Concentrate that detergent," I say. "The stronger the mix, the cleaner the floor. I'm off to do a little spring cleaning of my own. Isn't it just so much fun when we all work together?" I dash up the stairs and spin around the halls.

Louisa and Jane stare at me confusedly when I pull the trays from their hands and tip them down the stairs. We listen to the resounding crash and they are incredulous when I take their hands and inform them that I am now going to pay them for standing around doing absolutely nothing.

"But…who will tend to the cleaning, Miss?" asks Jane.

"The cows, of course!" I say happily. "Now come with me, we've got our own special cleaning to do!"

By nightfall, the staff and I have moved all of Lucia and the girl's things out of their rooms and into the shed by the pumpkin patch. By midnight, I've settled all of the staff into the fine guestrooms. By two in the morning, I've settled into my old bedroom. And although I once told myself that I'd never want anything more than I wanted this day, I don't sleep easily at all.