Our next chore is to mop the ballroom floors. Which I might add are the size of BUCKINGHAM PALACE!!

So, we're both standing here with mops, working our way from one end of the ballroom to the other. It's about eleven at night and we've been in here for FOUR HOURS already. I swear I'm going to lose it. Maybe, for revenge against Abner, I can break some more Babylonian vases in the hallway. Maybe...

Jones and I still aren't talking. Fine, Jones. I don't want to talk to you. You and your stupid arrogant mouth. I want nothing to do with you.

Oh, but the silence is killing me!!

I refuse to talk first.

That would mean weakness. That would mean he is the dominant species.

I refuse to back down at all.

Jones leaves to go to the bathroom. Either that or he's merely a lazy bum who is slacking on the job.

I ask Ben quietly once Jones leaves the room.

Nope, its the bathroom.

I begin to mop again, swirling the thing around and around in circles. I feel like actually laughing, because its so fun to make patterns on the floor with soapy water. I decide to pretend that I am at a royal ball.

I'm wearing a beautiful gown of many colors. My hair is perfectly tamed and up in a tight bun. All the lords and ladies are amazed by the way I look, but while the Ladies scoff in jealously, the Lords line up to dance with me.

I accept the handsomest of the bunch, a tall fellow with light brown, messy hair. He seems familiar, but I can't place his name, seeing as I've met so many Lords and Ladies in the royal family of England.

I curtsy and he bows, a very majestic bow. We then begin to dance, moving across the floor. The King and Queen even marvel at our technique. We are graceful and refined and perfect.

Then, as soon as I see myself getting carried off in the Lord's arms, I smack into the wall of the bathroom. The mop falls to the floor with a clatter. I stumble a few feet back, clutching my nose, which feels badly bruised, if not broken.

"Stupid stupid stupid!" I yell at myself, pissed for letting my imagination get the best of me.

I turn and find Jones in the doorway, the most bemused of expressions on his face. He's actually smiling at me. SMILING. AT. ME.

And here I am, a bruise on my nose and a mop at my feet.

But he doesn't say a word. He just picks up his mop and starts working on the floor again.

Trying to erase the blush from my cheeks, I pick up my mop as well and face the opposite direction of Jones.

We finish at twelve thirty at night. I'm so tired I can sleep while standing up. I trudge up the stairs to my room, my joints sore and my eyes drooping. I jump on my bed and am asleep in a minute.

I just pray to God that the last couple chores aren't this embarrassing.

My dreams occupy the Lord that I 'danced with' in the ballroom. He looks far too familiar. But before I can ask him his name, I wake up, having to bathe, get dressed and mentally prepare myself for the day to come.