Days pass quicker than she expects, and the chores exhaust her to the point where she can still find sleep amongst the dungeon's uneven stone floor. With the exception of eyelids that feel as though they're made of bricks, she looks no different. But today, reaching up with the longer broom to catch the cobwebs where the ceilings meet the walls, she feels more like a rag doll.
She reaches for another cobweb, this time with a grunt that echoes down the corridor. Dust scatters, but it still remains, taunting her like a bully holding one of her books just above her fingertips.
"You called?"
"N-no, I, I was trying to..." She gestures at the cobweb.
"There are ladders."
"Yes, and that would have been a good idea, but..." she trailed off again, biting her lip. Yes, tell him how much it hurt your back to even try carrying the thing, she scolds herself. See what it brings you.
"Why are you hunched over like an old hag?" he asks, twirling his finger at her.
"I didn't notice."
"Then that's what I'll say if anyone asks about your hump." It's dismissive, but he lingers, perhaps making sure she continues with her work. Not to be outdone, she reaches for the cobweb again, wincing when she raises her arms.
"Your back is killing you."
"It's nothing."
"Tsk, tsk, if you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything. Turn around." He crosses over to her and takes a quick glimpse at the back of her gown, cringing at the sound of her back cracking as she straightens herself. "That gown is hardly appropriate for housework. You know, I seem to have forgotten princesses don't sleep on cold floors, do they?"
"No," she mouths, hoping this isn't a trap.
"No. Let's increase our productivity, shall we?"
Instantly, she finds herself at the threshold of an upstairs room, the foot of a bed and a stained glass window in view, a long design of budding flowers. The fireplace crackles, lighting up the room, inviting her to step into it. A cream canopy hangs over the bed and a pink-trimmed wardrobe stands next to it.
"I, I can stay here?" she asks, regretting the choice to speak.
"Not now. You have work to do. Chop chop, dearie! I won't have my tea late!" He disappears down the stairs, apparently trusting her to not take the whole day admiring her new surroundings. Still agape, her fingers brush the edge of the bed, trace over the sconces, and curl around the handles of the wardrobe. Something more suitable for cleaning, she thinks, sliding back a few simple afternoon dresses in favor of a white blouse and blue bodice with matching skirt.
A/N: The title of the story is from a line in Lord Byron's There Be None of Beauty's Daughters, a lovely poem. Seemed a Byronic story to me. Chapters will get longer as the story progresses and updates will now be on a weekly basis...approximately. Let me know what you think!