Fey 02 - Changeling (29 page)

Now the Hall gleamed. Even under the torch-light, the brass rails sparkled.
 
The silver around the base of the window revealed its etchings.
 
The floor was an expensive marble, imported from Nye, and the arches were white stone.
 
When the Master of the House placed the red runner along the center of the floor, and leading up the stairs to the coronation platform, the Hall would be perfect.

Even so, the details weren't done.
 
Whoever had designed this hall had never thought of the people who had to clean it.
 
Tiny bits of silver and gold, small curves under the arches, rotted wood supports beside the stairs.
 
Detail after detail after detail.
 
It seemed that the group got one large thing done only to discover a hundred smaller problems underneath.

"Group Five!
 
Food!"

Charissa looked up.
 
She was in group five.
 
The Master of the House stood in the double arched doors, his hands on his hips, surveying the work.
 
He had been the one to issue the food call.
 
He supervised nights, while the Master of the Hall had taken days.
 
The system was supposed to give at least one of them sleep, but it hadn't worked that way.
 
Neither of them had rested since the work began and they looked it.
 
Everyone would have looked that way if one of the butlers hadn't suggested the numbering systems --marking the workers off into ten groups --and having the groups rotate.
 

She tucked her polishing cloth in the pocket of her large apron, and stood slowly. She had learned on the first long day that rising too fast could hurt.
 
This time she was glad she rose slowly.
 
Her right ankle had gone to sleep.

She braced her weight on her left leg.
 
The elderly woman paused long enough to say sourly, "It'll be a long time to Group Eight."

Charissa almost volunteered to let the woman take her place in Five, but the comment seemed designed for the kind of response.
 
Charissa said nothing at all.

The tingling in her ankle had stopped.
 
Group members from all over the hall were getting off scaffolding, setting down cleaning equipment, brushing dust off aprons.
 
Members of Group Four were filing back in.
 
They still looked tired, but the food had refreshed them somehow.
 
Charissa's mother used to say that food was sleep, and Charissa hadn't known the truth of that statement until this project.

She wiped off her skirts, and walked down the steps.
 
Young Prince Nicholas --the King now --would walk up those steps in the afternoon, looking slender and strong and handsome.
 
He had never forgotten her.
 
All those things that had happened to him, all the people he had met, all the servants he had seen, and he still smiled at her when he saw her and greeted her by name.
 
They had only had one conversation years ago, when she had told him about a strange cat that talked Fey and about the changes in an old Master of the House.
 
But the Prince remembered that conversation.
 
Sometimes she would dream that instead of taking her hand on that afternoon so long ago, he had reached over and kissed her.
 
Then she would be queen now instead of that ugly Fey woman.

Dreams, dreams.
 
Charissa's mother used to say that dreaming would only bring her sadness.
 
Chambermaids never became Queen.
 
Queens came from other countries --Nicholas's mother had come from Nye --or from the peerage, like King Alexander's beloved second wife.
 
Not in all the
 
history of Blue Isle did chambermaids become Queen.

Charissa knew. Lis had told her.

Charissa was almost to the arched doorway.
 
The walk was a long one.
 
It took her twice as long to cross this Hall as it did the Great Hall.
 
The Master of the House was frowning at her.
 
He waved his hand impatiently, as if by moving the air he could move her.
 
She bowed her head and hurried past him.
 

She had little to complain about with this Master of the House.
 
He treated her well, unlike the man before him, the man she had talked to the Prince about.
 
That Master of the House had made her do things to keep her job, things the Prince said she would never have to do again.
 
If she ever had the problem with anyone in the House, she was to come to him.
 
She half-wished the new Master had tried something so that she had an excuse to see the Prince.

The corridor was warm compared to the Hall. The Hall would never be warm.
 
There were no fireplaces.
 
It wasn't even worth the try.

Voices whispered behind her, and she braced herself.
 
She recognized the tone of the whisper.
 
A person couldn't work in the palace since she was eleven without knowing that sound.
 
Someone important was coming.

She let out a small sigh.
 
This visit would probably delay her dinner.
 
And she hadn't eaten since midday.
 

She turned, grabbing her skirts in preparation to courtesy and froze in mid-movement.
 
Nicholas.
 
Young Prince Nicholas.
 
Nicholas, the next King.

He was slender with broad shoulders made broader by the jerkin he wore.
 
His clothing had evolved since he married --he had stopped wearing open blouses and started wearing the tight jerkins of the Fey.
 
He wore tight brown breeches that disappeared into his boots, and Charissa had to force herself to keep from looking at the bulge between his legs.
 
His face had narrowed --he appeared to be eating less --and he had deep shadows under his eyes.
 
His long blond hair was loose and curled around his shoulders.
 
Instead of softening his appearance, the hair strengthened it.

The Master of the House hurried to Prince Nicholas's side, and bowed.
 
The others bowed as well, and stood when the Master stood.
 
Charissa had been too stunned to move.
 
The Prince--the King--noted her, and smiled.

She smiled back.

The Master glanced at her, then moved between her and the King.
 
Nicholas.

"Tis welcome ye are, Sire."

Nicholas nodded.
 
"I came to see how the preparations are going."

The double arched doors stood open.
 
The work inside had stopped.
 

"I will na lie to ye, Sire, tis been a hard few days."

"That it has," Nicholas said softly.

"But we'll have it for ye, we will."

The others had moved on, anxious to be away from the new King.
 
The old King had been volatile when work wasn't getting done.
 
Everyone expected the new King to be the same way.
 
Charissa tried to tell them otherwise, but no one listened to her.
 
She cleaned the west wing, they said, but had no real interaction with the royal family.

"Good," Nicholas said, but he sounded as if he didn't really care.
 
His whole being slumped forward as though he were having difficulty standing upright.
 
The Fey woman should have tended to him, but the Fey knew nothing of nurture.
 

"Been polishing and working since we got the word, Sire," the Master said.
 
"Ye'd na a believed this place, what with all the --"

"Tis sure I am his Highness dinna wanna know how much dust grows in the dark," Charissa said.
 
The Master shot her a horrified look, but Nicholas smiled.
 

"Charissa," he said.

Charissa took a few steps forward and curtsied as best she could.
 
"Tis good ta see ye, Sire."

"And you," he said.
 

She kept her head bent, her gaze on his booted feet.
 
They walked around the Master's foppish shoes and stopped in front of her.
 
The new King's touch on her chin was light.
 
He raised her slowly until she faced him.

It had been years since she had been this close to him.
 
He smelled of leather and the potpourri the housekeeper insisted line the closets.
 
Grief had taken a toll on his face.
 
There were lines near his eyes she had never seen before.

"Ye look tired," she said.

His thumb traced her jawline and then he let his hand drop.
 
"Sometimes, Charissa, I think I'll never sleep again."

That Fey woman.
 
No one could sleep with something that angular and dangerous in their bed.
 
"I --we --was all sorry bout yer da."

"My da."
 
Nicholas's smile softened.
 
Behind him, the Master was shaking his head furiously.
 
Charissa decided to ignore him.
 
"Yes.
 
I'm sorry about my da, too."

"But tomorrow, tis important for ye."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
 
"They never tell you that important days often come because of sad ones."

"Charissa!" the Master said.
 
"Ye got ta get to the kitchens."

"Let her be," Nicholas said without turning.
 
"I'll make sure she comes back when she is supposed to."

Of course he wouldn't, but it wouldn't matter.
 
He was King now.
 
No one could yell at him.

The Master put his hands on his hips.
 
He looked as if he were about to yell again.
 
Nicholas glanced at him.
 

"Go back to your work," Nicholas said.
 
"I'm sure one small girl won't make the difference between a clean hall and a dirty one tomorrow."

"Aye, Sire."
 
The Master shot Charissa one more angry glance and then walked into the hall.
 

The corridor was empty except for the two of them.
 
Nicholas stayed close to her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body.
 
"He's not treating you like the last Master did, is he?"

"Tis a good man, he is," she said.
 

"You'd tell me if he was treating you badly?"

"Aye," she said.
 
She felt bold, leaving off his title, but she did so in her mind as well.
 
He didn't seem to notice.

The silence stretched long between them.
 
No one came into the corridor.
 
It was as if the rest of the staff were hiding from him.
 
Finally, he said, "Where were you off to before I came?"

"Tis supper for Group Five."

"Group Five?"

"They're feeding us and making us sleep on shifts.
 
Beg pardon, Highness, but twas a lot of work in that hall."

"I imagine," he said, but that I-don't-care tone was back in his voice.
 
"Well, let me join you."

She ran a hand through her hair.
 
"Ah, Sire, ye wouldna like the food.
 
Tis just bread and cheese."

"I've had bread and cheese before," he said.