SWNOVELS Chapter 8
Dalliah
“What are you doing down there girl? Cook sent for those potatoes ages ago!” Julius, the gardener barks at me as I must have been staring into space rather than dusting off the vegetables like Ingaret showed me.
Another reason why I can’t help out more permanently in the gardens is the man standing before me who is quite territorial about his role and everything that comes with it. You’d think a man pushing 70 would appreciate the help of someone as eager as I was at first, but no.
I’m just a silly child ruining his daily routine.
I stare at his boots for a minute, taking in the thread-bare laces and the scuff marks that must have aged over time. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were holes in the soles and if he were kinder I’d worry that he could catch a cold. But he isn’t.
“S-Sorry, almost done,” I mumble, still not quite used to being able to speak to a man, never mind one who’s just yelled at me and I feel the heat of a blush threatening to burn the paint off my skin should I not control it sooner.
My rations are getting lower and lower when it comes to my face paint and so I can’t afford to go back to my rooms and re-apply if needed, never mind if I had the break time for it as apparently there is no such thing. Not even for chamber pot breaks.
“Never mind that dusting, she’s got water enough to clean them off and I need this space already.” He shakes his head, voice more gentle this time but not exactly welcoming.
No, nothing about him could ever be welcoming and no wonder he spends his life alone. There’s a good chance that he’s as isolated as I am in the servants hall, if not more so as I have Marjorie and Ingaret beside me. While I have no idea what my future holds, I just hope that I can promise myself not to end up like that.
“Yes sir.” I nod my head in the way that Marjorie has shown me to, knowing to be submissive even to the lowest ranking servants and never to make eye contact if it can be avoided.
Apparently one blue eye and one brown is strange enough for common folk and there’s no cosmetic change that will be able to save me from this one so I need to be careful.
Using the top layer of my skirts to carry the potatoes off to the kitchen, I can feel the glare of his eyes on the back of my neck, as if these were his and I were actually stealing, but I have bigger things to concern myself with than Julius.
Instead, I pray that I will not earn myself a scolding for the dirt that seems to train behind me and the time it’s taken to collect what the cook needs for dinner. But I can’t have been out there that long, can I?
Working has made any sense of time warped in my mind and all I have to go off to judge it best, is the journey of the sun across the sky and the level of hunger rising in my stomach from the need to eat my next meal.
Twice a day and it never seems to be enough.
By the time I place the vegetables down in the bucket allocated for them, I realise with a suppressed moan that the dusting wasn’t just for the cook but for me too. As I am now covered head to toe in mud making it impossible to carry out any of my duties indoors or attend the servants hall later.
I’ll have to change now and judging by the voices echoing in the kitchen and the light in the sky starting to fall, I’ll no doubt find myself past the allotted dinner time, bringing more attention to myself than necessary as I try to find a seat amongst the chaos.
“Damn it,” I mutter to myself, knowing the phrase from Marjorie’s curses back in the tower when I’m sure even she thought I couldn’t hear her.
My mother would be beside herself to hear me speaking like this, but I suppose she’d feel the same should she see me in such a state dress-wise as well. Hell, I’d take the worst scolding she could give me at this point if it meant that I could see her again but thinking like that is of no use.
So I make my way quickly to our rooms, hating how dirty and unkempt I must seem to each of the servants I pass in the process and change as quickly as possible, ignoring the buttons and pulling it straight over my head with no thought for my hair.
It’s easy enough to hide it with the scarf anyway.
There is a looking glass in our room that is small and cracked, likely something scavenged when the family above sought to throw it away and as I fasten the last ribbon on my new apron, I catch a glimpse of myself on it, stopping me dead in my tracks.
Obviously, I’ve seen my reflection since being down here, I’d have to when applying my face paint each morning without fail. But just now I can see the added colour to my cheeks from the exertion of rushing here, the bags under my eyes from the lack of sleep and the curled hair that I love so much hidden away as is required for a person in my new station.
This dishevelled sight saddens me to see and at this moment it takes all that I have not to throw the damned thing away. This person staring back at me is not who I am.
I don’t know who is, but it’s not her. She should be happier, she should have my markings, but most of all she should be free.
All this invasion has changed is who locked my chains and now I am a ghost haunting these halls, unknown by so many and hidden away like I always have been.
When will this change?