you and me and the devil makes three

you and me and the devil makes three
IP: 76.28.190.71
Posted on January 18, 2014 at 11:41:07 AM by Margaret

The water barrel seemed a fittingly ignominious seat, given the events of the day.

Margaret was a handsome young woman, there was no denying that. Her bones were a little heavy, distinguishing her from the skinny-fingered waifs and heart-faced ladies who fulfilled the expected paradigm of court birds, those fruits of pretty mates chosen to produce daughters with no hint of a worker's coarseness - but her strong features and robust limbs, inherited from a long and hard-working bloodline, were among the first things Margaret had learned to accept about herself as a young woman. The jealousy, the unfairness that she was not born small, silky-haired, and marble-white had become anger, and Margaret's anger was fodder for drive. And that drive settled well with her rectangular face, her bold features, her haughty dark eyes; it gave her the beauty of mountains by the sea, rugged and more mature than her age.

Right now, those features were furrowed in a petulant scowl. The pounding in her head beat in time with the rise and fall of nausea, and the cobbles blurred a little before her eyes. It was a small matter - she had never been weak when it came to pain - but she'd needed to get out of that kitchen. Any excuse would do. The thought of that devil pushing her aside without a second thought brought a fresh wave of fury every time she remembered it. As it it wasn't bad enough, slaving away in the heat and the press and the chaos of the kitchens - as if she was not already lowly - but then the royal whelp comes careening through the place, wreaking some petty havoc as though the time and effort of the staff were worth nothing and, what's worse, he had every right to. Margaret was no more jealous of his royal license than she was disgusted by the use he made of it. Had she been titled at thirteen years of age...

But no.

No.

Of course not - not Margaret the country girl, the girl who had to fight for her place at the Castle's pot-side, stirring food for those better favored by fortune than she.

Margaret was no longer on speaking terms with fortune. It had not given her what she wanted, and so she had made the decision to wrest herself from its grip. She was determined not to lose.

The courtyard milled with its usual early-afternoon activity. Servants of various shades, mostly, going quietly about their duties in the lull that followed noon. Margaret knew she looked like she belonged here. Right here, on this water barrel, in the back courtyard, with her working dress stained a dingy cream color that would not pale no matter how furiously she scrubbed and beat at it. The sourness in her stomach did not entirely have to do with the fall. She crossed her arms, kept her chin high, her eyes imperious and daring, but her appearance was made less impressive by the flyaway strands of her dark hair and the trembling rigidity that took hold of her muscles as the chill set in. The sweat from the kitchens had long since cooled and dried on her face and forearms, but her dress was turning icy where it was wet. Soon it would be worth it to return to her post just to get out of the cold.

Stubbornness kept her in place a little longer, and rebellion gave her a fresh burst of resolve as the kitchen door opened. She would go inside when she was ready to go inside. The ache in her head had reduced to a dull throb, but she would still use it, if she could, and she was steeling herself to bargain for more time when she realized who it was who had emerged from the doorway. For a moment, she didn't believe it. Her disbelief doubled when she realized he was crossing the courtyard with purpose, and that purpose was her.

As though someone had snuffed a candle flame, the lines disappeared from her face. Her first instinct was to throw her shoulders back, fold her hands in her lap, and make a face of dutiful attentiveness. Habit and a keen eye for hierarchy told her to do so. The king of Shaman demanded a certain response from a servant, after all.

But there is a worm that lives deep in Margaret's brain - a little spark - and it is full of ardent ideas.

Scrubbing any false ingenuity from her face, she put on a look both candid and open. It might have been taken as a passive manner of challenge, but the thought that she was taking a risk was banished by the king's words and his manner of speaking. Of all the possibilities she'd considered in the brief space of time it had taken him to cross the courtyard, a personal apology was not among them. Letting the warmth in his voice be her encouragement, she met his eyes without deference.

"Yes, Your Grace. Well... as alright as I can be with a cracked head." She smiled and raised a hand to touch the back of her hair, then added a weak wincing flutter of her eyes as though the pain from her fall was fresher than she'd realized - not too pronounced, of course, and punctuated by a low mmm sound in her throat that made it clear that no matter how bashed her head felt, she was capable of handling it without undue complaint or feigned stoicism. "Forgive me. I may joke, but it is tender."

The apology did nothing to ease the sour burn in her gut where the prince of Shaman seemed to have taken up residence, but she curled the corners of her mouth into a wry, knowing smile and shook her head. "Your Grace, you don't need to apologize to me for youth's sake. I wouldn't have boys strung up and locked in, like they don't have a spirit in them that needs to run wild and learn what it is. It nearly kills girls, I think, all the business with corsets and propriety..." Her words trailed off, as though she'd suddenly remembered herself. "Forgive me. I'd best stop talking before I make a right barbarian out of myself. I never agreed with a corset myself."

The promise of a personal meeting with the prince was as flattering as it was distasteful, she supposed, but she was careful to keep the evidence of either from her face. "I appreciate that. I do. In fact, if it pleases you, I think I had best be getting back inside. They'll be missing me - "

Then she stands up from the barrel too abruptly, wobbles, and allows herself to fall heavily into him.

M A R G A R E T

feeling rustyyyy

Replies:

and there are many paths to tread - By arthur January 20, 2014 at 05:54:31 AM

Post a reply:

<-- -->

Name:
Email:
Subject:
Message:

Link Name:
Link URL:
Image URL:
Password To Edit Post: