13. Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Kat
Prince Rahk rarely requires anything of me beyond my usual service, but the next morning, he summons me to his study almost immediately after breakfast. I pass one of the parlors on the way, and think of Edith when a bust of Botsov glares at me from inside it.
“I do not like how these books are arranged,” Rahk says when I enter his study, gesturing to the shelves lining his walls. “Rearrange them at once.”
I shift my weight between my feet as I regard the six shelves. What doesn’t he like about them? “Yes, my lord. Do you have a particular way you want them arranged?”
“By author.”
I draw in a deep breath. This is going to take forever, and I have more than enough work already. I’ll just have to be very fast. With another, “Yes, my lord,” I set to work. I start at the shelf closest to me and carefully remove the books, piling them on the floor. The prince’s quill scratches against his parchment as he works—on what, I have not a single clue. Whenever that quill goes quiet, I try not to let myself wonder if he watches me. It feels like he watches me. But I will not be spooked by him and his intensity.
I soon have sweat beading on my brow from carrying all the books in this small room and making myself move as quickly as possible.
“What are you doing?” the prince asks abruptly when I’m on the third shelf.
I look up. He sits at his desk, his knees and elbows wide, his black gaze moving between me and the piles of books I have lined up in a row. I open my mouth, close it, then frown. “I am reorganizing your shelves . . . my lord.”
“Yes, yes, but what are the piles?” He gestures at my neat rows.
I blink. “The books sorted by author. The authors whose names start with A are in this pile, B in this one, and so forth . . .? I’ll alphabetize within each group once I have all the books sorted.”
He gives a single, solemn nod. “Efficient.”
I take that as permission to get back to work. He doesn’t speak to me for the next hour as I work as quickly as I can. There are long stretches where his quill doesn’t scratch, and I have to tell myself repeatedly that it is ridiculous to consider that he does nothing for over a quarter of an hour save watch me work. He probably is reading. Or thinking important thoughts.
I slide the last book onto the shelf. Pride blossoms in my chest as I regard my work. I’d like to see anyone else try to do a better job more efficiently. I pull my face into a serious mask and turn around. “I am finished, Master.”
He leans back in his chair, a single lock of his silver hair falling over his forehead. He regards me first, then my handiwork. Standing, he walks around his desk, one hand planted on his hip as he studies the shelves. Is he checking to see if I correctly alphabetized everything?
“This is not satisfactory,” he says at last.
My neck cracks from how quickly I spin my head toward him. “My lord? How—how can it not be satisfactory? Everything is arranged exactly as you asked.”
“I believe the appropriate response would be, ‘How may I make it satisfactory, my lord?’ ” the prince says.
I bite my burning tongue and suppress the mounting heat of anger in my chest. You’ve just got to work here until you turn twenty-one. Then you don’t have to deal with any of this. Still, it takes me a minute before I trust my tone when I say, “How may I make it satisfactory, my lord?”
“I’d be much more satisfied if the shelves were arranged by topic. I could find what I look for easier.”
He could have said that from the beginning. I am proud of the way I don’t let a single fiery word pass my lips. If he is toying with me, that is his prerogative. I am his servant, and I am indebted to him for giving me so many second chances.
I bow. “As you wish, Master.”
Then I face the shelves once more and begin dismantling all my careful work.
Sorting by topic proves to be much slower and more complicated. For one, I must decide the topics by which to sort the books. For another, some books could technically be placed under multiple topics. I take twice the time to arrange the shelves. When I finish, I want to flop on the floor and die. I tell Prince Rahk I am finished, and when his shrewd eyes narrow at the shelves, I can practically hear his low voice pronouncing, “I am not satisfied. Do it all again.”
But he only sniffs and turns away. Evidently satisfied.
I sag, desperately relieved. “How else may I serve you?”
Please let me go. Please let me go.
“I require your aid in deciphering this passage.” The prince holds up the book he is reading.
“My . . . aid?” I repeat, bewildered. “I’m sure there is nothing you cannot understand that I would.”
“Excellent use of flattery. It will serve you well.” The prince turns the book around and slides it across his desk toward me. “As it happens, you are a human, and I am not. Thus, your insight on this human text will prove enlightening to me. Read that passage aloud and tell me what it means.”
I take the book and read the title of the passage. “The Clockmaker’s Son? This is a fairytale.”
The prince steeples his fingers. “I am aware. Proceed.”
I hesitate, then clear my throat. “Once upon a time, there was a princess so beautiful that word of her radiance spread to the ends of the earth. Suitors traveled vast distances for a single glimpse of her face, offering wealth and admiration. Yet, she cared not for them or their gifts. The only gift she longed for was the ability to stop time, for her true love was her work—a grand tapestry, larger than any other in the world, portraying the history of her kingdom in intricate detail. Every morning, she rose early to work on her tapestry before she was forced to entertain her suitors. One morning, her clock broke. Unbeknownst to her, the day slipped away, and her suitors wept outside, grieving her absence.”
I pause, looking at the prince to ensure he wants me to continue. When his gaze does not shift from my face, I swallow and keep reading. “The clockmaker’s son, renowned for his intricately fashioned timepieces, came at once to repair her broken clock. ‘Why do you care not for your suitors, who have come far and wide to give you the world?’ the young man asked. ‘They do not give me what I truly wish,’ the princess replied. When the clockmaker’s son asked what it was that she truly wished, she told him. ‘You are a clockmaker’s son,’ the princess implored. ‘You know the secrets of time. Teach me to master it, that I might bend it to my will.’ The clockmaker’s son answered her, ‘Time is not a thing to be mastered, my lady. To kill time is to rob life of its sweetness.’ Undeterred, the princess coaxed him into her service with her beauty and wit, and together they toiled on a wondrous clock. It was gilded and gleaming, each tick sang like a silver bell, each chime like a choir of stars. When at last it was complete, the clockmaker’s son warned her: ‘This clock will steal from you as much as it grants. For each moment you steal, another shall wither and fade. Use it wisely, if at all.’”
I stop reading, glaring at the book.
“Why have you stopped? Keep reading,” says the prince.
“I do not like the rest of the story,” I reply sourly.
He merely lifts one eyebrow.
I huff and keep reading. “But the princess, enamored with her newfound power, ignored his plea. She stopped the hours whenever she worked, skipping past the ones spent with her suitors. All the while, the clockmaker’s son watched, his heart aching with unspoken love. One day, she bade him to stop the clock entirely so she might finally finish the grand tapestry. Reluctantly, he obeyed. When she tied off the last thread, triumphant and satisfied, she turned around, only to find the clockmaker’s son collapsed to the ground—his life drained by the magic he’d given her. The princess wept over his body. For it was only now that she realized that the true treasure she possessed was not her work or the magical clock, but the clockmaker’s son himself.”
I slam the book shut and return it to Prince Rahk’s desk. “Do you see why I don’t like it? It has a horrible ending.”
“I thought it a very fitting end for the selfish princess.”
I restrain my impulse to defend the princess. Was it truly such a great fault for her to care about her work more than she cared about a bunch of men who wanted nothing but her beauty? Who cared nothing for her skill and diligence and passion? To me, it seems like the greater fault lay with the clockmaker’s son—who could have just told her that using the clock would kill him. How was she to be blamed when he withheld that crucial information from her?
But twelve-year-old Nat would hardly identify with the princess in the tale, so I keep my mouth shut.
“There is a phrase in this story that I find curious,” Prince Rahk says. “They mention killing time . Even with the magical clock, they couldn’t kill time. Time kills you, not the other way around. Within the story itself, it even proves my point that in the end, time is the ultimate power. So why do they claim to have the power to kill time?”
“Oh, that.” I shrug. “It’s a euphemism. To kill time is to waste it. It doesn’t mean they intended to destroy time altogether.”
“Ah, I see.” He takes the book back, flipping it open to where it was before.
I take a half step closer. “Why . . . why are you reading fairytales?”
“Do you require an explanation?”
“N-no, of course not. I was merely curious.”
“If it will sate your curiosity, I read them because I find stories to be at the core of a culture. I wish to understand yours, so I read your stories. Satisfied?”
I nod, backing away toward the door. “Yes, my lord. If there is nothing else—”
“You read very well.”
I halt my progress. I consider my disguise again, wondering if I have revealed myself. But no, twelve-year-olds can read. I cannot think of anything I’ve miscalculated. “Thank you.”
“Do you have much education?” the prince asks.
Now that question is one I must be careful with. “Mary taught me to read. I’ve read the books she brought me.”
There. Now I can be educated at any level.
“I’ve heard you humans have schools and universities. Have you ever thought of attending? You’re a bright lad. You would be successful. Perhaps you could even find an occupation for yourself beyond being a manservant.”
He thinks I’m smart?
He thinks Nat is smart. Nat, who is twelve. If he knew you were twenty, he would hardly find your mind impressive.
He’s looking at me in a strange way. His mouth is slightly slanted, his eyes bright in a way that reminds me of last night. It’s like he’s testing me again. Why, or how, I cannot make sense of.
“I—I don’t know,” I say. “It would be a lot of pressure on Mary.”
He nods in reply. “Of course. Off you go. I shall summon you if I need you again.”
I let out an enormous sigh once I’m safely free of the prince’s presence. I slip into the empty dining room for one moment of peace and silence. I survived this long and arduous morning.
My break is over. I straighten and slip back out of the dining room. With all the time I’ve lost, I’ve got to work extra hard to complete the rest of my tasks.
But if I thought Prince Rahk was finished with me for the day, I am soon proven dead wrong.
Edvear and I are busy sorting through a partial delivery of the prince’s new wardrobe after the noon meal when he summons me once more to his study.
“Sit there,” the prince orders, pointing to a new chair beside his desk that has materialized since I was last here. “And play this.”
I’ve barely sat before he thrusts something into my lap. I look down at the object in bewilderment. It’s a lute, with a rounded body and a long neck where its strings are fastened.
“I don’t understand,” I say bluntly.
The prince sits down at his desk, which now feels far too close. “I require atmosphere while I work. Play me a pleasant tune.”
His tone offers no room for protest. So, with a silent huff, I position the instrument in my lap and begin plucking at the same string over and over again.
“Something pleasant, I said,” he orders.
I grit my teeth. I pluck at a different string this time, bouncing in a discordant pattern entirely lacking in beauty, rhythm, and any consideration for those within hearing distance. I stop the moment he swivels his head toward me. “I don’t know how to play the lute! Or any musical instrument, for that matter! Where did this lute even come from?”
He wipes a hand over his mouth—to hide his smirk.
“My lord,” I begin carefully, “is there a way I might become less delightful to torment?”
His lips quirk. He shoos me out of the chair with one hand. “Go back to whatever you were working on.”
The moment I’ve shut his study door, I clench my hands into fists. This job is hard enough without him purposefully trying to make my life as difficult as possible.
Is he trying to make me quit? Why not just dismiss me outright?
I tighten my jaw. If he is trying to get me to quit, he is going to be sorely disappointed when I refuse to let his goading get to me.
Three blissful hours go by with no summons from the prince. Edvear and I select his clothes for the ball two nights from now. I head down to the creek with Charity and Becky to do the prince’s laundry. As I finish pinning the laundry to the line to dry, fighting off a chicken that wants to roost in my basket of freshly cleaned clothes, Edvear pops his curly head out of the kitchen door.
“Master Rahk summons you. He is in his bedroom.”
I let a very unladylike curse escape my lips. Then I remember my resolve to be unflappable. “Coming!”
I leave the gloriously sunny outside and tromp to the prince’s bedroom. I knock on the door, praying desperately that this will be a short instance of torment like the lute, instead of the half-day project of reorganizing his bookshelves.
“Come in.”
I push open the door. “I am here, Master. What can I—” The words die suddenly on my tongue.
Prince Rahk lays on his stomach on the bed, above the bedclothes. He is shirtless again.
I drag my gaze to the rafters and pin it there. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
“My back is sore from sitting all day. Massage away the aches. There is oil on my bedside table.”
My mind goes completely blank at the thought of doing what he asks. I can think of little that would be more inappropriate than this—except that I’m Nat. It wouldn’t be inappropriate for a servant boy to tend his master this way.
If he ever finds out I’m a woman, he will kill me.
“I am not skilled in massage,” I say in one desperate attempt for a reassignment. “I could get Edvear—”
“He is busy, and this is your job. Attend to it at once.”
You’re going to have to do it, Kat, I tell myself. And you’re going to be unflappable about it.
I leave the door open because it feels like I am doing something illicit if I close it. I march to his side, locate the oil, and slather it across my hands. Unflappable. Unflappable. Unflappable. I regard the broad expanse of his pale, muscular back. Be unflappable, Kat!
The first thing that surprises me is how warm his skin is beneath my touch. The second is that he immediately flinches.
I withdraw. “Are my hands too cold?”
“No,” he says quickly. Gruffly.
Hesitantly, I lay my hands flat on his back. My heart threatens to beat straight out of my chest, but I make my hands move, spreading the oil across his back until his skin gleams.
Unflappable.
The tension has not left his muscles, and I get the distinct sense he does not enjoy this. Strange, considering this was his idea.
I move his hair to one side, only to pause when a dark lined tattoo is revealed.
It’s a curling vine of ivy. I tilt my head to one side.
“What is your tattoo?” I ask.
The only visible side of his jaw tightens. His whole body feels like a coiled spring, tense and taut and ready to snap. I bite my lip and step backward. I shouldn’t have asked, should I?
A minute passes, but the prince offers no answer. I decide eventually that he isn’t about to leap up and strangle me for my insolence, so I creep back and continue my work.
I start at his shoulders, working the muscles at the base of his neck. His head lies on his folded arms, contracting his shoulders and making his arms seem even bigger than normal. My eyes dance around, trying to find anywhere safe to look where I can both see what I’m doing and still not see him . I settle on staring at the back of his head.
“Rub harder,” he grunts. “Put your weight into it.”
I drag my lip between my teeth. He wants more force? I’ll give him force . I’ll channel all my frustration and embarrassment into his back. I dig my knuckles into his flesh, driving my weight into his ribs.
“Yes, like that,” he says approvingly, instead of crying out in pain like I’d hoped.
And yet, he still seems to brace against me.
I set it as my goal to make him flinch in pain while I work. That helps me set aside my discomfort. I roll up my sleeves and sink my elbow into his shoulder blades, which earns me another nod of approval. My frustration only drives me to work harder.
I work my way down his spine and then back up again, focusing on my efforts to make him flinch. When I use my elbow just beneath his shoulder blade, I am finally rewarded. It’s almost more of a twitch, but to me, it counts. I smirk in satisfaction and then lean forward to similarly hurt his other shoulder blade.
My arms grow more tired by the moment. I’m going to pay for this dearly tomorrow in soreness. How long have I been doing this? Half an hour? Longer?
Abruptly, his eyes open. My hands go still.
“That is enough,” he declares.
I pull my hands back as fast as I can and step backward, putting distance between us. “How else may I serve you?” I don’t look at him for fear my discomfort will be plain on my features.
He swings his feet to the ground, sitting upright and gripping the edge of the mattress in either hand. I keep my gaze stubbornly downcast, so I do not know whether he studies me or if his own finds elsewhere to lodge. “For someone unskilled, you did fine work.”
His praise catches me off-guard. Still, I refuse to look at him. I bow. “I am honored to please you.”
He gives a dry snort, and now I can feel his attention settle on me. “Look at you. A rebel if ever I saw one, yet so tame and restrained. You were not exaggerating when you said you were a fast learner and would say fewer foolish things.”
My blood simmers beneath my skin, but I won’t open my mouth and ruin my progress.
“You must want this position very much. Pray, what is it, Nat, that makes you work so hard to overcome your deficiencies?”
Claiming my fortune and maintaining my independence. “I want to keep this position, my lord.”
“But why?”
I shift my weight uneasily between my feet. “Because I need it.”
“And why is that?”
“I . . . I cannot get another, Master. Since this is my first situation, no one will hire me until I’ve worked one place for several months without being dismissed.”
He leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “Why would that be so bad?”
Is he seriously asking this question? I’ve already told him why. “Because Mary and I need money, and I’ve got to start pulling my own weight. I cannot ask her to keep giving everything for me.”
“You wouldn’t starve, though?”
“If something happened to Mary, then yes!” I cry. I just want to leave this room, eat my supper to quell the shaking in my exhausted limbs, and go to sleep. I don’t know what games he’s playing with me today or what is behind these questions, so I voice the fear I’ve carried all day. “Do you want to dismiss me, my lord?”
My question hangs in the air. He props his chin up on one fist. I stand where I am, waiting like my life depends on his next words.
“If I dismissed you, I wouldn’t have anyone to play Fool’s Circle with,” he replies coolly.
Not an answer.
I exhale through my gritted teeth. “I have many more tasks to finish before sundown. Do you wish me to stay, or may I go finish them?”
“You may go.”
I whirl on my heel and march out of the room, barely keeping myself from slamming the door behind me. He is playing with me, and I hate it. It’s his cruel fae nature, his Nothril blood, that makes him torment me so mercilessly. He knows this position is hard for me, and he is trying to see how far he can push me before I break and release my own spitfire nature.
I won’t give him that satisfaction. I won’t let him see how close I am to snapping in half and railing at him for being the reason my mother died.
I throw myself into my work, disregarding my own exhaustion. The prince mercifully takes his supper in the dining room. Edvear serves him and I hide in the kitchen, eating and flinching every time the steward enters for fear he’ll tell me the prince requires my service. Then, the moment I’m finished, I throw caution to the wind and go outside instead of remaining available. I stalk to the creek and let the cover of trees hide me from the windows of the estate.
Crouching beside the bubbling water, I stick my fingers into its frigid shallows. Then I flop onto the bank and stare up at the golden cast boughs.
Hiding here could cost me my position, but I decide to rely on the prince’s parting words. If he dismisses me, who else can he torment? I pick up a twig, snap it in half, and hurl it into the water. What I would give to go back to working for Mrs. Banks!
“You’re not going to let him beat you,” I growl up at the treetops. I savor the flare of rebellion that keeps me planted where I am instead of returning inside. “You’re not going to let him beat you. You’re going to be the perfect servant. You’re not going to react. You’re not going to run your mouth. You’re not going to vent your anger in front of him. The more controlled you are, the less interest he will have in tormenting you. You’re going to keep this position until you can safely leave and claim your fortune.”
The day after tomorrow will bring relief. The prince has his ball, and I have a raid. It’ll take me out of this situation and remind me of all the reasons I put up with him.
I stay where I am, watching the sun go down.
Then, the sound I dread comes ringing across the distance. “Nat! Nat! Come at once! The master summons you!”
I groan, resist an extra minute, and then roll up to my knees. “Coming!”