Chapter 9 #2
Araminta Ashwell is a relic of a bygone era of royalty and a notorious snob.
Having weathered multiple dinner parties sitting beside the old bat, I know firsthand how difficult it is to keep yourself from wincing every time she voices her disappointment in how “the old ways” are dying off and how nobody does anything properly anymore.
Which makes it a little surprising she would be aware of Damien Mallory’s existence at all, never mind recommending him for a position in our household.
I don’t have time to ask any follow-ups, though, because with a final, obligatory smile, Alba is striding off toward the stairs, leaving me alone once again.
Frowning, I wander back up to my room and pause, hovering in the doorway to stare at the laptop on my desk.
After putting it off for as long as possible, I started the first of the remedial courses only last night.
Within thirty minutes, I was tearful and defeated, spiraling until grasping even the most basic of concepts was beyond me.
There’s a lot more work for me to do, hours and hours of it, but the longer I stand looking at the damned computer, the more hopeless the whole thing feels.
What is the point?
Turning away, I wander out of my room and back into Alba’s to retrieve the clothes she asked me to donate.
It’s hardly more pressing than my school stuff, but any excuse to put it off a little while longer is impossible to resist, so I head downstairs, intending to put them away in the laundry room donation bin before resuming the demoralizing task of talking myself into doing my coursework.
As I trudge downstairs, however, my mind isn’t on school at all.
Alba’s information about Mallory—which I’m certain is accurate, considering her golden-child status—has piqued my attention.
I mull it over as I traipse into the laundry room and dump Alba’s discarded clothes in the donation bin.
As I straighten up, movement in the corner of my eye makes me stop, turning to look out the window.
It’s a nice day for once, and the grounds look warm and inviting, with nothing but blue skies overhead.
From the laundry room, there’s a clear view of the staff parking area, where the two men are conversing beside a white utility van and the estate’s green truck.
The first is the evil butthole himself, dressed in his usual black pants and a matching zip-up. The second, who I can only assume is a contractor of some sort, is wearing a blue jumpsuit, adorned with a logo I can’t make out from here.
As I watch, Mallory laughs—actually laughs—and claps the man on the shoulder, dimpled grin visible even from here.
The expression is so foreign to me that I actually find myself recoiling a little, startled by how different he looks.
Smiling, Satan could be someone else entirely, someone friendly and warm.
My heart sinks.
Other than our brief introduction by Freddy, this is the first time I’ve actually seen the man interact with anyone other than me. I hadn’t stopped to think much about it, but if I had, I probably would have assumed he was a prickly asshole to everyone.
Apparently not.
Pursing my lips, I allow my head to fall to the side, watching the interaction curiously as I remember what Alba told me about Satan’s background. It presents questions about my newly established nemesis, ones that might have answers that could get rid of him once and for all.
Turning away from the two men at last, I make my way slowly back up to my bedroom, thinking it all over.
Why would Princess Araminta—who I can’t see being aware of much outside her self-important bubble—know that a member of the royal household had taken leave, and go so far as to recommend him for this job to my father?
I also have to wonder why Mallory would take this job to begin with—which he clearly hates—when his old one was undeniably more prestigious.
Why would he want to spend his time ordering new security cameras in this miserable corner of the world when he could be living in the capital city of Wyngate and working for the Ashwells?
It’s beyond strange to think that, if Satan worked for the family for years and years like Alba said, he would have met at least two kings.
Stellanders’ relationship with our royal family has seen its fair share of ups and downs. In my lifetime alone, I’ve had three kings, and each of them came with their own unique set of trials and tribulations.
First, there was King Fabian, who died when I was only ten or eleven. While at the time I hadn’t thought much about the man, I learned later that his reign was plagued by rumors of infidelity and a general unpopularity amongst the people.
Then came his oldest son, Arthur, who did well enough, but I always suspected much of the show of relatability was for the benefit of the press.
Admittedly, my opinion may have been colored by his sons, who weren’t much younger than me.
They’d attended the same middle grades academy as I did, and if the rumor mill was to be believed, they were monstrous little beasts who loved to pick on the scholarship students.
King Arthur wasn’t an old man, and likely would have reigned over Stelland for a long time, had it not been for the plane crash which took the lives of his entire family, only a few years ago.
It was a great tragedy, and one that further complicated the nation’s relationship with our monarchy, when the crown landed squarely on the head of Arthur’s wildly unpopular younger brother, Benedict.
The second Ashwell son was recently divorced and had the reputation of being a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.
Nobody was happy about it, but my father, predictably, found an opportunity in Benedict’s unexpected accession to the throne.
I certainly wasn’t party to any of the discussions, but it wasn’t a secret that he and my mother did everything they could to thrust my sister under the single, childless king’s nose.
Even if Benedict wasn’t popular, having a queen for a daughter—or, better yet, grandchildren in line for the throne—could only do good things for the family, and my parents pulled every single string they had, determined to get a crown on Alba’s head.
It came to nothing.
As far as I’m aware, King Benedict didn’t so much as glance in my sister’s direction. Before anyone knew what had happened, he’d already been caught up in a whirlwind, highly publicized romance with an American movie star, Zelda Flowers.
I remember sitting at the dinner table on one of my rare visits to Wyngate last summer, listening to my father assure my pouting mother that “the American” was merely a fling, and it was only a matter of time before the king decided to settle down with someone more appropriate.
It wasn’t a fling.
In a matter of months, they’d gotten married, and if the way the king looked at his new queen wasn’t convincing enough evidence of Zelda’s permanence, the announcement they were expecting their first child sealed the deal.
King Benedict might not be a charmer, but honestly, he doesn’t need to be after marrying a woman with charm enough for the both of them.
Zelda Flowers might not have been a traditional choice for queen, but she was a good one.
I reach my bedroom and sink down on the edge of my bed.
Lifting my phone, I open the internet browser.
“Search: Ashwell Palace Royal Guard,” I say clearly, and the device produces results immediately.
There are websites and other listings, but I ignore them, clicking right to the page of images.
Most of them are of the men who stand outside the gates, taken by tourists or news sources, but—my heart leaps into my throat.
The familiar profile of my least favorite person is unmistakable.
Satan is dressed in the same dark blue uniform as the other members of the guard, but judging from his position—standing before a line of straight-backed men in the palace courtyard—he was in a position of authority.
I scroll through more and find him again, this time standing beside two other guards, barely discernible behind the late King Arthur, who appears to be mid-speech.
In the next one I find, he’s one of a line of other uniformed officers on horseback, riding behind the newly crowned King Benedict and Queen Zelda, as they complete their coronation procession.
Holy shit.
Reeling, I set down my phone, suspended in a state of incredulous disbelief.
Mallory didn’t just work for the royal family as some ordinary guard; he was a high-ranking officer. The man I’ve called a “turd face” at least three times was present at significant, historical moments, and knew the family well enough that even Princess Araminta cared when he quit.
Damien Mallory was important. Which, naturally, leads to the question: Why is he here?
And, more importantly… How can I get him to leave?