Chapter 11 – Raelyn
Chapter Eleven
RAELYN
It’s been a month. Thirty days with our new stepmother as lady of the manor. I’m ready to scream and run away. Gods, can I?
Curse Father and his financial woes. He could not have chosen a worse “mother.”
I scrub at the tiles, my hands and knees burning. This is absurd. We used to have maids for this until Stepmother dismissed the majority of them only days after the ink on the marriage contract dried. Have they found other employment? I worry for their ability to provide for their own families.
To my dismay, even Sera was let go. The only remaining lady’s maid is assigned to Stepmother and the twins while I am left to fend for myself.
I wipe a hand across my sweaty brow. How I long to be curled up in my favorite chair, working on my needlepoint or reading a good book instead of being assigned to seemingly endless chores. I curse under my breath.
Footsteps click down the hall, and I bite my tongue, hoping whoever it is didn’t hear me. The last thing I need is more punishment for speaking out of turn about our dearest stepmother.
“Oops!” a feminine voice says right before the bucket hits the floor and a flood of dirty water soaks my knees.
I let out an unladylike screech and jump to my feet, spinning around to glare at Chessa. “Why would you do that?”
She quirks a brow, her lips curling into a smile I want to smack right off her face. “I’m sorry. I must have tripped.”
I throw the filthy sponge at her, and she ducks while screaming, “Don’t you dare, Raelyn! I will tell Mother about this, and you will pay!”
“You traitorous filth,” I hiss at her. “What makes you think you are any more special than I? You should be down here cleaning with me.”
Chessa straightens, her nose pointing toward the ceiling. “Clearly, our new stepmother knows what she’s doing. You’re just a waste of space. You should have been married off by now, but instead, you sit around, lazing away, wasting Papa’s money.”
My eyes widen. “Is that what you think?” She has another thing coming if she thinks I am the waster of our funds. I haven’t gotten a new wardrobe in years, while she has new dresses made every week. She is completely delusional.
“It’s what I know,” she replies. “Besides, I need to make sure I am presentable for all the suitors Mother has set up for me. I dare not break a nail while cleaning the floors.” She sniffs haughtily.
“Get out of my sight, Chess, before I pull you onto the floor and make you clean up this mess with your brand-new dress.” I clench my fists at my sides, daring her to come at me or say another word.
A flash of fear crosses her face before she turns and runs.
I wish I could say that was the last of it, but I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about it from Stepmother.
That vile woman. I’m not sure what it is she holds against me other than being unmarried, but surely Father wouldn’t let her treat me this way if he knew?
He left on a business trip only a week after their ball, and Stepmother immediately implemented her evil plan to destroy me—at least that’s how it feels. Father can’t get home soon enough.
I retrieve the sponge I flung across the room and get back to work, the spill doubling my cleaning time. My soaked dress clings to my legs, and I shiver with cold. There is nothing I want more than a hot bath and some tea, but there will be hells to pay if I leave the floor in this state.
My bath is not nearly as good as I dreamed it would be. By the time I hauled up enough water from the kitchens, it was barely warm anymore. I’m regretful for taking our servants’ hard work for granted all of these years.
I lean my head back against the cool edge of the tub and allow tears to slip down my cheeks.
A pity party serves no one, but the unfairness of it all makes me want to scream.
My fingers are cracked from the harsh soaps I use to clean the floors and scrub the laundry, and they sting as I clean my aching body.
After not even a month, calluses have formed, and they’re rough against my sensitive skin.
My mind wanders to the needlepoint I started weeks ago that has lain neglected in my sewing basket, the art that has been itching to get out left wanting. Will I even remember what it was I wanted to create? Will my fingers remember the dance of thread and material?
More tears streak down my face as I grieve the loss of my time. Everything I do is to serve another, every task piled on meant to break my spirit, and I fear I’m nearly there.
I’m utterly overwhelmed. As soon as I complete one list of chores, another is handed over. Inundated with all the things I must do, I no longer have time to do any of the things I want to do. How long will this be my lot? Will Father put a stop to it when he returns?
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I left the manor—just started walking, never to return. Would they even miss me? Unlikely. They’d only miss the things I do for them.
For just a moment, I try to dream of a better time.
Fencing with Father in the training room, the pride in his eyes when I hit targets with his knives .
. . and then, almost unwillingly, my mind drifts back to the ball and the handsome prince whom I managed to offend, and I’m depressed all over again.
When I told Father about my run in the sun, he panicked, insisting I could not take that risk again.
No matter how much I told him I felt fine, he was certain it would eventually make me sick .
. . and he was right. Despite the prophylactic medicine he gave me, I was violently ill for days after the ball, confined to my bed.
By the time I felt well enough to rejoin the family for meals, Father was gone and Stepmother decided I was well enough to clean.
I slip beneath the water, letting out a muffled scream. It’s oddly cathartic.
Now that that’s out of my system, I use what little energy I have left to wash my hair.
The clock chimes, and I’m taken back to the night weeks ago when I almost caught the thief in Father’s study.
Will he come back? Has he come back? With the endless chores Stepmother assigns me, I can barely keep my eyes open after dinner.
Forget staying up late to keep vigil for his return.
By the time I fall into bed each night, exhaustion pulls me under before I can read more than a sentence or two in my book.
So many stories I want to read, but my mind cannot handle another moment awake.
Not only does my body ache, but my mind is also fuzzy and overloaded, incapable of focusing on one more thought.
Every night, I’m plagued with dreams: some of a forested island with a large golden lion pacing its shores and others of smoky grey eyes that pierce my soul.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I rise from the tub and grab a towel to dry off before pulling on a simple dress. Stepmother has disinvited me from formal meals, which is fine with me. The less time spent with her the better.
Out of habit, I reach for the chain to call Sera to come fix my hair but then pause and find tears welling up in my eyes all over again. She’s gone. Unless a miracle happens, my life will never go back to the way it was. I can only hope Father will right some of these wrongs when he returns.
My stomach rumbles, but I try to ignore it.
I’m far too exhausted to make my way to the kitchen this evening.
No one will care. No one seems to notice me anymore, except for Chess, who loves to torment me along with Stepmother.
Even Erika, whom I thought might be on my side out of everyone, ignores me.
Curling up in my bed, I hug my knees to my chest. I miss Father. I miss my old life. I feel completely helpless, but what else can I possibly do? I was raised to listen to my elders, to respect authority. Do I even have another choice? I hate it here, but I have nowhere else to go.
My entire body heats in the most delicious way as I awaken to the sun streaming into my room. I stretch my arms overhead before panic sets in. No! Not again. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in my infinite exhaustion last night.
Jumping out of bed, I pull them shut, my heart beating quickly with the sudden exertion.
There’s no telling what Stepmother will do if I’m out sick again for days.
I send up a quick prayer to the gods for mercy.
Perhaps it won’t be as bad as it was. I’m inside, and it could only have been shining on me for a few minutes, right?
My body feels fine. The aches and pains from yesterday have all but faded, and I’m ready to face the day, even knowing there will be a long list of chores for me.
I slip down the servants’ staircase toward the kitchen and peek my head in. Our cook is hard at work on breakfast, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I didn’t eat the night before.
“Good morning, Fred,” I greet him.
He grumbles a response, and I reach out to grab a croissant from the basket, shoving it into my mouth.
“Lady Raelyn! You know you aren’t allowed to eat those,” Fred says, glaring at me as I polish it off as quickly as possible.
“Oops, I forgot.” No, I didn’t.
“Lady Astoria would be most displeased if she knew you were in here eating her breakfast.”
“I’m a lady too, you know,” I huff angrily. “It’s not my fault she’s lost her damn mind and relegated me to staff.”
“Not my problem.” Fred sniffs. “I just do what I’m told, and I’m told you are not to eat the pastries.
” He points over to the corner where a giant tureen of unflavored oats sits.
“The staff breakfast is over there. Do not test me again.” His posture softens as he takes in my defeated appearance, and he gives me a sympathetic look. “I can’t lose this job . . .”
I blow out a breath, trying to release my anger as I head over to the .
. . slop, and serve myself a small portion.
No one respects me anymore. No one treats me like the daughter I once was.
I’m just part of the help. I try not to be angry with them—I know how hard they work.
Their families would suffer without their jobs and whatever meager payment they are given. My payment is the roof over my head.
“Don’t forget your tonic.” Fred nods toward the shelf.
“Oh, of course. Thanks for the reminder.”
I grab it and put it into my pocket. After my accidental sun exposure, I definitely cannot miss this dose, but my stomach is roiling from the porridge, and the thought of taking the sickly-sweet tonic makes me want to vomit. Gods willing, it will be more palatable after my morning tea.
Filling a stone mug to the brim with the beverage, I take a sip, enjoying the warmth.
“I’ll be right back, Fred,” I say, slipping back into the hall and making my way toward my old sanctuary. With any luck, I just might get a few moments to myself.
The sitting room remains mostly untouched, and I take a deep breath as I light a few lamps. The familiar scents of parchment from the abundance of literature and of cinnamon from my favorite candles assault my nose. I really need to make it a point to come and relax with a good book soon.
I take another sip of my tea, allowing it to soothe my stomach.
My fingers trail along the spines of the many books.
I could use a little joy, and perhaps escaping into a story would help me manage the misery of my current situation.
My fingers stop on a shimmering, opalescent tome—one of my favorites that is surely due for a reread.
I trace the silver embossed title: The Fall of the Iris.
My stomach is much more settled, so I set down my mug and pull the tonic out of my pocket. I pop open the stopper and—
“Raelyn!”
My name is screeched so loudly, I startle and drop the vial. As if in slow motion, I watch in horror as it bounces off the edge of the bookcase and shatters on the floor, the golden liquid staining the carpet.
Chessa screams my name again, and I groan.
So much for my moment of solitude. Father would not have been pleased at the wasted tonic; perhaps it’s a good thing he’s not home to fret.
I’m certain the medicine is expensive to acquire.
One missed day can’t hurt too badly, right?
I send up another prayer to the gods that I’m not making a big mistake. I’ll come back and clean this up later.
I almost bump into Chess out in the hall.
“You can stop screaming,” I say, unleashing my snark as I march past her toward the kitchen. To my annoyance, she follows me.
“What in the hells do you think you’re doing relaxing in the sitting room when you have work to do?” she accuses.
I point at the rich breakfast laid out on the tables. “Breakfast hasn’t even been served yet, Chess. You’re being unreasonable.”
She sniffs. “I’m only doing what Mother commanded—making sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to do.”
“What, you’re my keeper now?” I scoff.
“Clearly, you need someone to stay on top of you, you lazy wretch.”
I fist my hands at my sides, desperately holding myself back. She’s not worth the potential punishment.
Chess holds out a piece of rolled-up parchment, a haughty smirk on her face. “Better get started . . .”
I snatch it out of her hand, and despair hits as the list of tasks overwhelms me before I’ve even begun. I really hate it here.