The Kingdom of Secrets and Ruin

Dalliah

A month has passed since the usurper stole my father’s throne and killed my mother. It’s been the hardest turn of the moon in all my life and not just because of the loss I struggle to mourn each and every day.

As part of the cover that both Ingaret and Marjorie work to provide me with so that my identity can remain a secret, I am set to work.

It’s not as fulfilling or as satisfactory as my novels would have me believe, and over the course of these past few weeks, the blisters on my hands from scrubbing floors have hardened and turned into what I’m told are called calluses.

Gone are the dainty hands that my mother always complimented when trying to talk me into needlework or something equally as boring, and while it gives me the means to survive this invasion, it only seems to add to my resentment towards the king.

It’s difficult to hide my contempt when the other servants around me, ones I’m now actually allowed to speak to, seem to sing his praises. The number of times I’ve had to physically bite my tongue is incredible and I have a permanent bruise on my foot from where Ingaret will stand on me should my face not be the picture of disinterest I think it to be.

But really, how can they ignore the fact that this ‘king’ of theirs invaded our kingdom, killed our royal family and forced us to serve them? Do they not care, or am I missing something?

Their whole attitude to it keeps me up at night trying to understand them and honestly, it’s taking the thrill out of finally having the chance to interact with people for the first time in my life.

I mean, why would I want to?

The idea of truly getting to know them terrifies me on the off chance that it should raise suspicions against my identity, as it’s clear where their allegiance lies. The Leverer name that I always wished I could live up to is now a red letter carrying a guaranteed death sentence.

The family I have lost aren’t so much as mourned here anymore and it pains me to know that the halls I’m finally allowed to walk down are now so different, that I could never see them back in their hay day.

There are some perks to the changes though. Now that I am just a maid, there is no veil to wear when walking in the gardens anymore, only now rather than taking walks aimlessly, I’m sent to weed them or collect vegetables for the cook that makes all of our meals. But this part I don’t mind so much as I love the feeling of the sun against my bare skin and the dirt between my fingers.

Today especially has turned a corner when it comes to the temperature outside and it’s a shame that I can’t work out here full time, maybe even helping the gardener to grow things rather than just picking them. But apparently, that requires more experience and Dalliah Strong, the name Ingaret has given me, didn’t exist a month ago to be able to provide suitable experience. So I have to start from the bottom and work my way up.

I expected as much, I mean Marjorie has been working here for years, to the point where I can barely remember a time before she was here despite us being the same age, and yet she’s only just managed to upgrade from scullery to housemaid.

I doubt any of the ladies she’s asked to wait on will have offered to help like I used to, but I suppose they’re not starved for company like I was. The king’s mother and sister have taken over the court with ease it seems and all I hear at dinner time is how beautiful their long red hair is, or how interesting their accents sound in comparison to ours.

But I suppose I should be grateful not to be an upstairs maid just yet, the last thing I want is to be put in the path of one of those awful invaders. The paint that covers my face will only last so long and then what? Will they recognise me, or will they just shame me like my father did?

The thought came to mind that I could potentially use my earnings to pay for more face paint, as surely I’ll have worked up some sort of a wage through all of this work. But when I asked Ingaret about this, knowing nothing about the cost of things due to my isolation, I still recall the face she made and the colour that drained from it.

I’m not actually on the books as a worker here and so wages won’t have been allocated to take me on. It’s easy enough to squeeze me into the servant’s hall and share a room with Marjorie, but payment? That would require approval from the new household, something we’re still trying to avoid the notice of.

At this point, I laughed.

I suppose it was too easy to simply hide as someone I’m not and while I have free food and a place to sleep, that’s more or less where we can draw the line. This is my life now and with no money, no experience and no true name, I’m trapped.

Until I can come up with an alternative at least.

The characters in my books never gave up, there was always another twist on the horizon ready to make things interesting. I just wish I had access to them again so that I could re-read them for inspiration and really, the world is a lonely place without them.

When I asked around, it came as a shock to me to find that most of the people I work with can’t read and I’ve never pitied a group of people so quickly.

Even a cookery book or gardening encyclopaedia is hard to get my hands on, so each night after I’ve finished the day’s labour, I retell myself the stories I already know while holding Nameless close to my chest for warmth. It makes it seem more realistic when I promise myself to create my own story, that I’ll be my own heroine and who knows, maybe I’ll even manage to make it one about revenge.

While everyone else seems to have forgotten about the wrong done to us by this Red King and his horrid court, I’ll hold on tight, bury it down deep and should the opportunity present itself, I will strike.