Chương 5: The Way Things Work

The next morning, Tessa did help again. She led Lira through a maze of narrow halls to the easiest path to the kitchens, where they picked up pieces of bread stuffed with hard cheese for breakfast. After eating, she also showed Lira where the water buckets were filled, where to go, and which stairs the headmaids didn't bother watching. They were scrubbing the edge of the main hall when trouble came.

"You two!" snapped a voice like rust scraping iron. It was the same maid who snapped at her yesterday, tall and vulture-thin, with a voice like boiling vinegar. She stormed down the corridor, boots clicking, eyes narrowing on the freshly mopped floor.

"What's this? Two maids doing the job of one." Tessa tensed.

"Headmaid Hesta, I was just showing her around. She is new, you see," said the younger girl.

"We weren't slacking," she added.

"Look, we already finished this corridor." Hesta's eyes locked on Tessa, full of contempt.

"Always the helpful ones who get in the way. You think you are in charge? Did the late steward make you headmaid in his will?"

"No, Headmaid," Tessa said, bowing her head. Lira followed suit, lowering her head too.

"Well, maybe you need a quiet place to think about how much of a boss you want to be." Hesta tapped her foot sharply against the stone floor.

"You're assigned to the old library. Clean every shelf, corner, and step. I will check on you before the dinner bell." Tessa stiffened at that. Hesta gave an evil smile at the reaction.

"Go." Tessa turned and started running.

"As for you," the headmaid fixed her eyes on Lira, "keep scrubbing here. What are you waiting for?" She didn't wait for a response, just turned and vanished down the corridor like a storm receding. Later that night, back at the dormitory, Lira approached an exhausted Tessa at the side of her bed, lit under a stub of tallow candle.

"I'm sorry," Lira said quietly.

"Don't be," Tessa shrugged.

"She hates when things aren't messy and miserable. Kindness makes her weak. Like how vampires are weak to the sun." Lira chuckled at the joke.

"Thank you," she finally said.

"You have helped me a lot." Tessa just shrugged again.

"Stay out of sight. People who stand out around here end up in the worst places." The death of the old Head Steward, Lord Atropos, had left a vacuum, and vacuums in castles never stayed empty for long. Titles hadn't changed, but authority had become a game of position and perception. No one cared to name a successor, so until then, the servants ruled themselves.

Lira learned the politics of the castle the way a street cat learns a new alley, mostly by being swatted, snarled at, and stealing what she could before someone noticed. Her first lesson came with a mop and a bucket. She had been sent to clean the marble corridor outside the reception hall, an impossible stretch with no help and little instruction. The floors had barely dried when Steward Dalwin came thundering down the hall, two footmen trailing like mismatched bookends.

Dalwin's gut preceded him by half a step, wrapped in a faded waistcoat straining at the buttons.

"What's this mess?" he barked, planting a boot into the still-damp floor.

"Sloppy work. Water everywhere. Are you trying to kill someone, girl?" Lira opened her mouth, but the footmen were already laughing, and Dalwin didn't wait for an answer. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I want this redone, properly. Not by some rat in a maid dress playing at work." He stalked off, bellowing at a footman to bring a dry cloth, never looking back. From what little she could gather, Dalwin used to be the king's valet. From his attitude, he probably thought that managing the king's coats made him royalty by association. The next day, in the stable yard, she was scrubbing a horse saddle when a quiet voice startled her.

"You're using the wrong soap." Steward Berem stood in the doorway, lean and pale under his weathered coat, arms folded across his chest. He didn't raise his voice… he didn't need to.

"That will dry the leather out. It will cost twice as much to replace."

"I… I didn't know," Lira stammered.

"You have been warned." He gave a slow blink.

"Don't let it happen again." Then he turned and walked back into the stables, silent as a shadow. Her third lesson came wrapped in a smile. She was carrying a bundle of linens through the east wing when she ran into Steward Harwin, who was adjusting his gloves beside a servant's ledger stand.

"Ah, you must be one of the new faces," he said, his voice warm and rehearsed.

"What are you assigned to?"

"Cleaning chambers," Lira answered carefully.

"Of course. Very important." He plucked a folded note from his pocket and slid it into the ledger drawer with careful ease.

"Be mindful of who you take orders from, girl. Some people give them out like candy, but not all have the coin to back them." He tipped his hat, theatrically, and vanished down the hallway. Apparently, he was the one who handled pay. Lira considered finding him again to show him the letter of recruitment she had carefully forged, but then again, no one seemed to care or question how she got here. So it was better not to rock the boat and give him a reason to investigate her claim.

That evening in the kitchen, Lira saw the head cook in action for the first time. Old Marga was in a fury, swinging a wooden spoon like a saber.

"You put sage in the stew? You donkey! Sage is for mutton, not for river fish! Has everyone lost their minds since the Queen Dowager died?" The scullery boy ducked, and the pot hit the ground with a clang. Marga caught Lira staring.

"Don't just stand there, girl! If you're going to gawk, peel something!" Lira peeled potatoes in silence for half an hour before Marga cooled enough to shove a dumpling into her hand.

"Eat. You look starved." It was really good, served from the nobles' food rather than the slop given to the servants. Two mornings later, Lira was changing linens when she heard the clack-clack sound of high heels across the stone floor. It was Headmaid Celene, often referred to as the Mistress. She was the only maid who wore a clear cyan dress under her apron rather than black, brown, or deep blue.

"This is not the right pattern," Celene said, inspecting the embroidery on the coverlet.

"The Queen's cousins sleep under the griffin crest. This is the rose." Lira flushed.

"I didn't know."

"No one told you," Celene finished, already adjusting the fold.

"They never do. You must learn. Quickly." She left behind a faint perfume of lavender and rose. Lira stood still, heart pounding, barely breathing. She didn't even see Hesta until the slap of laundry hit her side.

"Stop daydreaming," the woman snapped.

"There's always something else to do." Hesta was sharp-faced and iron-backed, eyes narrowed like she was always looking for a weakness.

"You missed your turn in the cellar. You'll make it up. Then do the spare quarters. Then the drains."

"But I am already…"

"You what?" Hesta's voice cracked like a whip. Lira bit her tongue. Hesta smiled, not kindly, and stalked off with her next victim in sight. In a month, Lira had seen more of castle life than some servants did in years. She was curious and subtle, and she floated between duties, claimed by no one, blamed by everyone, and her assignments shifting by the hour. She started recognizing the undercurrents of how things worked in the outer bailey. Three stewards, three head maids. Dalwin managed the footmen and valets.

Berem ran the stables. Harwin, who was technically a scribe under the Master of Coin and not in charge of anyone, still held influence, as coin had its own power. Old Marga ran the kitchens. She had cooked under three monarchs and reminded everyone of it daily. Celene, the Maid Mistress, oversaw the royal chambers and the noble guest quarters. It was whispered she once shared the king's bed, back when he was younger and drunker. And last, and probably least, was Hesta. No one liked Hesta, but everyone feared her.

She had carved her own empire out of the chaos, one punishment assignment at a time. A lot of information gathered by Lira was mostly through observation and gossip. Marga hated Dalwin, especially since he often came to make food suggestions.

"I fed the king before his beard came in," she told Lira once, fixing her with watery eyes and a wicked grin.

"Don't need no steward to tell me how many turnips make a stew." Celene turned her nose up when she saw Berem. Dalwin didn't like it when he saw Harwin ordering his footmen, and everyone hated Hesta because she got involved in everyone's business. Dalwin barked, Berem whispered, Harwin schemed, Marga stormed, Celene glided, and Hesta prowled. And Lira? She watched, listened, and learned. She was swept along, reacting to arbitrary orders that often contradicted themselves. Now, it was time to get proactive.

It was time to disappear, strategically.