Royal Residence, at Some Unholy Hour in the Morning
The overnight lockdown had served Ramona poorly. The routine she’d so carefully assembled was shot. When she first woke from thirst in the middle of the night, she habitually rose from her bed quickly, only to realize that she could not risk going out to do her business, for there would surely be heavy patrols around the royal residence—patrols which might uncover the terrible truth. And a blightborn in the service of a princess of Lunaris? Blightborn in Dawnhaven though there were—her deception was, as she understood, somewhere in the domain of treason. And how could a princess who’d just been attacked by a blightborn then sit idly by after learning a maid was secretly one of the same set of terrors that was rogue?
Ramona looked back to her bed. She was too thirsty not to drink anything, and yet doing so would surely force her to figure something out—something new and therefore, most likely, incredibly risky given the circumstances. With a sigh, Ramona looked at the bucket sitting near her bed. The bucket full of water, which, on a normal night, she would have guzzled half of now and half of on her return from cutting back the influences of the blight. She cupped some of the water in her hands—getting quite a portion for how the webbing was already creeping back up her fingers. It was always the first to return, and the most troublesome to fight back—for it meant she needed a steady flow of bandages to wear under gloves.
Ramona took one sip, and then allowed herself a second. She still felt parched. She descended carefully to the floor and sat cross-legged in front of the bucket. She closed her eyes, rubbed her face, and held back a groan, until it wriggled out from her in the form of a prolonged, strained wheeze. Ramona leaned forward, and splashed her face with the water, rubbing the water in carefully, trailing water to every bit of exposed skin, including that on her neck. Then, she dipped her arms into the bucket, rubbing water into them, and finally repeated the process to make an attempt at moisturizing her legs.
Ramona clasped the little necklace she always wore. The locket was heavily tarnished, as was the chain. Atop the locket sat a ring, which she’d slid along the chain before putting it around her neck after wearing it had become infeasible due to her fingers’ webbing and injuries. Lifting it closer, holding the fist she clasped the locket and ring it to her cheek, Ramona rubbed the little notches along the ring—the marks from the knife after she’d had to cut the ring free of her own hand when the webbing first grew in around it.
Ramona rubbed her other hand on her slip, until it was dry enough that it hurt. She flicked it in the air several times, and then brought the cold, dry hand to her shoulder. While she rubbed her shoulder, she sighed softly, her lips tensing into what could almost be a smile.
“I miss you too,” she murmured.
Ramona sat like that for a time, until the crackling pain of her hand’s dry skin became too much. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stopped breathing. She released her grip on the locket and let it fall back to where it rested on her chest. She plunged her dry hand into the cold water, and sat, breathless, soundless, until the sharp pain began to fade. She clenched that hand and unclenched it slowly, checking to see if it had reabsorbed enough moisture. It needed a bit longer.
Her other hand tensed, bunching up a bit of her slip in her lap. The worst thing about this whole situation was how endlessly frustrating it was. Here she was, alone for the rest of however long it took to force together a dream that was supposed to be shared, plus the time it took to make sure she was dead, and she couldn’t even tell if she was crying unless something else came with the tears that might or might not have existed.
Well, crying did have another helpful indicator. Usually, there was this ominous feeling, and then it felt like being overheated and chaotic and small and helpless all at once. No, this was something more normal—even if it still felt anything but. It was this cold grief, the kind that had crept in behind the tears over the months and replaced that warm messiness with a frigid order. Crying made her want to whimper. This malaise, whatever it specifically was, felt more like breathing was a chore she had yet to get used to it. And that she needed to remind herself to take every next breath—a feeling all the more salient now that she wouldn’t necessarily be reminded by that feeling of breathlessness that once, on the odd occasions she’d felt this way before, shook her out of it. It was like a heavy fog, now sitting in a valley which never got any real wind to clear it away.
After glancing back at her bed, Ramona took more water and rubbed it into her face, until she finally decided to just dunk her face fully in the water. As she let her face sit in the water, she increasingly became gripped by the sinking feeling that she’d gotten all the sleep she was likely to get for the night. Either she’d be thirsty or stuck sitting up for hours doing nothing as her bladder taunted her. No, that was just plain pointless. Just a waste of time, for neither coin nor comfort.
Ramona groaned as she sat back up. May as well mop…
And so, Ramona began the task of getting dressed. Her work clothes themselves weren’t, admittedly, the part made it a task. Rather, it was undergarments. Her night-slip was probably the only comfortable option she had, and yet, it wasn’t worth possibly damaging it with hard work. It wasn’t as if she could go get a new sealskin to make into a new slip. But to keep her skin moist and her clothes dry, that meant alternatives. And the alternative was spectacularly sub-pleasant.
A long-sleeved shift…made of animal intestines. It didn’t smell and was overall a decent article of clothing…to wear
over an outfit as a raincoat. Wearing something made of intestine as an undergarment, though? The damned thing clung. It was just always clinging, sticking to slick skin, and for its water-retardant properties offered the rather unenviable sensation that Ramona was swimming in her sleeves. But it was either this or look like she was sweating through her clothes in less than half a day. Which very much wasn’t an option.
So on the shift went, then a second, normal shift, then her customary plain, dark, woolen dress that went to her wrists, ankles, and covered her neck. Then the apron—the only light coloured piece of her outfit. Finally, her headwear. Veil, headscarf, then shawl. Finally, shoes and gloves. Her gloves fit uncomfortably for how her webbing had already begun to creep back up her fingers. If she didn’t take care of it by the next night, it’d be at the first joints in her fingers by the next morning. How grand. Just, grand. Before she left her room, she looked back and pulled some dried ephedra from a container hidden among her things. Today, she had earned some special tea.
Once she closed the door with the plant in hand, Ramona stifled her own groan as she began to review the tasks at hand.
It then occurred to Ramona that since everyone was surely asleep, she could at least have a much easier time of washing than usual, since she could ditch her gloves rather than the awkward way she normally went about it, at least for the first task or two. It was something, anyway. So, then. The dishes were the most trouble with gloves on, so that could come first today, even though it really wouldn’t be necessary until much closer to breakfast for the other servants. In, probably four or five hours.
Once her tea had brewed, Ramona got to it.
Really, without gloves to make the whole task into a complicated affair of carefully directing water magic. And there was something almost pleasant about it, with the warm water and lovely Aurelian soap. It felt peaceful, for a moment. With her hands submerged in the warm water of the basin, rubbing the grease from each plate and piece of cutlery barehanded. Feeling the warmth creep up her arms, it felt almost like she could close her eyes, open them, and be on her way home.
Ramona let herself live the fantasy for a moment. As she fell into the fantastic trance, she quietly, creakily hummed a
song to herself for a time. As the task captured more of her attention still, she began to whisper. And at last, quietly, she began to sing its lyrics.
“Come to me, my dear, tomorrow
Without your smile, I have no light
Eyes like stars, bringing me from night
Come the day, we’ll go
We’ll go far from here
All that I want, is written right on your lips
As the Goddess gave to you
To hold in my hands, this blesséd visage
All of my dreams are just of you”Her voice, unused and unmolested by dust, was not yet so raspy as it was by evening. Perhaps it wasn’t anything to perform, but every lyric slipped from her lips all the same as she fell into the familiar tune from another lifetime.
…
The dishes went by fast. So too did the preparations for the morning meal. Dusting without having to conceal her cough made the entire affair so much easier—and before she knew it, she’d rid everywhere but the bedrooms of ashes from the fireplace, swept, mopped, and cleaned every piece of furniture.
How did singing make it all easier? How did simply pretending all was well make life go by so quickly? What cruel trick was it, that the easiest things went by the fastest? Ramona found herself scrambling to get her gloves back on as the other servants in the house stirred, and found herself smiling as the scullion noticed that even the kitchen was cleaned. Then, an excitement began to grip her. She lit the fires, stripped the servants’ beds, did the laundry, and though she found herself panting, out of breath as she feverishly cleaned the dishes from the servants’ breakfast, she realized she’d managed it. The royals hadn’t yet opened their door, and she was all but done with the chores of the day that could yet be done.
An inconvenience had, for once in a blue moon, become a blessing in disguise.
Quickly, Ramona left a note on the door of her quarters.
‘Woke up early & could not sleep. Began chores early, so I am visiting the Temple to light a candle.
– Ramona’
She wouldn’t have forever, as the royals would surely rise eventually, but for how hectic the day before had been, Ramona hoped she’d have time for a real, proper prayer. Maybe even a blessing.
Slipping out a side door in her heavy cloak, carrying three homemade candles and the bread and cheese she’d been given for breakfast with her in a pouch, Ramona walked with purpose towards the Seluna Temple. Silently, she observed in the distance as someone else entered the temple. Good; she wasn’t too early. Shortly after that woman entered, Ramona herself slipped past the door and closed it quietly. Then, she turned around.
Ramona froze in place as she laid eyes on Elara.
‘Fuck,’ she thought.
The unusual optimism that the morning had accumulated drained immediately as Ramona saw the Princess’ handmaiden at the temple. Her heart sank.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck’Of course. The bodies. Everyone was probably going to be here soon. Why had she so stupidly thought she could have a quiet moment in the temple?
And why did she think she could sneak away, even just for a bit?
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