Alex Zandra

(continued from Part IV | Act I | Act II | Part VI)

The servant's quarters had been set up in a large hall of the castle's undercroft, with bunk beds distributed along the walls and split up in groups via privacy screens of various makes and materials. Rows of upper windows gave the room plenty of natural light, though some of the residents found their own ways to stretch their active hours just a little bit past sundown, when most were left to their own devices.

Everyone was expected to be up at dawn—some even before, depending on their assignment—and today was no exception. A trio of maids were in the middle of their morning routine when the Head Maid brought along the person who would take up the fourth bed in their little section of the hall. The shortest among them, eyes hidden behind large round glasses, face closely framed by long golden hair, hands holding the straps of a makeshift bedroll. Already in uniform.

"This is where you'll be staying," the supervisor said, motioning to the open bunk on the bottom left. "Roll call's in about twenty minutes, right after the sunrise bell. I'll find someone to match you up with and teach you the ropes, so just settle in for now and get acquainted." And with that brief introduction, the Head Maid was off. "This one's all yours, you three," she added over her shoulder as she walked away.

The first one looked down from the top right bunk, still in an undershirt, long legs dangling off the side of the bed. "Oh." The disappointment was audible, almost drowning out the sound of the seam-ripper removing the leftover strands of colorful thread as deft hands worked to clear away the small patch on the maid uniform's collar reserved for personal identifiers. "Not even taking odds on this one. Glasses."

"Oh, you're right!" the second maid said from the bottom right bunk, finishing up her skincare routine using a small mirror propped up on the communal nightstand the three (now four) colleagues shared. She smiled sweetly as she undid the bun keeping her chestnut hair from touching her shoulders. "I would've said Glasses too. It's very fitting!"

"Whaaaat no guessing game? Ugh, that's my favorite part!" exclaimed the third maid as she peeked over the top left bunk, sneering with almost uncannily-pointy teeth. She sighed loudly as she hopped down directly to the ground, her head of jet-black frizzy curls whipping along with the motion. She brushed her hair aside with a hand, keeping it mostly in place with her uniform's hairband, and gave her new colleague a once-over. Then she sighed. "Yeah. Glasses for sure. If he picks anything else, I'll dust rugs for a month."

"You already do that all the time though," said the second maid as she adjusted the puffy, almost shimmering layer of fabric she'd added to parts of her uniform, from the shoulder to the wrist. "Hi! I'm Chiffon, by the way," she whispered to the new arrival, giving her an excited wave.

"That's because I'm good at it!" replied the third maid as she flexed her biceps, her own uniform having been modified to cover much less of the arms. "You should try it sometimes. Really lets you cut loose, you know?" She shot her colleague a grin before nodding to the new maid. "How are you doing, I'm Dusty. 'Scuse me for a sec, gotta go do my stretches." And with that, she stepped out of the little privacy screen alcove to find an open bit of space.

Although there was a standard uniform for the many disciplines of workers at the castle, a bit of leeway was granted when individuals wanted to customize theirs to their liking. The one part that absolutely could not be tampered with, however, was ironically the one that gave the wearer the most freedom: the personal identifier patch.

The small rectangle on the collar was several generations old at this point, thought to have originated as a speedy and efficient way to allow royal guard members to address each other—and be addressed—with the respect to each person's identity that etiquette required.

As with many other customs, whatever the Crown did, the City emulated, and made their own. Outside the castle, use of the dot, the two lines or the square on any piece of clothing or accessory was often both an expression of fashion as well as a statement about how the wearer wanted to be addressed. And with each generation, the practice spread further.

Not every castle tradition made it beyond the walls, however, such as the peculiar obsession with nicknames. To work in the castle meant setting part of oneself aside for the duration of the contract, as open-ended as it was. The pay was high and the benefits—such as room and board—were plenty, but it all came at a cost: life outside the job became an afterthought, a memory. Some took this chance to wipe away a past they would rather forget, while others saw it as an opportunity to reinvent themselves going forward. The result was the same: for good or ill, most people who worked in the castle became who they were seen as, although there was a bit of wiggle room to account for self-expression.

Glasses bowed in greeting, then quietly walked over to the remaining empty bed. It was a modest but comfortable affair: a frame, a mattress and some bedsheets. Conspicuously absent, however, was the pillow.

"Welcome, neighbor!" Chiffon said from her bed across from the nightstand. "Oh right! Sleeves, you should give..." She paused and looked at Glasses, spotting the little round pin that had been temporarily affixed to the small rectangular patch on her collar. "You should give her back the extra pillow."

"Aw, but it's so comfy," the first maid whined from the top bunk, partway through filling in half of the uniform's freshly-cleared collar patch with a square of contrasting thread. Sleeves peeked over the side of their bed and looked down at Glasses, their mouth slowly spreading into a sly grin. "Alright, tell you what. How about we let fortune decide?" They fished out a deck of cards from under their mattress, flicking it from one hand to the other, card by card, like an accordion. "Tell me when to WHOA!"

Sleeves's trick went awry as half of the deck exploded out of their hands, sending cards flying everywhere. One of them landed directly in the spot between Glasses's eyeglasses and her face, wedging itself against her nose and causing the smaller maid to jolt in surprise.

Sleeves inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. "Sorry," they said, quickly gathering up the cards that had landed on their bunk. "So, uh, what card did you get?"

Glasses gingerly picked the card up and flipped it over. Three knives piercing a heart, floating in the middle of a storm.

"Ooh, tough luck there!" Sleeves winced sympathetically. "Heartbreak. Sorrow. Fortune has spoken! Guess I'm keeping the pillow then."

— end of preview

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(continued from Part XIV | Act I | Act II | Part XVI)

"Were you able to watch the coronation?"

"No, thank the gods. I had to cancel—luckiest migraine of my life! The undertemple fellow I was seeing had front-row seats. Can you imagine if I'd been there when that... witch-or-whoever attacked?"

"Well I'm glad you're okay. I do wish we had more to go on, though. Have they said anything about what happened? I heard there was a stampede afterwards!"

"You heard right! But no, the Crown is still all tight-lipped about it, even three days later. Her Majesty's doing fine, apparently? I keep hearing the strangest stories about that."

"Haven't you asked that guy you're seeing, from the undertemple? He might have some inside info."

"What? No, like I said, I was seeing him. He's going to be recovering from all the being-stepped-on for the rest of theater season and my tickets are non-refundable."

The two socialites at the next table merrily chatted away over their colorful drinks of infusions and foam in the most unusually-shaped glasses the café would stock. Lou kept to herself, alone with her back to them, drumming her fingers on the table. Frederic had arranged to meet her here, so she kept her attention squarely on the street, scanning for his arrival. She couldn't wait to be home already.

The fact that it was getting late only served to make Lou more antsy. She was also starting to feel bad about taking up a table by herself without ordering anything, which was a new sensation all on its own. The many times she'd come here while escorting the princess, the two of them had always gotten something right away. Today, however, she didn't want to linger any longer than she had to.

Lou idly wondered if she'd get mistakenly recognized, but the odds of that were slim. While the princess had always been very laissez-faire when it came to fashion choices, all the outfits in question had always been quite stylish. Which is not something anyone would say about Lou's current look: a very plain shirt and sturdy trousers to match, with a pair of rugged boots. All safehouses were stocked with clothes that would allow its occupants—especially Her Majesty—to go incognito, but finding pants in her size had been unexpected.

Lou was grateful there had been outfit choices at all. She'd been confined to that apartment to rest as Frederic and the tattooed witch had directed. The same witch whose patchwork job on the princess's coronation dress had fallen apart as promised the moment Lou had taken it off. What a mess.

But at least it would soon be over. Lou finally relented—ordering her usual cup of black coffee—which at least gave her conscience some respite as she waited. She did like this little café on the edge of the upper city, despite how popular it tended to be with the city elite. Hanging out with that particular class of people had never been her forte, despite how often it came up in her line of work. That said, she'd gladly suffer through an all-night upper hall banquet filled to the brim with aristocrats if it meant Her Majesty was there as well.

The wait was getting to be too much for her.

As if on cue, she saw him. Or rather, his silhouette as he walked toward the café with the setting sun at his back. They'd been comrades long enough for Lou to instantly recognize him by his frame and mannerisms alone. She couldn't wait any longer; she leapt to her feet and ran over to meet him.

"Frederic!" she shouted, giving him a big hug.

Ah?

Lou took a giant step back, arms still outstretched, blood rushing to her face. What was that? "I'm... I'm sorry, I don't know what—"

"Sir!" Frederic said, immediately setting down the wooden chest he'd been carrying under his arm. He bent down on one knee and looked closely at Lou, a rarely-seen look of worry on his face. "I'm sorry sir, I came here as fast as I could. Are you all right?"

"Uh... yes, I think?" Lou replied. Was Frederic just going to gloss over the whole hug thing? Also, why was he out of uniform? It was rare to see him in anything other than the standard royal guard outfit, even on the few occasions he did socialize or go out on the town.

But the knight seemed preoccupied by something different altogether. He raised a gloved hand before Lou's chest, near her solar plexus. "May I?"

Lou's eyes went wide. "I... I s'pose so??"

Frederic gently applied pressure on the center of Lou's chest, through her shirt, where the lowest of her ribs met. "Does this hurt?"

She shook her head, wildly confused.

The knight pressed again with his fingers, higher this time, repeating the motion up and down the middle of her ribcage, then once on each flank. With each touch, he repeated his question, and every time her answer was the same.

"How about breathing, sir? Can you take a deep breath? Does it hurt?"

Lou furrowed her brow in baffled frustration. "Frederic, what's this ab—fine, fine." She took a deep breath, then exhaled. Twice, for good measure. "I'm okay, see? No pain. I followed instructions and it healed right up. Can't this wait until we're back at the castle?"

Frederic leaned back, resting one arm on his knee. Before, he'd looked like he had just stared death in the face; now, it was as if a colossal weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He let out a long sigh of relief, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Thank goodness, sir," he finally said, a smile almost peeking through his usual stoic mask. "I don't know what I would have done if... so the witch's apprentice came through, then?"

Lou crossed her arms. "Yes, she did. And she was really rude about it! Ruined Her Majesty's coronation gown, too." She looked down at herself, shifting her hands to her hips. "Thankfully we stock clothes in her size at the safehouse."

"Good, good," Frederic said with a nod. He picked the wooden chest back up and rose to his feet, giving Lou a firm pat on the shoulder. "Let's go and sit, sir."

"No, we're going back to the castle. You can give your report along the way. I've been away from Her Majesty long en—"

Lou stopped mid-step. Frederic's hand was still on her shoulder; his grip now firmer. She glared up at him. "Frederic. What's this about?"

The knight nodded toward the café. "I must insist we talk things things out here, sir. It's a Crown matter." The relief on his face had been short-lived, once again replaced by an impassive mask.

— end of preview

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(continued from Part XIII | Act I | Act II | Part XV)

Lou opened her eyes slowly, taking a moment to adjust to the morning light filtering in through the blinds of the apartment window. Her gaze lazily clung to the painting that hung on the wall as she took deeper and deeper breaths, easing herself out of her sleepy haze. She still wasn't as well-rested as she'd hoped. But she had also made it through the night without dreams or nightmares, so she figured she'd chalk that up as a win.

She stretched, pushing the covers into even more of a heap. This was the third time she'd opened her eyes this morning. Maybe this time she'd actually make it out of bed.

And she did, a half hour or so later.

Lou remembered how much it had hurt to wake up in this bed the first time, though it was for very different reasons. She'd gladly take that kind of pain again over this one. At least those mysterious rib bruises had healed quickly thanks to the equally mysterious witch's treatment. It would take more than a balm to soothe what Lou's heart was feeling right now, no matter how deeply she massaged it into her skin.

She rubbed her face as she sat up on the side of her bed, her modest nightie fluttering slightly in the breeze. Now that she was thinking about it, she never had learned what had caused those injuries. Talking it out with Frederic and the Prince had shaken loose some cobwebs from her memory, enough to remember that nothing—and no one—had come even close to her current body during the coronation. Had it happened afterwards, then? Before Frederic dropped her off?

Not that it mattered anymore. Physical wounds healed. And if they did so without scarring, that was as good as them never having happened in the first place. Lou's body had been lucky; she couldn't say the same for her heart. She reached for the glasses on her nightstand.

She stared at them, through the lenses, as she held them open in front of her. It took her a moment to recognize that she didn't need them anymore. Putting them on every morning had become another ritual, a way to get into character and hide the person underneath. She wouldn't miss the constant worry of being recognized, the fussing to maintain the pretense of being someone else. But she would miss the friends she'd made as Glasses, the little moments of joy in a life otherwise defined by back-breaking work. She folded the frames up and put them back on the nightstand, keeping her hand on them for a while, until she could no longer bear all the memories they brought up. She took a deep breath, then let go.

Judging by the height of the sun and the bustle outside, it was well into morning. Le Petit Chaperon had opened its doors and people were noisily going about their business on the floor below, some invariably sticking around to grab a bite. Lou figured she ought to do the same as well. This was her last day here, after all.

She stumbled to the small washroom, a welcome luxury of what was otherwise a modest apartment. Being in a royal safehouse had its perks. She went through her usual morning routine—rinse, clean with soap, lotion, apply cream to brush... wait. No, she was out of the special conditioner. "Focus, come on, focus," she mumbled to herself as she emerged back out onto the apartment proper. She didn't know how long she'd be away from the city. She would have to visit Chez Gaston before leaving today to stock up, or else her hair would get all frizzy again.

She pulled open a dresser drawer. She had accumulated a few outfits during those first couple of weeks of awkward shopping and attempting to live the city life. On the day she left for the castle with barely anything to call her own, she was fully expecting everything in this room to be reclaimed by the owner, the next guest, or whoever was handling the upkeep of safehouses at the castle. It had been a pleasant surprise to find everything exactly where she'd left it. Maybe now, she could make better use of these clothes.

Lou picked one of the more rugged dresses she owned. She'd be traveling all day, so something fitting for the open road felt more appropriate. That said, she'd also be meeting some important new people, so making a good first impression was key. She should probably add an accessory, something that looked a little nicer. Maybe that bolero she got on a whim that first week? She decided to go for it, checking out the result in the body-length mirror nearby.

Yeah. Yeah, that worked.

She posed this way and that to make sure her outfit looked acceptable. Then she turned around again, faster this time, making the lower half of her dress rise up a little as it spun.

Lou smiled in spite of herself, the color rising to her cheeks—if only for a moment.

It all felt different this time around. Her first few days in this place had been a mess of worries and fumbling around in a body that felt uncanny to her; a body she still thought she was borrowing, and would be expected to return. But now, she knew: it was hers. Hers to do what she wanted with, no matter what. When she and the Prince finally talked that night, when she realized they wouldn't be switching back, there had been an initial wave of shock, of fear. But by morning, she was happier in her body than she'd been in a long time. Maybe ever, in fact.

Part of her wondered if she would ever feel that happy again.

Today didn't quite feel as hopeless as the last few days had, but that wasn't saying much. She really had needed a lot of sleep and a lot of water. She would need a lot more. Considering how much she cried in the last few months, even just the last few days, maybe by this time next year she'd have drunk the ocean.

Lou took another deep breath. She'd be back up here to pack up and leave, but for now, her rumbling stomach told her she ought to get some breakfast. She grabbed her handbag and headed downstairs to the bakery proper.

The smell of freshly-baked bread had become a mainstay of the apartment upstairs, but on the ground floor it was inescapable, like a grandmother's warm hug. The old woman who ran the place with the help of her daughter and her daughter's daughter had been up since before dawn, preparing a wide array of sweet and savory delights. Lou stepped up to the counter, keeping an eye on her favorite table over in the corner, by the front windows. With any luck, she'd be able to get to it before someone else did.

She looked at the apples on display in their cozy little basket on the counter. The Prince had always had a soft spot for these, which meant that she now did too. Sometimes she wasn't quite sure where her new body ended and her old mind began, but when it came to food, she'd inherited a lot of new favorites. Her hand hovered over the fruits, trying to pick the right one. They all looked slightly different. She knew one of these would taste better than the others, but she could never get it right. Her hand trembled. She always messed this up.

"Oh! Allow me, for old times' sake," the old bakery owner said as she rushed over with a spring in her step. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then selected an apple and handed it over.

"Thank you," Lou said quietly as she accepted the fruit. She reached down to give it a shine on the hem of her dress. She bit into the apple, and—bliss, followed by relief. Somehow the old lady got it right every time. Lou was reminded of that time Dusty had tried to teach her how to tell different kinds of rice apart, to no avail. After a very embarrassing attempt at risotto, Lou had been relegated to potato duty for quite a few meals. Even she couldn't ruin potatoes.

"And how are you doing today, Your Majesty?" the old lady asked as she restocked the pastry display.

Lou looked up at the kindly baker for a moment, then back down to the pastries. She didn't have the heart to be honest with her, not even on her last day here. "I'm... doing okay," Lou replied, torn between the pear tartelette and the peach one. She opted for the former. "You know you don't need to call me that anymore," she added, self-consciously.

"Oh I know I don't need to. But you still deserve to be treated like a princess every now and then." The woman smiled as she slid Lou's plate over to her—with a little macaron thrown in on the side. "Just like you still deserve sweets. After all, you kept the Prince safe all these years!"

Lou smiled weakly as she thanked the old baker, putting her apple down onto the plate as she picked it up. She'd really miss this place. At least here she didn't have to worry about coming up with a different identity or a character to play. With the royal decoys still in town, everyone was used to meeting an occasional reminder of the Prince's former look. Everyone also treated them fairly well, as they all had put themselves at personal risk in order to protect the one whose face they wore—some more literally than others.

"Well, if it isn't the bodyguard!" said a voice behind Lou.

— end of preview

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I'm so sleepy but I must write about these nerds