(continued from Part XXIII | Act I | Act II | Part XXV)
Hearty shouts alongside the rhythmic sounds of battle drills filtered up from below through the windows, heralding the start of the day still better than any rooster could in these parts.
Lou opened her eyes. She'd been awake for a little while; the clouds blunted the edge of the morning light and the covers did the same for the autumn cold, but not for the snoring that roared under the covers.
She took one long breath, holding it there before exhaling softly. While her body was well-rested, her head still throbbed from the aftereffects of the previous night. Thankfully, this was a pain she knew just how to relieve. But to do so, she had to get up.
As difficult as that was right now, her arms firmly wrapped around the figure sleeping next to her. She wondered if this was how Chiffon had felt, so long ago, when she had been the one offering comfort and warmth.
Lou very methodically shifted her weight from one side to the other, rocking the two of them back and forth, gradually freeing her pinned arm and creating a way out. She gently ruffled the hair of the sleeper she had successfully extricated herself from, then slipped out of bed feet-first.
The stark feeling of the cold stone on the bottom of her bare feet did wonders to wake her up the rest of the way. Her morning routine, already in disarray, now became that much more hurried. She hopped over to the mirror, gave her tousled mess of hair some attention, and located her glasses. There was a moment of panic as she looked for her clothes, but after a flash of inspiration and a brief search, she found her uniform. She thanked her lucky stars it was still in one piece, exactly where she'd stuffed it. She carefully dug it out, gave it a good shake or two, put it on, and was out the door.
The head maid was just as surprised to see her as everyone else.
She spotted her as Lou was getting some water from the communal carafe following the end of roll call. The head maid waved her over as the other maids all went their separate ways, some exchanging glances, others hushed gossip. “Glasses, what are you doing?”
“Mm?”
The head maid put a hand on her hip. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Oh, uh,” Lou said, holding up her hands in an appealing gesture, “I can explain.”
“I’m all ears,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger, “because if I recall correctly, you asked for the day off.”
“You’re right, you're right, I'm sorry. I am off the clock today, but uhh... something came up last night, and I improvised." She looked around, making sure no one was close by, then lowered her voice. "Call it a… special assignment? You-know-where?”
She sighed. “Glasses, the union rules are very clear on this: no work unless you’re paid. I understand things were different in our time, but this is how it is now, alright? The young ones look up to you! You need to set a good example. Especially considering what happened the last time you left.”
Lou looked back at the last few maids still in the room, who got startled and hurried off as soon as she turned their way. "...They do?"
The head maid shook her head. "For someone as good with the fine details as you are, there sure is a lot you don't pick up." She pinched the bridge of her nose, pondering for a breath, then made up her mind. "Alright. I trust you, do what you have to do. Maybe you'll actually be able to get some work done in there. Just be sure to let me or Ribbon know the specifics so we can coordinate, and try to get our cart back—the last girl who went in abandoned it when she ran out. Got all that?"
"Yes, absolutely! Thank you." Lou gave her a quick, polite bow, then she was off before the head maid could change her mind.
"Don't mention it. This still counts as a work day though, I'm not letting you off the hook! And Glasses?"
Lou stopped in her tracks, right at the door, her hand on the wall. She glanced back at the head maid.
"Break a leg."
Lou smiled, and gave her a thumbs-up.
Her next stop was the kitchen, but she could take her time. She took the scenic way there, using this as an opportunity to verify that an old secret passage was still accessible. No one noticed one more maid joining the back ranks of those awaiting their food service assignments. No one saw which shadowy nook in the wall she emerged from, either. After meals had been packaged up and dispatched—and most of the co-chefs had stopped to take a break—Lou stepped up to a free spot on the griddle.
She pointed at the cooking surface with an inquisitive expression.
One of the co-chefs looked over, then nodded.
She bowed politely, and quickly gathered up what she needed. Just some eggs and bread, and some milk, and a little bit of vanilla, and perhaps some cinnamon, and brown sugar, and had the castle's stock of syrup been depleted? Not yet! Into a decanter it went. She hummed a tune as she whisked most of the ingredients into a bowl, and got to work. Soak and sizzle, soak and sizzle, until the last slice was golden brown.
She would owe a favor to the pastry chef by the time she left, her meal plated and secured between tray and cloche. Utensils, a napkin, an upturned mug, and a fresh carafe of water completed the set.
She heard it as she turned the last corner: a low—lower than she was used to—voice singing a campfire song she hadn’t thought about in years. Though the accent was a passable imitation at best, the lyrics rang true. Hearing it here in these very halls reminded her of two homes at once in a way few things could.
The two guards at the door exchanged glances when she returned, but let her in, one of them helpfully holding it open as she made her way inside. No longer muffled by the door, the singing became louder; the feeling in each word, more tangible.
“Metté z'en plusse que po assé, s’ra bin au yâb de décider… À chasse à guerre, y’a pas d’pitié—tu rent’ sulle d’sus, ou en… ter… ré…”
The Prince went silent once he heard the door close. He turned his head to look in Lou’s direction when she approached, watching though half-lidded eyes as she gently lowered the tray onto the opposite side of the bed. He lowered the covers with one hand, just enough to give himself room to crane his neck for a better view. Then he let his head hit the pillow again.
“I thought I sent you away,” he said, his voice a raspy groan as he reached up to massage his forehead. "Years ago."
“I came back,” she said matter-of-factly.
"Why?"
"Because that's what I want."
"I said no visitors." He waved dismissively. “I could order you to leave.”
She lifted the cloche, revealing her handiwork: a hearty stack of grilled, egg-soaked bread, dusted with sweet spices, ready to be smothered in syrup. With a handful of macarons on the side, for good measure. “You won’t,” she said.
He laboriously pushed himself into a sitting position, scratching several days’ worth of stubble on his cheek—which still wasn’t a lot, admittedly. “Because you brought me food?”
“Because that's not what you want." She put the metal cloche aside and unwrapped the utensils.
He looked at her with weary eyes through gaps in tangled hair. Lou had seen this face a long, long time ago: the picture of sleep with no rest. Part of her wanted to take a brush to his head and tame those locks, at least the ones that dipped down below his eyebrows. But now was not the time. One day, perhaps, she could do this for him; she let the familiar ache of that possibility blossom, bloom and fade, all within the span of a few practiced breaths.
What she could do right now was help with his headache, however. She turned over the clean metal mug she'd brought from the kitchen and poured him some water.
The Prince reached for the mug as Lou handed it, draining it in a loud series of gulps. He let it and the hand holding it drop unceremoniously on top of the covers, exhaling loudly as he leaned his head back against the padded headboard. "How did you get in this time?"
"I got hired," Lou replied, requisitioning a broom from the maid cart that had been sitting in the room for some time, gathering dust.
"Again?" He made a few attempts at grabbing the tray just out of his reach, finally snagging it with one of his fingers and pulling the whole thing close. "Let me guess, you've been here for eight months this time as well?" He frowned and closed his eyes, massaging his forehead again for a moment. "No. Can't have been that long." He got ahold of a knife and a fork. "...Right?"
Lou looked over as she made her way to one corner of the room. "I wasn't sure you were going to use those, I'm glad I brought a set."
"What, the utensils?" He scoffed. "Loulou, I'm not a monster."
She stood there for a moment. Then she returned her attention to the task at hand.
"I've just been here a couple weeks," she said. "The head maid had told me that I had a job waiting for me whenever I wanted to come back. So I did." She began to methodically clear the stone and rugs of accumulated dust and dirt, setting the stage for the rest of the work to come.
"She said that?" The Prince chuckled dryly. "Wait long enough and I'll forget about it, is that right? What else has my own staff been keeping from me?"
There was a pause.
"Does Sleeves know you're here?"
"They only found out last night," Lou said as she swept around the edge of the bed. She stopped for a brief moment. "Late last night," she specified.
The Prince grunted in acknowledgement. He piled up the butchered pieces of golden bread he'd roughly cut apart, drowning them in a torrent of syrup. Then he picked the plate up with one hand and brought it close.
For a while, the only sounds in the royal chambers were the rhythmic scraping of straw against stone and metal against ceramic.
"How is it?" Lou asked, glancing over as she swept.
"It's—hold on." The Prince pondered the remaining piece in front of him; pressed down on it with a fork, making a bead of soaked syrup come up for air before it retreated back into the bread. "Did you make this?"
"I did."
He ate the last piece of golden bread. Slowly, this time; lingering on each bite, giving the flavor and texture their due. When there was nothing left, he put the empty plate down onto the tray like one would lay a comrade to rest.
"It's incomparable," he finally said.
Lou shrugged as she circled the bed, moving on to the second half of the room. "I'm no Cleaver."
"No," the Prince said. "That's not what I said."
She looked up.
"Tell me," he said, his eyes on the last smear of syrup, his voice beginning to shake itself free of the gravel it had accumulated the night before. The muscles of his face twitching ever-so-slightly, as if he was considering the possible outcomes of a battle that was yet to come. "Tell me why you made this."
— end of preview
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