Until five weeks ago, we were both chambermaids at Hotel Ivera. As soon as Chairman Varga died and the People’s Republic fell, Mama handed in our notices. She told the head of housekeeping that Lady Rugova and Lady Wraye were restored, along with the King, and it was beneath us to do menial work any longer. We were laughed out of the place.
“No, Wraye. We will be present in Court from the very first day, or we will be left behind. Now, come along, or we’ll miss the tram.”
We hurry the three blocks to the stop, my second-hand high heels pinching my feet. “How did we even get an invitation to the first ball at Court, when the King hasn’t acknowledged our family?”
The tram arrives, and the doors clatter open. We squeeze ourselves on with the afternoon commuters. Mama looks down her nose at them, as if they’re offensive to her, the people who are going home to a warm, comfortable house and a far better dinner than we have to look forward to.
“Never you mind. I managed.”
Mama gets off the tram early, announcing, suddenly, that she has an appointment. She’s been doing this a lot lately, departing quickly before I have the chance to ask where she’s going.
I step off the tram at our stop and cross the bridge into the slums. A little girl is skipping rope. She’s singing as she skips, and her high, sweet voice floats through the summer air. “…there sat Aimee, sweet as a rose. Along came Gunvald and he kissed her thrice…”
It’s the same rhyme I used to skip to. Gunvald and Aimee. Their names are like old friends, though I never did find out who they were. I would sing the song under my breath because grown-ups could become scared or angry if they heard it.
I sing the last line with the girl as I pass. “He shot himself once and he shot Aimee twice.”
She looks up at me in surprise. Then she grins, still skipping, and starts the rhyme over. “Down in the valley where the green grass grows, there sat Aimee, sweet as a rose…”
I hum as I walk. Jump rope was my favorite pastime when I was a little girl. It took my mind off the hunger and loneliness and the bitter winter cold. We never had enough to eat, despite the posters proclaiming, The harvest is bountiful! and Life is good for the citizens of Paravel!
I was skipping rope the day I found out what happened to Papa. What really happened, not what Mama told me had happened. I had nightmares for the longest time after that, terrified that she would be taken from me, too. If Mama came home from the hotel in tears or cried over her breakfast, which was often, I’d be too afraid to let her out of my sight. Just a few months ago, before Varga died, I heard her sobbing at three in the morning. I lay in bed, wretched with the knowledge that there was nothing I could do to comfort her.
I turn into the alleyway and unlock the peeling front door that leads up to our tiny apartment. Since the revolution, Mama’s only shed happy tears. If our family home is restored, maybe I won’t have to worry about her anymore. I might even see her smile.
And if we fail?
I take a shuddering breath. If we’re turned away from Court and have to live in the slums for the rest of our lives, it will destroy Mama. As much as I’m afraid of parading around at the palace in front of gawking strangers, I’m terrified of losing Mama, too.
So, I’ll put on an ugly dress and dance and curtsy, even though the Rugovas don’t belong anywhere near the palace.Chapter ThreeDevrim“Archduke. Arise. Please.”
I look up from my kneeling position to find that King Anson is gazing back at me, his expression pained. “I’m not my father. You don’t need to abase yourself like that.” He mutters under his breath, “as I’ve told you before.”
I narrow my eyes, disliking his casual tone. King Gregor would never have spoken in such a way. King Gregor knew that kneeling and deference were the way things should be done.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I enunciate tightly as I get to my feet.
I stand to attention in my scarlet uniform. At least the palace is familiar. Twenty-seven years of neglect has been polished away, and the paintwork is fresh and bright. Overhead, the brass light-fittings gleam.
You’d never know that these rooms were once spattered with royal blood.
Beyond the French windows are the palace gardens, and a troupe of gardeners are restoring them to their former magnificence. Everything must go back to the way it was.
“Your Majesty, I’m here to discuss with you the opening of the Court.”
“Oh, yes. What about it?” He sounds almost bored.