Page 11 of Her Dark Reflection

The door to the room opened and a stout, dour woman with an upturned nose and hair pulled back into a tight bun entered. She stood before us until our chatter petered out. ‘Welcome. I’m Mrs Corkill, the head housekeeper. I oversee the running of the palace, and nothing happens within these walls without my knowing about it.’ She cast her hard gaze over us, taking each of us in. ‘I am not one to mince words, so let us speak frankly. You are here to provide entertainment while dignitaries from the three kingdoms are visiting for the renewal of the Treaty of Wenderstad. While you are here, I require that you do not mingle with my staff, do not wander beyond the servant’s quarters without prior approval from myself, and do not think you will be leaving without a thorough checking of your belongings and your person.’

‘So, she thinks we’re a bunch of thieves,’ I whispered to Senafae.

‘Well, she probably isn’t wrong. If I can find a way to pocket something, I will. I bet even a fork from here is worth a mint,’ she hissed back.

‘I will provide each of you with a rough schedule of events you may be invited to, though there will likely be occasions when our visitors request your presence beyond those times,’ the housekeeper continued. There was a slight wrinkling of the skin on her nose. She was hiding her distaste well, but I was experienced in picking it out. It was always a good idea to know exactly who approved of maisera and who did not. We were generally accepted as a necessity, but there were many who would prefer not to rub shoulders with us. I suspected Mrs Corkill was one of this number, though she must appreciate that we were the best way to keep the king’s visitors from bothering her maids.

She cleared her throat and ran her hands down her dress, which was black, severe, and practical. ‘Now, I will show you to your rooms. There are two beds in each, so please be prepared to select someone to share with.’

A low hum of muttered complaints broke out around me, suggesting that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t suspected they’d need to share a room, but Mrs Corkill paid them no heed, leaving the room without looking back.

She led us through the servant’s quarters where maids and footman bustled past us without so much as a second glance. Our rooms were in a corridor separated from the male staff quarters by a locked door, and Mrs Corkill was sure to let us know she possessed the only key. She began opening doors, revealing small, neat rooms furnished each with two single beds, a table and chairs, a slim wardrobe, and a single dressing table.

I stood in the doorway of one room, blinking at it incredulously.Onedressing table?Onewardrobe? Was she looking to start a war?

Senafae dawdled over to where I stood. ‘Well, this looks as bleak at the rest. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d take a bribe for your half of the wardrobe?’

I snorted. ‘You’re certainly an optimist,’ I said, wandering into the room, amused at her confidence in assuming we would room together.

She overtook me in a few strides and sunk onto one of the beds, patting at the mattress with a hand and wrinkling her nose ‘Worth a try. Perhaps I can bribe that carriage driver to drag my trunk up here instead.’

‘The footmen will bring your belongings to your room.’ Mrs Corkill appeared in the doorway holding a sheaf of papers. ‘And you will not speak to them when they do. The evening meal is being served in the servant’s dining room as we speak, so head back down the stairs soon if you expect to eat. Here are your calendars of events.’ She handed me a few sheets of paper and I scanned the list of dates. ‘Those circled in blue are those you are required to attend. There is a map on the rear to help you find your way around, though you should never be wandering the palace without an escort and without an appropriate reason.’

Senafae joined me a moment later and peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh,’ she said, her voice an eager exhale, ‘we’re going to the Armistice Ball!’

My gaze quickly raced down the page, over the various balls, state dinners and ‘gentlemen’s evenings’, many to which we were apparently not invited, until I snagged on the words ‘Armistice Ball’ circled in bright blue ink and attached to a date two weeks away. My stomach twisted with excitement.

‘Do not get carried away. You are attending as staff and performers,notas guests.’ Mrs Corkill’s voice was tight with disapproval. ‘You’ll note the rehearsal marked on your schedule, where you will be briefed on your role at the ball. And while we are on the subject of your duties, our head butler, Mr Guilcher, has asked me to inform each of you that you are required to be clean and disease-free for the duration of your stay. Make liberal use of the baths.’ On that peculiar note, she left us to go and bark at another pair of girls.

‘I hope she doesn’t give so warm a welcome to the visitors from Oceatold and Creatia. They might never leave,’ Senafae said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. She returned to the bed, laying down and spreading herself out on it, as though testing the perimeters of the narrow mattress.

‘What was all that about being clean?’ I asked as I sat lightly on the other bed.

‘The butler, Guilcher, is batty about disease and inspects all the servants every morning to make sure they haven’t got the pox.’ She rolled on her side to face me, propping herself up on an elbow. ‘So, what’s your story?’ she asked.

‘My story?’

‘If we’re going to share a room, I should know it.’ I drew my brows together, but if she noticed my resistance, she ignored it and continued. ‘Come on, every maisera has a reason for winding up in a suvoir. No little girl decides she wants to fuck for money when she grows up.’

‘Maybe I did.’

‘And maybe the king is actually a donkey dressed as a man, but the likelihood is about the same.’

I eyed her, wondering what she would do with any information I gave her. ‘How about you tell me yours first.’

‘You’re a suspicious one, aren’t you?’ She rolled onto her back in a rustling of skirts and fabric and crossed her hands behind her head, her fingers moving to fiddle with a plaited bracelet she wore on her right wrist. It caught my attention because it looked the sort of thing made by a child, not something that ornamented a high-class maisera, just a twist of worn leather tied off at the end. Perhaps it had some sort of sentimental significance for her.

‘I’m one of eight,’ she began. ‘When I was little, my parents bought a farm bordering the Shifting Plains and you can imagine how well that worked out. My father sold me and two of my sisters to Notes of Ivory, for money to feed the others.’

Pity briefly gripped me; I knew the place she spoke of. Despite the name, there was nothing about that miserable, dingy hovel that evoked ivory. Suvoir were places of entertainment, with sex as something of a bonus transaction, often bought at a high price and at the discretion of the maisera themselves. Notes of Ivorywas a brothel, and a low quality one at that. Those who worked there were usually slaves.

‘How did you become a maisera?’ I asked, curious now.

She tilted her head and met my eyes again with a grin. ‘I’m beautiful. And I can sing. And I was young enough for a madam to take me on and train me up. I was worth more sold on to a suvoir than as a whore.’

I considered her in silence. I didn’t ask about what happened to her sisters, about whether she had ever seen her family again, about the pain of being sold into such a position by someone who was meant to protect her. Life was full of pain. Wallowing in it was pointless.

‘Your turn,’ she pressed. ‘You must have a good story. Are you a disgraced Creatish princess? Your speech is polished enough.’

---