Page 7 of Cursed By Gold

“Good. Now go rest. You’ve had a long day.” Fairy Godmother walks me to her door and opens it, her silver hair glimmering in the light. I can see the tiredness in her eyes. With a small smile I wave goodbye and leave.

As I walk home alone, I can't stop thinking about King Remme. When he emerged from the shadows, so imposing and yet...beautiful, with those shimmering gold tattoos adorning his body, it stirred something in me. But no, I mustn't think that way. He is the enemy, a dangerous man drunk on power. I cannot forget why I was there.

And yet...the way he looked at me, with such intensity in his eyes. As if he could see into my soul, uncovering secrets that even I don't fully understand yet. What is it about him that lingers in my mind?

Shaking my head, I quicken my pace through the dark streets. This is no time for distraction or weakness. I need to figure out a plan to get that crown before my chance is gone.

Upon arriving home, I collapse wearily onto my bed, seeking rest. But as I close my eyes, visions of golden tattoos dance through my mind.

***

I jolt awake as the first rays of dawn creep into my cramped attic bedroom. Shivering, I pull the threadbare blanket tighter around my shoulders. The chill morning air seeps through cracks in the walls, cutting straight to my bones. This place was never meant to be lived in.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I peer around at the sloping walls and exposed beams, so different from the well-appointed rooms below. My gaze falls on a few faded floral scraps I had pasted up, the only decoration I could manage. It will have to do for my makeshift refuge.

Swinging my legs over the side, I wince as my feet hit the icy floorboards. Last night’s activities took their toll, leaving my limbs heavy and sore. Thoughts of the failed heist still haunt me. But dwelling on it now won't help.

I force myself to stand, stiffly making my way to the rickety wardrobe. My fingers tremble as I tie on an apron over my dress. The trembling has nothing to do with the morning chill. I know what awaits downstairs - the disdainful glances, the mocking laughter. My courage threatens to falter, but I straighten my back. I must be strong.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the brass knob of my door. I want to cling to the safety of this room, but it's time. I descend the narrow stairs on silent feet, mentally bracing myself. Let them deride me all they want. Their words cannot touch my spirit.

My stepmother has been badgering me for months to marry off and "contribute" to this decaying family. As if I owe her anything. She and my vain stepsisters have bled our estate dry ever since my father died, leaving me scrambling to pay the bills before the house crumbles around our ears.

Not that they care if we lose the roof over our heads. As long as they have silks and ribbons to flounce about in, the future means nothing to them. Nevermind my father wanted me to inherit. As long as that hag lives, this remains her domain to destroy.

That's why I work for the Guild, driven by desperation. Every coin I manage to secure postpones the collapse a little longer. But it's never enough with their ceaseless frivolous spending.

And now she wants me married off, like breeding stock to be bartered away. She knows full well no decent man would take a penniless bride, one that cannot offer a decent dowry. This is just her latest scheme to be rid of me, content if I'm swept away in ruin.

Over my dead body. I'll see them on the streets first. This house is my legacy, and I won't surrender it to their poisonous hands. So let my stepmother harass and mock as she pleases. When the time comes, justice will be served.

I leave my room and step into the hallway, dreading the sounds that will come from the kitchen. But instead, all is silent. I allow myself a moment's relief before I descend the stairs.

Entering the kitchen, I make a mental note of everything I need to do. The embers in the fireplace emit a feeble glow, barely denting the cold. Shivering, I load up the grate with fresh logs and kneel to coax a flame. It eventually catches, and warmth slowly returns to my numb fingers.

Rising, I fill the dented kettle from the pump and hang it on the rod above the growing fire. While waiting for it to boil, I take out a loaf of bread. My mouth waters as I slice off three pieces and butter them generously. I pry open a jar of raspberry jam, the summer sweetness transporting me back to brighter days. I lavish the toast with purple syrup before placing the slices on a tray into the brick oven.

The kettle starts whistling just as I retrieve the tea tin. Scooping leaves into the pot, I pour over the bubbling water. As the tea steeps, I inhale the aroma of freshly baked bread perfuming the kitchen. But I don't indulge. Those are for my stepmother and sisters. I merely prepare their breakfast, as I have since my father passed. They are family in name only,discarding me until there are chores to be done. But I cling to my morning rituals - they give me purpose, even if those I serve do not.

My heart pounds in my chest as I finish preparing the tea. Just as I am about to bring the pot to the table, I hear the footsteps of my stepmother and stepsisters coming down the stairs. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the encounter. I place the pot on the table, then hurry back to the stove to fetch the bread.

My stepmother's icy voice strikes my ears before she sweeps into view, her severe raven bun pulled tight enough to smooth the wrinkles from her pinched face. "Good morning, Scarlet."

I paste on a smile as false as her cordial tone, avoiding the steely glint in her narrow eyes. Behind her, my stepsisters saunter in, a study in contrasts. Petunia with her head held high. Her luxurious auburn curls are pinned up in an elaborate style, not a strand out of place. An air of haughtiness surrounds her as she glides across the room in an extravagant emerald gown. The neckline plunges low, adorned with intricate gold embroidery that matches the heavy jewels dangling from her ears. Her gaze sweeps over me disdainfully, as if I'm an annoying insect to be flicked away.

Starla trails behind, rail thin, her sharp elbows poking through lace sleeves. She wears her long raven hair pulled back severely, amplifying the sharp angles of her hollow cheeks and pointed chin. Her pale skin is nearly translucent, giving her an almost ghostly countenance. It amazes me what the rich, and those attempting to be rich, find to be desirable and beautiful.

They titter softly between themselves, beady gazes fixed on me, alight with cruel mirth at my discomfort.

"It's about time you started contributing to this family," my stepmother remarks, her claw-like nails examining the chipped varnish.

I clench my jaw, smothering the bitter retort on my tongue. The same passive-aggressive jab punctuates our mornings. It’s best if I stay silent and let her finish whatever suggestion she has this time for how I could better contribute to the family.

She yawns delicately, puffing out sunken cheeks, before gliding to the table on slippered feet, my sisters trailing in her wake. I release the breath caught in my throat and slip back to the stove, my legs trembling beneath my skirts. At least she remains oblivious to my unease.

When I return balancing the plate, the three have already claimed their cups, sipping daintily while watching me over the rims with judgment in their small, dull eyes. Their haughty expressions make my skin crawl, but I force my lips into a facsimile of a congenial smile.

An agonizing silence drags on, broken only by the clink of porcelain and the crackle of the hearth fire. At last, my stepmother sets down her cup with a soft clatter and levels her gaze at me once more.

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