Page 2 of The Beast King's Bride

“Gods below. Pete? You scared the wits out of me!”

He shrugs. “Sorry. Here, let me give you a hand with that.” He grabs the buckets and ducks under the arch of the well.

“Thanks.” Wiping my hands on my dirty apron, I follow him. The structure is a little like a cave, dim and dank inside, the air somehow even colder. “What are you doing out here?”

“Idle, you mean? Not working?” He grins at me as he hooks up the bucket and starts the winch to lower it into the well.

“Well, master Gibbons isn’t one to give a footboy time off.”

“You’re right, he didn’t. He has us running ragged, cleaning and fixing the ballroom. Damn crows made a mess in the chimneys.”

“Again with the crows. Leave the poor birds in peace.”

“You and your birds.” He pulls up the sloshing bucket and unhooks it with sure, strong hands. He’s a handsome boy, Pete, with his dirty blond hair and his hazel eyes. An honest, hard-working boy with a heart of gold and a bright grin—even if he is a nuisance sometimes. “Hand me the other one.”

I hand him the bucket, still looking at him, wondering why he doesn’t make my heart go all aflutter, when all the maids in the palace stare at him and blush, whispering behind their hands about his strength and his pretty face.

Maybe there is some truth to the stories. Maybe I’m not human, not to be attracted to him.

And maybe the moon is made of cheese. Who’s to say? I feel human enough. If I wasn’t, wouldn’t I have found a way by now to peel the turnips and carrots with a snap of my fingers, turn my hand-me-down, in-need-of-mending dress into a golden gown?

“You’re quiet today, princess,” he says, lowering the second bucket into the well. He always calls me that and I let it slide, because maybe deep inside I like the sound of it, the dream-like truth of it.

“Do you know what this ball is about?” I ask instead.

“That’s what’s on your mind? Figures.” He laughs. “What does it matter? It just means more work for you and me.”

“True, but…” I help him haul the second bucket back up. “I don’t think any of the royal family members has a birthday or any other anniversary, and we still have a few weeks until the winter solstice.”

“Come on, Ash.” He puts the bucket down next to the first one and wipes his hands on his filthy britches. “You spend way too much time thinking about the royals.”

“They are my blood,” I mutter, looking out at the trees in the yard, bare and black from the cold. I blow into my hands, rub them together. “My family.”

“They don’t seem to think so. They kicked you out of their ranks from the time you were a tiny thing. Why do you still worry at it? This is your life. Accept it.”

There’s anger in his voice, and I don’t quite understand why. “Pete…”

“We all have to accept our lot in life. Work our hands to the bone, work until we die from it. That will be our end.”

I bite my lip. “Is your sister getting worse?”

He stiffens, throws his shoulders back. “What’s that got to do with it? I’m expected to provide for my family. You don’t hear me complaining about it, do you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “You never complain. But, Pete—”

“Take the water inside before the cook sends someone to see what’s taking you so long and takes away your dinner. It’s going to be a busy couple of days. I may not see you again before the ball.”

I nod. “Sure. I’m sorry.”

I’ve upset him. And he’s right, I should have accepted my lot by now. It’s not such a bad lot. Lots of people go hungry. Lots of girls have to work the land, or the loom, or both. I’m privileged to live here, in the palace.

“Those damn Fae,” he mutters under his breath, fidgeting with something on his wrist. “They made her sick, I just know it.”

“Your sister?” I look up at his face. “How do you know?”

“We found the milk all curdled and some of the chickens dead. Never trust the Fae. Never trust the tricksters.”

“Never,” I whisper.

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