Page 4 of The Beast King's Bride

2

ASH

The preparations for the ball reach a frenzy in the following days. Decorations are ceremoniously carried through the palace and into the ballroom—ribbons hung with crystals to reflect the light from the chandeliers and grand vases to be filled with fresh flowers on the evening of the ball. Tapestries have been hung on the walls and a set of thrones placed at one end, where the king and queen will receive the arriving guests as these come down the sweeping stairs from the palace entrance.

There are also bouquets of pungent dried herbs and shiny horseshoes to keep the Fae away, and I know for a fact that everyone will be wearing a piece of cold iron and an inside-out garment on their person once night falls. After all, music and lights always attract the Faerie. Legends say that they are the ones who gave us the arts in the first place.

Now, flowers are being carried into the ballroom—I see the carriages arriving from all over, bringing fresh bouquets. It’s almost time for the finishing touches.

And I still haven’t found a way to sneak into the ballroom. The sentries have lists with who is allowed inside and who isn’t. Which reinforces the possibility that an exalted guest is expected.

Something I don’t really have time to ponder as for the past few days I’ve been mostly locked up in the kitchens with a number of other unfortunate girls and mountains of tubers and vegetables to peel and dice for the great buffet.

If my hands were raw before, they are positively cracked and bleeding now, so I have to wipe them all the time on my apron as I finish my pile of radishes.

“Done here?” the cook booms over me, as she always does. “Pour the radishes into the pot and then you can start on the onions. Come on, let’s go. Do I have to do everything around here? Show some energy, girl, it won’t kill you. This ball will be magnificent.”

What does she know about it? She thinks she’s so important. In fact, she isn’t the only cook by any measure, or even the chief cook of the palace. In this kitchen, we cook mainly for the waiting staff—and that’s a lot of people to feed.

The feast for the ball is being prepared in the upper kitchens, on the other side of the yard, and that’s where I saw yesterday a parade of carcasses being carried inside, to be slow-roasted and boiled and baked, from peacocks and suckling pigs, from deer to swans and pheasants. That’s where the cooking magic will happen, not here with the turnips and garlic and radishes.

As I sit with the onions, already crying burning tears as I cut into the bulbs, I’m still thinking about the ball, so it’s a shock to hear one of the boys carrying sacks of what looks like more onions down into the kitchen.

“There’s a reason they’re throwing an off-season ball,” the boy is saying, talking to another boy following him, “mark my words.”

“Do tell. Or don’t you know the reason?”

“Sure. I heard that Prince Elyar of Sothia is set to pass by tonight and stay a few days. He’s on his way to check the gates of Faerie, together with a group of his trusted advisors and guards. So our king has decided to throw a ball in his honor and mayhap interest him in the hand of one of his daughters who is of marriageable age.”

I wipe tears from my eyes and glance blurrily at them. They throw their sacks on the floor by the door and turn to go.

“They say the princesses are beautiful,” one of the boys is saying as they trudge back up the stairs. “I wish I were a fly on the wall tonight.”

Oh Gods, me, too…

As the light outside starts to fade, the comings and goings in the yard become more frequent—and the only reason I know is because I’m sent to bring more water from the well. My feet ache, my hands are a mess, and yet my heart is pounding as I stop to watch two manservants carry between them a magnificent garland of white flowers to hang in the ballroom.

The guests should start arriving at any moment. I can imagine the entrance of the palace, the drawbridge down, spanning the moat, flowers swinging on ribbons, the candelabra lit inside, helmeted guards flanking the door, liveried servants standing in rows inside, the red carpet leading down the twin imperial staircase to the ballroom. I imagine the carriages arriving one by one, princesses and princes, ladies and gentlemen helped down by the footmen, dressed in fine silks and brocades, tiaras and crowns on their heads catching every spark of light.

I look down at the buckets, at my reddened hands, my dirty shoes peeking under my dirty dress.

This can’t be my life, I think. A pretentious thought, perhaps, a selfish thought. So many people live this way. But I can’t. I don’t want to. There has to be something more, something outside of these walls, outside of this cramped kitchen with its endless work and the yelling cook, outside of Peter and Poe.

At least love. At least affection, and not only a passing comment or a threaded bracelet from Pete who’d never wed me, even if I wanted him to.

And I don’t. I put down the buckets and tug on the twine around my wrist. I want—

A flutter of wings has me looking up. Poe lands on my shoulder, claws sharp and unyielding, making me yelp.

“What do you want?” I whisper.

Poe looks at me sideways as if asking me the same.

“I want to go into the palace,” I say. “Catch a glimpse of what is going on. I’m dying of curiosity, Poe. You ravens are curious birds. Surely you get me.”

He caws.

“You can’t stop me.” But when I turn toward the palace, the bird doesn’t fly away and I enter the palace with Poe on my shoulder.

---