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eight

If it Pleases Thee

H eather was organizing the gowns the princess discarded when His Majesty and his entourage entered the library. On nimble feet, she hastened to the castle edge in hopes of a positive antidote update.

To return to her regular size! Back with Jessa and Mae in the gardens, that was all she desired. She’d gladly resume testing the sovereign’s meals if it meant she would be safe from a crushing death in the heir’s grip.

She gathered her skirts and curtsied.

The king cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the royal physician has not made any conclusive advancements with the antidote.” Heather’s heart dropped to her stomach.

“Have you developed any other symptoms?” He inquired. Heather shook her head no. Her gaze fell to her feet, desiring to crawl into bed and bury herself under the covers. A mug of mint tea would be divine. How she missed the simple things of life from before.

“I have faith that he will find something to set you to rights. We must prevail to be patient.” He smoothed the hair above his upper lip.

He said ‘we’ as if he were the one forced to play dolly with his children.

Heather wanted to scoff and make a vulgar gesture at the man.

Or see him at the whim of his own heirs.

She doubted he would last a day in her tiny shoes, bruised ribs and all.

Fearing her eyes revealed too much, she lowered her gaze to the floor, attempting to hide the rising anger she felt for the fellow before her.

“My daughter mentioned you dance.”

Heather nodded that she, in fact, did. She hoped he didn’t ask her for proof. Her current mood was weighing her down like a millstone. Stuck at this size, the prospect of tying her wish ribbon to the faerie tree was impossible. The looming fate of the fabled tree hung over her, a dark thundercloud.

“Do you have other interests? Do you sing? Sew? Or play an instrument?” He narrowed his eyes on her in inquiry. “It may help pass the time,” he suggested, his voice hopeful.

Heather fought the urge to reply she could wash over a hundred dishes under a single chime, a feat she doubted any of the royals could successfully do and pondered his question.

She was a passable vocalist. She remained in tune when she sang hymns weekly in the castle chapel.

But the king and others couldn’t hear her.

What was the point in explaining that she was a tolerable singer?

She wasn’t a lady of the court. Heather was a servant, and she was taught to mend her own clothing, not embroider per se.

She loved listening to His Majesty’s quartet, but she never received instruction on how to play an instrument.

Servants didn’t have extra time free on their hands for such pursuits. She shook her head in consideration.

Heather knew how to dance, simply because she observed the courtiers each evening for years from the kitchen alcove. She wasted many hours of the night when the entire castle was fast asleep, acting out the movements with Jessamine. She was adept at dancing, despite being a servant.

She twirled, then curtsied in response to the king, her heart only half invested in the motion. She reckoned she could call it a pastime of hers, although she had never danced in the company of others.

His Majesty appeared satisfied with her answer. Heather was skeptical of his motives. Since when did he care how his serfs passed their time?

“I require your attendance in the great hall this evening meal,” announced the king.

Heather’s gaze whipped up to him, unable to mask her shock.

She thought she had been at the court’s mercy as the taste tester?

She could really use a faerie godmother, like those of her favorite tales right about now.

If they existed, hers was the most derelict in the bunch.

King Willem rapped his cane on the floor in two quick consecutive knocks.

The king’s page noisily pushed a rattling cart into the room. She watched it wide eyed as if they were escorting her to the execution block. This boy was not among those who had brought the castle to the library. He approached Heather’s home, amazement on his face.

“So, it is true,” he mumbled under his breath. “Best hold on wee one.”

Heather scrambled down the steps, pulling her ribbon free from her hair as she ran into the great hall where a mighty column stood.

Heather wrapped the ribbon round the post and secured it about her waist. The lad was kind enough to wait until she signaled for him to proceed.

“Hurry up, boy.” Uster was insufferable. The panicked child jostled the castle in haste at Uster’s urging, the weight too much for a single person. Ulcer, of course, could not be inconvenienced to assist him.

The castle slipped from the page’s grasp, knocking the breath from Heather’s lungs.

It tilted precariously, like a ship on the brink of a great wave.

Heather screamed, hands turning white as they clung to the column while her feet dangled free of the floor.

The ribbon dug into her middle but kept her secure.

“Sorry, miss,” whispered the shamefaced page. Heather glared at Uster, wishing she could console the boy, who was not at fault.

Without further trouble, her home was successfully loaded onto the cart. Heather had a moment to sag in relief before it tumbled over the stone floor on its way to the great hall.

“Place the cart in the center of the room.” Uster commanded. Lords and ladies swarmed the miniature castle. They followed in the cart’s wake until the boy settled her home where he had been ordered. Heather considered hiding under a bed. Would they tear her home apart looking for her?

Sickly sweet perfume assaulted Heather’s nose.

Lord and Lady Quincy crowded the open side of the castle.

Heather gasped. Their appearances were greatly altered since Heather was sequestered in the royal library.

Dark circles lined their eyes. Lady Quincy’s cheek bones had turned into blades, and her good husband’s face was hollow.

The Lady’s reticulated head piece looped out from her temples like bull horns under a veil of white linen.

Underneath, she sported exaggeratedly large hair buns shrouding her ears.

Heather was certain the lady was in the running for the largest headdress.

“Such a tiny thing. Look at the gown it has on.” Lady Quincy loomed closer. Her warm breath brushed over Heather’s face.

“I’d rather see it with its dress off,” said Quincy, and all the cronies gathered behind him snickered. Heather physically shuddered and wrapped her arms around her middle, seeking comfort. Why did the king wheel her out here?

Lord Quincy was not done taunting her. “How about a little show?”

Heather’s hands shook violently. The skin on her chest felt hot.

She could feel heat spread all the way up to the apples of her cheeks.

She had never been so fearful, experienced such a loss of control.

Powerless. There was nowhere she could run or hide that they could not seek her out.

Her shoulders caved inwards, subconsciously striving to make herself even smaller.

The growing warmth became stinging in twinges of pain.

They failed to call her by her name. Their continual reference to her as an ‘it’ stripped her humanity to shreds. And at this moment, she feared they may strip her of her clothes.

Slowly, she came to the realization that it did not matter how small she made herself, she could not escape their notice. Wickedness flourished, and it was not her actions that were at fault. Sometimes, bad things happened to undeserving people.

Lord Quincy reached out and tugged the hem of her dress, laughing thunderously. He smelled as if he belonged in the bottom of a hop barrel. Her breaths came in quick pants, his alcohol laced words so overpowering, she felt secondhand inebriation.

“I want one,” said a different lady among the onlookers with a steeple shaped headdress.

“Mayhap, one that isn’t so horribly red,” her male counterpart muttered.

“Why, she’s as small as a thumb! We should call her Thumbelene,” sounded yet another person in the crush.

Lord Hensley remarked under his breath, “I heard a mushroom was to blame. We could always make more of her size, each of us could have a living marionette,” His voice rose in volume as he continued, “They could act out entire plays for our viewing pleasure.”

Lord Gifford interrupted the assembly. “The king has sat at the banquet. Let us claim our seats.”

“Let’s hope the meal isn’t as meager as it was this morning,” griped Quincy.

“Quincy, at least there’s mead,” replied Gifford.

Their voices faded with their retreat to their dinner tables.

Her muscles loosened in relief as the throng around her home dissipated.

The event drained her. Her knees buckled.

In times like these, Mae once instructed her to focus on five things in her surroundings.

Heather closed her eyes and smoothed her hand down her skirt.

The fabric was soft to the touch. She raised her hands to her hair bow and pictured her mother’s face.

She scrunched her toes inside her shoes and took a deep breath.

The air was heavy with roasted goose. It sent her stomach roiling.

And lastly, she focused on the lyrical notes of the singing bard.

Heather opened her eyes to reveal Uster looming over her. She reared back at his sudden appearance, but he lunged toward her, snapping. His mouth a dark cavern of sharp teeth. The peace she held by a thread unspooled.