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four

If Wishes Were Ribbons

“ C hop, Chop. There’s no cause to delay testing today.

No missing goblet this morn.” Chided Ulcer, who was in his usual sour mood.

Heather felt the cold weight of his lascivious stare sweep over her person before she glanced up, realizing his eyes were on her neckline.

She fought the urge to cover herself, even though she knew her dress wasn’t revealing.

She raised her hand to her hair and tightened her wish ribbon bow instead.

The unwelcome glances twisted her stomach into knots. Meals were now served with lewd stares, a side dish of terror and consideration of her last moments. Regrets over her cowardice and failure to seek the faerie tree plagued her the most while she sat at the taster’s table.

Her motion to the ribbon wish caught Uster’s attention.

“If wishes were ribbons, we’d wish they’d be chickens, and we’d have some fried,” he drawled and continued to mock her, “If ribbons were wishes, we’d wish they’d be horses, beggars could ride.

” He scoffed and flicked the ribbon on her head as if it were some trivial thing and not her most prized possession.

He grumbled, “Yer off with the faeries, again.” She endeavored to ignore him, fixating on the king’s breakfast, fearing the malice in her eyes shone too brightly.

She’d survive this testing and get on with her day, saints willing.

She wished, oh how she wished she was anywhere but here.

Lowering her guard was a mistake. As quick as a viper, he reached out and yanked painfully on a lock of her hair, the force of his pull twisting her head down to the side.

His unyielding grip held her captive. With a frightening calm, he spoke into her ear.

“You’re so quiet, mouse. The perfect prey.

So unwilling to retaliate. With no one to miss or mourn you if you were to…

unexpectedly disappear.” His dark eyes gleamed with excitement.

Her gaze narrowed back at him, but she remained silent, refusing to be lured by his attempts to rile her.

He most likely judged her weak or a simpleton. But both were untrue. Heather’s late mother had seen to her education. Heather could read as well as any nobleman. And she thought she had proven she was more than capable of withstanding this monster before, his replacement feather on his cap proof.

Uster released the threatening hold on her hair as violently as he had captured it, shoving her away.

Her heart sank to her stomach. It was only that she did not have the energy to swim against the tide of the hierarchy she was adrift in.

Drowning in. There was no means for her to climb up the societal ladder, up out of the mire, she found herself sinking in.

Marriage could prove an escape from her tester and scullery role, but who would marry a kinless lass without a dowry?

With no connections? When she wasn’t distracting herself with the music and dances of the court, she daydreamed of a cozy cottage she could call home.

A home where she could tend a garden with plants of her own choosing. Grow her own provisions. Sustenance that would never touch poison. Perhaps share with Jessa and Mae. They could form their own family.

Ulcer noisily cleared his throat, and her dreams evaporated into thin air, mere wishes in the wind.

The king’s plate was full, with two boiled eggs, three sausages, and an earthen bowl of warm bone broth.

Heather detested sausage, but her role as tester meant she had to taste everything intended for the sovereign, regardless.

She nibbled a bit of each egg, feeling like the mouse Uster claimed she was.

All the while pondering how it would be in His Majesty’s slippers- consuming a meal someone previously chewed on.

It was a horrid enough reality for her that she’d thought the man should be inspired to rule justly.

She supposed an honorable king wouldn’t live in fear of poisoning, but what did she know?

Breakfast was usually a simple affair, and it took little to no time to fulfill her duties. She was up and onto her other obligations in under the pass of a chime.

On a sunny or a mild day, Heather would assist the others, gathering yields from the garden in preparation for the next meal.

Most of their chimes passed outdoors weeding, harvesting the ripe fruits and vegetables, and washing soiled dishware afterwards.

The inclement weather disrupted their entire way of life.

Heather returned Jessa’s boots and left her own to dry by the fireside.

She trudged back out to the garden barefoot, determined to preserve whatever she could. The dark, wet, mucky soil squelched under her feet and between her toes. She considered the vegetation and concluded the blueberry bushes should be the focus of her attention while they still bore fruit.

The shrubs were covered with yellowing brown leaves, limp with sagging branches, heavy under the weight from the deluge.

Heather seized handfuls of the blue berries, dropping them into her woven basket.

She grasped another cluster but recoiled when they pulped, leaving behind a sticky bluish mess in her grasp.

Wiping the soggy mishmash off on her apron, took advantage of the pouring rain to rinse her hand clean and went for the next batch, resolute in gathering something edible.

By the time her basket was a quarter full, showers fell at an accelerating rate.

Her feet slipped in the mire, propelling her into a forward tumble, and she narrowly avoided falling into a large puddle.

She struggled to stay upright, bogged down by her heavy drenched clothing, the moisture having seeped through her cloak, the wax only prevented so much for so long.

She painfully progressed her sluggish way from bush to bush.

The rough spun kirtle on her back suctioned to her damp skin uncomfortably in the humidity.

Her repetitive movements were physically taxing on a mild day but rendered miserable by these new conditions.

She took note of the slow drifting of the sun, weak as it was through the downpour, and realized the king’s luncheon hour was upon her.

An icy shock shook her to her core. She was going to be late.

The muck on her feet and dress desperately needed rinsing. She had fully intended on changing her clothes before returning to her taster table, but there was not enough time. Distressed, she bolted into the kitchen. The clock was ticking away. She could scarcely draw in sufficient breath.

She dashed through the cookery, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in her wake, all the while anticipating the hourly chime to sound.

Disgruntled cries of an angry chambermaid sounded from behind.

Heather swerved out of the head pastry chef’s path as he transferred a baker’s dozen from the oven and swiped a dishrag from the work top.

She snatched her boots from before the hearth and hopped ahead on a dirty, solitary foot, shoving the other in her shoe.

She collapsed into the chair at the testing table scant moments before the hour chimed loudly in the banquet chamber, with a hem flouting six inches of mud.

Clothes soaked to the bone, she sunk further into her seat cushion, her eyes on Uster while he glared at the arms of the large clock.

His gaze shifted to her, glowering at her fortunate timing with disapproval.

Slowly, her breathing began to return to a steady rhythm.

She feared what punishment Uster would dole out if she ever were tardy.

He sneered at her filthy form. “Alas, it is true. Vermin enjoy playing in the mud.”

Heather made no reply. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she lowered her eyes. Dark, thick sludge dripped from her underskirt onto the sandstone floor.

“I expect this area to be spotless by this evening.” demanded the king’s man.

Fortunately, His Majesty requested his meal be served in his personal quarters. Heather preferred when he dined in this fashion. The audience of the court was absent, granting her a brief reprieve from their rude remarks and snide looks.

To capture the interest of the Lords and Ladies meant trouble. Consequences of doing so ranged from baring insults to ducking out of the touch of unwelcome wandering hands. Heather much rather be ignored by them.

Her shoulders shrank in on themselves with the memories.

For if she was quiet enough , small enough, she might avoid their notice.

They tended to cause havoc when they were restless.

In the monarch’s absence, there was less fanfare and attention to etiquette.

She’d be well on her way from the room before Uster presented his plate upstairs.

Happily, His Majesty’s luncheon didn’t include foods she detested.

A hearty bowl of Cucumber soup was set before her.

It was formally one of the few things she enjoyed on a summer day.

She counted it among her blessings that it was on the menu.

So many of her favored dishes had lost their appeal since she was appointed the royal tester.

Mae took a risk serving it cold. The vegetable was believed to cause illness of the bowels unless it was heated before consumption.

Heather knew this to be folklore. She never, not once, was ill due to cucumber soup.

She straightened her already pristine hair ribbon.

Luck alone kept the strip from tatters, under her constant administrations of her calloused, rough hands.