Autumn's Requiem

Chapter Two: Kyrie

Every morning begins with the strains of dawn flooding the sky, and the bells chiming the announcement of another day. It is the time of day that fills Violette with dread as she watches from her tiny window.

The lovely green below her is deceptively beautiful, and the dawn ominous. She knows how many scaffolds have graced the land. It takes both blood and tears to make land so unfailing fertile.

Ghosts of those who came before her---Kings, Queen, Cardinals, peasants, and everyone in between--- call out a warning at dawn. Every stroke of the clock is a step closer to Fate's judgement.

It is only the familiar footsteps each morning that calm her. The arrival of a plain but lovely brunette woman scarcely older than herself saves Violette's sanity. The woman is unfailingly cheerful, treating her petite French guest as if she were running a simple inn on a farm in the country.

Violette can never remember her name, but the smell of lavender and honey clings to her. She is a comfort in the darkest of days.

"A bright and happy mornin' to you, Madam.." The girl's voice is cheerful as she lays breakfast out on the table, pushing books and papers to the side. Her voice isn't a quiet one, but a boisterous speech lacking in self-consciousness. Violette thinks she is beautiful without being beautiful, the lack of pretentiousness shining like a diamond in a Court of deception and vanities. "Here's to hoping you have an appetite this morning. It ain't always easy, but you can't let your situation get in the way of good food."

Violette almost lets out a laugh. Englishwomen aren't shy about their enjoyment of food, or bedding a stablehand. Yet, a proper marriage without the blessing of a Queen lands one in a jail cell. "I never have much appetite in the mornings. Some people are cheerful and energetic at the sight of the sun. I am not one of them."

The light of day lets in the truths she'd rather conceal. The dirt staining her fingernails, the soiled garments she's worn for months on end, the dingy furniture that's been a humble place for many to prepare to say goodbye to the world. Still, the girl pretends not to notice. She's not appalled by the way Violette seems to shrink daily, the dark circles under her pale blue eyes telling their own story.

Violette appreciates the kindness and does her best to humour the girl. The servant's smile doesn't fade, but she lowers her voice. "I was able to smuggle these from the kitchen. Fresh white bread ain't for the likes of us, but you need fat on those bones."  She pulls two rounded miniature loaves from her pocket, along with a towel wrapping a tiny portion of butter. Here, it's a luxury, manna from above. For a moment, Violette's appetite returns, and her hand darts for the bread.

"You're kind to me. Why is that? I don't even remember your name." The words are honest, though not intended to sound tactless. "Very few people are kind here."

The serving-girl glances over her shoulder, as if she's half-expecting someone to be listening. "It's not right. All over London, the noble ladies can't marry because Her Majesty's taken to calling herself a virgin. The prettier the women, the faster they're locked in houses, cells, and abbeys. It's why men ain't keen on the idea of women as rulers. They can't abide competition, no matter what good fortune they been dealt."  A sincere look of regret passes over her face, but it is gone in a flash. "Amelia is the name. Don't you worry. I'm used to not being remembered"

Violette feels like stuffing the entirety of the bread into her mouth once she spreads a tiny portion of butter over it. Only the vaguest of manners keeps her in check. It's the best food she's eaten in a fortnight. "Merci, Amelia." 

Her eyes dart to the girl's hands, well-scrubbed and red from hard work. Any ring is conspicuously absent. "You're not married, then? Don't you want that for yourself? Surely it doesn't matter to a Queen what a servant does." She regrets the words as soon as they fly from her mouth. "I mean---that sounded awful, I know. It is just that..."

Amelia laughs, and holds up her hand. "It's alright, Madam. Truly. No offense taken. I don't forsee any Dukes and Princes chasing this plump arse 'round a kitchen. Still, Her Majesty ain't keen on seeing happiness from anyone."

She chuckles, filling the water pitcher and doing her best to organise the few belongings Violette is allowed with her. "There's this man, but I ain't exactly sure he's the marrying type. He sticks around long enough to make an excuse to be out one place or another. He always comes back, claiming I'm the prettiest thing and how much he misses me, but that's just how they talk."

Violette nods her head in understanding, even though she doesn't, not really. "I think you should marry him if he makes you happy. Men don't stay, not any of them. It doesn't matter how beautiful or rich a lady is, or how many tricks she's learned in the bedroom. I think they're all made to wander." 

Amelia cants her head curiously, studying Violette as if she were herself, and not a shadow of a girl in a Tower. "Your fellow run off, or is he locked up too?"

The question hangs in the air, a weighted pause that makes everything uneasy. Violette puts the bread down, her eyes downcast. "I wouldn't even know. We took vows and I ended up here. For all I know, nothing happened to him. He doesn't write, he doesn't send word. It hardly seems worth it."

Amelia's smile is sympathetic as she notices the stack of books and papers on the desk. "I ain't meaning to be cold, but it's better for you if he ran. Her Majesty just wants all women to suffer the unhappiness she feels from loving a man that's not hers to love."

Violette stuffs the last of the bread into her tiny mouth, a spark of defiance moving through her. "If you have any way to report to her, please tell the Queen I am dreadfully unhappy and wasting away in my misery."

The laugh from Amelia is almost worth the pain of having to swallow so much bread.

(A/N: Word count for this chapter, 1073 words.)