Eat the Poor

XVI

For the first time in two months, I wasn't in pain when I woke up.

No stiff shoulders, no aching back. No tightness in my neck that twinged every time I turned my head. I stretched my arms high over my head, yawning, and bumped into something.

Someone.

The King was still there.

He slept peacefully, half his face pressed into the pillow. His bare feet were tucked up close to him, his arms curled loosely around his torso as if to protect himself.

I chuckled. How I longed to sweep away those curls from before his eyes, to lose my fingers in his soft locks.

I kept my hands at my sides, afraid he would wilt beneath my touch like one of the flowers in his garden.

And like a flower, he needed light, not my darkness.

No matter how much I enjoyed the tarts or the daybed or even sleeping beside him, I knew in my heart I shouldn't be there.

I belonged back in the bowels of the castle with Geoff and Coopers and all the other rats.

I leaned over and pressed a small kiss to the top of Philip's head, a kiss goodbye. Then I turned away and forced myself to think of other things. The stables. I was late for work.

Hours late, by the look of the sun.

My boots lay on the ground where I'd left them last night. I laced them up in silence and stood, thankful when my steps made no sound on the polished floor.

The room was bright with sunlight streaming through the glass balcony doors. Above me, the high ceiling gleamed with intricate designs of gold.

So much gold in one room. The chandelier, the cabinet drawer knobs, the crisp frame of the mirror. I caught sight of my reflection and frowned.

Take something.

The thought came suddenly. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and glanced around.

Never in my life might I have such an opportunity again. A sleeping king, no guards in sight. Steal one tiny trinket in this sea of treasure and I'd be set for a year.

Upon the mantle stood five little figures, each a different beast. One had whiskers, a long body, and a rope-like tail that curled behind it. Another was short and stout, crouching forward on its knuckles. The last figure caught my eye. An elephant, with wide ears and a thick, proud trunk raised in the air.

I recognized it from the explorers' catalogue my brother Ronan kept. My mother never approved - the only book she thought fit to keep in our house was the Holy Bible. But the catalogue was family history. It had been passed down over the generations from old Giles Murray, who traveled with a team of surveyors to the jungles of Africa.

As the years passed, and our family's standing slowly decreased to make room for all the bright new names in London, we were left the same as any other peasants on the outskirts of the city.

My fingers fit around the elephant figure.

Bet none of them roaches downstairs know what an elephant is.

I had just lifted it off the mantle when the tall chamber doors flung open, as forcefully and dramatically as if Jesus Christ himself was making an entrance.

I leapt back. The figure wobbled but stayed in place.

Into the room poured a group of middle-aged men, some holding slips of parchment and feather quills. One man carried a china pitcher and a stack of folded linen cloths.