FAEGAR'S HAND

Chapter 4

Arabelle sat down on the chair in the room with her dress perfectly formed to her body. The tailor had just finished with it and now she had to make sure that it fit her to her satisfaction.

She wrote her compliments on a piece of parchment and then offered it to the scribe, who rushed off to go give it to the tailor. The new servant girl in front of her had an ugly scar on her chest and a gnarled white tattoo of a strange design she didn't recognize and couldn't quite follow with her eyes.

No matter. The serving girl was otherwise pretty, with beautiful eyes, fair hair, and no scars on her face. It made Arabelle irritable. The scar on her own face stuck out like a sore thumb. If only she could get some magician to actually heal the scar away... then she would be whole again. Her, again.

"What was your name?" Arabelle asked, adjusting her position in her comfortable green-cushioned chair with a lacquered wooden finish. It suited her needs for the time being.

"Miri," the girl replied, her voice strong and her gaze stronger. She met Arabelle's gaze unflinchingly, which also irritated Arabelle. She should know not to meet the gaze of her superior.

"Your name henceforth is Miri. It's ugly enough anyway. You may as well keep the swine with the swine. Get up. Do you know how to brush hair?"

"I do," Miri replied, and Arabelle caught a hint of something in her voice. Smugness?

"Why are you being so smug about this?"

"It would take more than brushing your hair to make a face as ugly as yours into something presentable enough to be a noble."

Arabelle laughed. "I see. So, is this little mocking tongue of yours something we have to iron out, or something we can use?"

Miri blanched. "Use?"

"Oh yes." Arabelle steepled her fingers and smiled eerily at Miri, trying to unnerve her. "We have an opening as the Royal Wit, since the last one was eaten alive in the dungeon by rats. You have everything that I'd like for a wit. You have the pretty face, the nice bosom and butt, and the sharp tongue. I'll not have an ugly wit, for an ugly wit is a wit with no wit at all, and you've already shown me that you have some of that."

"I thought you were going to send me to the dungeon after I brushed your hair," Miri seemed confused. The tatters she wore had so many holes in it that Arabelle wondered if she stabbed the holes in to make herself look more destitute and sell the beggar look more. The way she carried herself at the moment did not belie someone meeting the person that would seal their fate for the rest of their miserable life.

"I never said anything about sending you to the dungeon. If you brush your hair well enough I may even let you brush your teeth every few days. Some of the servants get just awful breath and I really can't stand it."

Miri's cheeks flushed with anger and Arabelle laughed to herself.

"I will have my own room, with my own bath, my own toothbrush, and my own bookshelf." Miri demanded heatedly. "Or you will die in three nights."

"What?" Arabelle stared. "Are you threatening me?"

"No." Miri snarled. "It's a promise, m'lady."

"How dare you." Arabelle stood up, then walked to Miri and pulled her glove off her left hand.

A loud SLAP smacked Miri's cheek and the blonde's head whipped around. Arabelle had not spared her any of the energy she could whip up with her wrist.

"Assaulting a noble," Arabelle tasted blood on her lips and guards grabbed Miri by the arms to hold her still, "is a criminal offense. I am no longer in a giving or patient mood, Miri. Throw her in the dungeon in the same cell as the last Wit. We'll see how long she lasts when the rats eat her toes and fingers in her sleep and she wakes up, hungry and naked and covered in mud!"