Her Fair Maiden

The Unquenchable Pomegranate

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November 16, 2004

It's been weeks since you first arrived at Castle Dimitrescu. For the most part, life has been good. Your roommates are fairing well. The estate is in order. There are no more whispers of hunters. The halls seem less like a maze, though there are still parts where you aren't permitted. The negative? There has been one person constantly breathing down your neck: Lady Dimitrescu.
Ever since the day she told you to "not disappoint her," it seems like that's all you've done. Every day after Stefana serves her dessert, she finds you and says, "You can do better," or something along those lines. Nothing impresses her, and you're getting to your breaking point. Part of you believes she's deliberately degrading you because of your feelings for her. Possibly her romantic attraction to you as well. After all, what person in such a high-ranking position would want their maid as a partner?
     That one second of vulnerability screwed you over. Now you desperately want to leave. So, you plan something sure to set her off on purpose.
You storm into the dining room with confidence radiating from your frame. "Your dessert, my lady," you announce. You place the plate at the end of the table with a slight clatter.
     Bela and Daniela gawk at you. Cassandra puts on her most malevolent glare. And finally, you look through your eyebrows at Lady Dimitrescu. To say she's furious would be a crime against the English language. She looks incandescent with pure, embodied rage. You continue to stare, challenging her. The cherry on top is the single curl that falls out of your bun to showcase your hard work.
     "Some grit you have, girl," Cassandra says. The lady hushes her.
     "What is this?" Lady Dimitrescu demands.
     "A Croquembouche tower. It scales two feet tall. Feel free to give your leftovers to the staff."
     "That is not what I'm referring to."
     "You're in for it now," Daniela says under her breath.
     "Daniela," the lady warns.
You await her further questions eagerly. The plan is going accordingly so far.
"Who exactly do you think you are?" she asks. "Do you think that because you made an extravagant dish, suddenly you have the right to storm into my dining room unannounced? Not to mention the nerve you have to do it sloppily and with a discourteous mouth."
"I'm a person deserving of respect in this household. I may be your employee, but I am by no means beneath you."
"Would you like to test that theory?"
You gulp. The fear is starting to set in, but still, you persist. "I would."
Her rage only intensifies. She smacks her palms on the table and pushes her chair back forcefully. The daughters know their place. They stay seated, like trained dogs. Lady Dimitrescu wastes no time striding towards you. The door opens, and Stefana comes rushing in and stands between you.
"My lady, wait!" she shouts.
"You have no right to give me orders."
"Please forgive me," she replies. "This is my fault. I authorized Antanasia to deliver the food. It's my responsibility, not hers. I had no clue she'd commit an act such as this. Allow me to take her punishment."
"Stefana, no! This is my burden to bear!"
"This matter no longer involves you, Antanasia," the lady scolds you. "Stefana, you'll get more than just her punishment for attempting to command me. I trust you know how this works by now. Bela, Cassandra, Daniela, would you take my dear handmaiden away?"
"Of course, Mother," they all say in unison.
You stare at her in disbelief with your mouth agape. The girls turn into their fly forms and swarm towards Stefana. You lunge forward in an attempt to push her away. The hoard reaches her before your useless human body. You collide with the floor at Lady Dimitrescu's feet. Thousands of insects lift Stefana into the air and carry her off. She doesn't scream or fight them; she's used to this.
The lady shuts the dining hall doors and returns to you. She bends down on her ankles and gazes at you fixedly. "What an unexpected turnaround, standing up to me. I must say, I'm quite impressed with your courage."
Your eyes are glassy when you meet hers. You grunt through your teeth. "What?"
"Never in my forty-six years of running this estate has a maid stood up to me like that. I applaud you, Antanasia Roşca."
You feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Except this isn't nervousness over a new love; this is her rage being passed onto you. Without warning, you scurry up and grab her collar with your nondominant hand. With the other, you pull out the breaking knife from your belt. You rest the blade against the porcelain skin on her throat. Her face is so close that the heat of her breath hits you with ease. She's not fearful in the slightest. In fact, she's grinning like a sadist. "Do you enjoy playing these stupid little games with me?" you query.
"I enjoy playing games with all of my staff, yes."
"That's not what I asked."
"I won't give that answer to you straight."
You press the blade further into her skin. "Then tell me this: where are your daughters taking Stefana?"
"I can assure you, it's nowhere dangerous."
"How do I know you aren't lying?"
"You'll have to trust me."
"I will kill you right here if you don't tell me," you claim. "I've heard about the atrocities you've committed. The way the townsfolk talk about you. How the maids at this castle are scarred at your hands. I'd be doing us all a favor."
"You won't go through with it."
"How could you be so sure?"
She leans forward, and the knife breaks her skin ever so slightly. "Because you would have done so already," she whispers in your ear.
This answer catches you off guard. She isn't wrong. You never intended to kill her in the first place.
"And because you still want me," she says.
"Nonsense."
"Then slit my throat and watch the light leave my eyes as I bleed out."
You adjust your grip on the handle. Your eyes lock. She slyly grins. Tears well up on your waterline, threatening to fall. You can't kill someone. Especially not her. And that knowing look forming on her face tells you that she knows that.
Feeling defeated, you push her away lightly. You turn on your heel so as not to face her. The knife drops from your fist and clatters on the floor.
"So, I see I was correct," she teases.
"Stop it."
"That breaking knife wouldn't have killed me anyway? Did you think it'd be that easy?"
"Fuck you."
"I was under the impression that you were trying to hate me, no?"
Out of nowhere, you run back to her. While she's still bent down, you grab her collar—with both hands this time—and place a kiss full of burning, anger-fueled passion on her ruby-red lips. You pull back and ask her, "Does this look like hate to you?"
She's stunned. Utterly flabbergasted, even. She doesn't reply. When she doesn't, you scoff and make your exit hastily. This time, she's the one standing in an empty room with nothing but her thoughts, wondering, "What was that?"