Day In. Hide Out.

Chapter 1

 I tiptoe down the dark hallway, avoiding the shadows dancing along the walls. The curtains at the end of the long corridor have yet to be drawn, and the old woman's soft calling from her closed bedroom door echoes around me, for it's the only sound. Soft morning light snakes in through a slit in the curtains.

I carry the silver tray on one hand, balancing a pitcher in my other hand. Three fingers grasp around the full container's handle carefully as I open the door with my elbow and enter the room.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock, child?" a raspy voice in the dark corner asks. As I pass it, I set the tray down on the large oak coffee table filling the center of the room. Setting the pitcher beside it, I steal away the curtains from the window and sunlight pours into the room.

"I'm sorry, Miss Ballard," I utter softly as I spread breakfast out on a white linen tablecloth. The old woman rises from the creaky rocking chair in the corner and hobbles over to a white armchair near the table. Gold buttons decorate the corners of the chair with ornate little flowers carved into them skillfully. "Will that be all, Miss Ballard?" I ask with the most proper and polite voice I can bring out.

"Haven't I instructed you many times before to call me Madam, Amelia?" she asks as she takes a small roll from the plate and bites into it. The steam and sweet smells erupting from the roll make me long for the crusty one from last night's dinner that I was offered this morning in my chamber.

"I'm not Amelia, Ma'am, that's the other maid, remember?" I try to hide the snide remark's sarcasm, and the old woman doesn't detect it. The queen's mother never did seem to remember names very well, and she especially didn't care to remember mine. She asked me nearly every morning something that ended with ", Amelia".

"Then you must be....Zanna, that awful cook?" she asks abruptly.

I regret the remark as she says it but answer hastily, "Yes, Madam. Zanna Moore."

She taps her hairy chin with her fingertips as she takes another bite. "Well, leave my presence, Zanna. I am finished with you."

"Thank you, Madam," I acknowledge as I leave with the silver tray propped on my shoulder. As I walk down the curving staircase to the kitchen, I trip on a wrinkle in the carpet. The tray crashes to the floor and I go tumbling down after it, landing at the bottom on the hard marble floor. Tears well up in my eyes, but I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes tightly shut until the pain numbs in my leg, which is folded up under me.

A shadow appears over me and I cringe. I ready the skin on my cheek for the usual sting of King Branton's hand as it passes over my face with a "smack". In a light, English accented voice, I hear, "Zanna, are you alright?"

"Oh, Amelia, thank goodness it's you. I was afraid it was the King. I do wish he'd stop hitting me when I mess up," I tell the eighteen year old maid in a hushed voice.

Her face radiates sympathy for me, as she reaches down with her slender hand to help me up. Pushing a strand of her stringy brown hair behind her ear, she whispers, "I really do think it's a hobby of his, hitting people. Especially people like, well....you know."

I do know. I'm all too familiar with the king's royal hand on my face. But he doesn't care about a measly slave girl like me. And what landed me this position? My parents' debts. But they aren't here to pay them off.

I pick the platter off the floor and dust it off, hoping Ms. Harte won't notice the tiny nick in its luster on the handle. But of course, as I push the heavy kitchen door aside and follow Amelia in, she nearly drops the potatoes she's working on to gawk at it. "How dare you, girl? I shall have you hung! That was my best tray! My goodness, what are we to do with you useless servants when you don't even do what you're told?"

Please don't hit me again, Madam, my thoughts scream out, but I don't dare utter a word.

But, thankfully, she resumes her potato peeling after whispering a few words to another servant. Amelia goes through the door across the room and I go through the other door back into the grand living room. It's an enchanting room, with maroon curtains with gold tassels hanging from the windows, and a slick marble floor. A large white couch in the center of the room surrounds a stone fireplace, and a matching white armchair sits to the side a bit. An oak coffee table is placed behind the couch, littered with picture frames and candles and the king's robe.

And, of course, the centerpiece of the room is the prodigious, gold framed photo of King Branton. His queen died long ago, but his now grown-up children are smiling politely in the background around the ages of three and seven.

With a sigh, I bend to my knees and begin scrubbing the floor with the bucket set out for me. A cool breeze blows under the white washed window pane, and I shiver at the cold. It's nearly winter, and fall is still dying out. The large trees surrounding the front of the palace have shed their brittle leaves, and the colorful flowers in the boxes outside the front windows are wilted from each morning frost. The lawn is yellowish and dead, but the one dog on palace property still rolls in it as if it were green and luscious, as fresh as in spring.

My books are really all that keep me company here. I have boxes and trunks of them stacked in my room, and every shelf is not without a book or two or three. They're windows into other worlds, wherever you want to go to escape the world's tragedies for hours.

Amelia is the only one I can talk to, but she is three years older than me and has so many duties she's rarely available. The palace dog, a spaniel by the name of Red, often lies by the burning fire while I'm scrubbing the floors. Sometimes, if the flames lick too close to the screen, he slinks over to me and hides his head under my arm. He's my only real friend.