Grimy water sprays the floor as a nine year old girl vigorously cleans a stony cellar with a rag and a wooden bucket of frigid water. She has long since lost the privilege of a door so odd shadows fill the room while morning shifts to afternoon. What little light that filters into the cellar room is now brightening and fragmenting off the wet stone into her eyes. Haunted grey eyes squint as she rubs at the frothing stone.
Into the bucket,
Onto the floor,
Scrub until the
Spots're no more.
The servant girl's back burns and her arms ache. A dress fashioned from yarn, spare fabric and burlap touches ripped skin painfully, but she has no time to adjust the scratchy material. The young servant fights down panic, seeing how much more there is to be done. The youngest princess, two years elder to the servant, is now old enough to hold a cat-o-nine-tails over servants' heads. Desperately rolling grey eyes fill with fearful tears, recalling the bite of leather entwined with wire barbs.
*****
"Why aren't my clothes clean?" the princess burst into the servants' quarters, dressed still in her nightclothes.
"I don't know what you mean," the storm-eyed girl was the only one around at the time, forced to set aside unfinished needlework and acknowledge the princess. "I washed your dresses and pressed them-- fresh, not more than an hour ago."
"They're still dirty!" the princess snapped. "I found a stain on my favorite gold dress!" the princess actually fought back real tears. "And it's your fault!" she accused.
The servant girl cocked an eyebrow in response. Sparks of annoyed lightning glistened within her normally placid grey eyes. The princess was momentarily caught off guard by the angry glare. Then the servant began her retort.
"My fault?" anger simmered within the young servant's chest like boiling water. "You're the pig who gobbled down a jelly feast faster than your pudgy fingers could stuff it in your grubby ugly face. I'm tired of you blaming me for all your own dumb mistakes, Asenka! How could it possibly be my fault that there's jelly on your dress!?"
She cringed as she realized what she'd done. As good as it felt to speak her mind, there was absolutely no way the princess would tolerate the blatant and direct diatribe. The servant girl could already see the indignant rage coloring the princess's face.
"Pardon me, December-- What did you call me?" white shock mingled with red fury.
December's brow set, she stood from the hard mattress to face the bratty princess. Asenka stands several inches taller than December and the princess is built stronger, with more power in her arms. Still though, at the time, the servant girl felt no fear. She stood by her defense, despite the rude delivery.
"I'm gonna tell Poppa," a positively fiendish delight turned the corners of Asenka's lips upward. "I'm gonna tell him exactly what you said-- and I don't even have to fabricate a word."
December swallowed hard, fearing the king much more than the rotten princess.
"Go ahead, twat. I'll go throw your dress in the fire while you're gone."
For a moment, the two found themselves in a silent standoff. They each genuinely hoped the other was bluffing.
"You're so evil!" Asenka cried at last, bursting into tears. "Poppa!" she dashed down the hall and left December shivering with regret.
*****
Now December is rubbing her own blood out of the stone with murky ice water. Even though it leaves her fingers numb, December much prefers cold water buckets to warm-- the contents always feel slimier in warm water.
