The Woven Crown (Completed)

Chapter 2

The whole week the Caravan was in town wealthy guests, with entourages of trunk-laden horses and wagons carrying far too many people, were arriving at the estate. It was the most exciting week of the year, but also the busiest. Guests milled about during the day in their impeccable finery, sleeping late and lounging in the common areas, entertained by estate musicians. At night, the people of the estate gathered in the square and the Caravan put on their performances.

Ryla was always on her feet, replenishing refreshments on silver trays, tiptoeing into sleeping chambers to change the bedding before a guest returned, scrubbing dishes, and worst, cleaning a never-ending pile of laundry. Some nights she was kept awake long after the Caravan had finished their nightly performance, because the guests would insist on conversing into the late hours of the night. And as the servants were made well aware, all of that talking required a continuous supply of drinks. Unfortunately, the more drinks that were brought up, the longer and louder they seemed to talk.

She barely even got to speak to Sage, and by the time they finally retired for the night, they both fell into bed exhausted and were asleep before either had a chance to say goodnight. This cycle of events repeated every day of the week until the last night of the Caravan's stay.

Ryla was in bed, but a feeling of uneasiness kept her awake, listening to the nocturnal noises of the estate. Sage, with her back to Ryla, lay curled and snoring gently on the adjacent bed. On her other side, Arabella's long, pale braid shone pearly in the moonlight as it wound its way down her sleeping form.

Ryla sighed and adjusted herself to lay flat on her back. An image of a man's eyes flicked across her thoughts. She tried to forget them, but they bore down on her even through the blackness of her closed eyelids, so she kept them open and stared into the dark corners of the room.

She went over the events of the night once more in her head. She had been standing unobtrusively by the servants' stair, waiting to take empty food trays from the serving men, when she noticed him staring at her from one of the couches near the fireplace. She wasn't even certain who he was— an out-of-town friend or distant cousin invited by one of the regular guests, she supposed.

At first, Ryla thought she was mistaken. No one ever noticed the small serving girl standing half in the shadows. The guests were talking animatedly about some issue or another, and although the man nodded along with the conversation and took sips from a glass of honey-colored liquid, his eyes kept returning to her corner. Alarmed, Ryla tried to look anywhere else, but she could still feel his cold eyes on her skin. When she glanced in his direction again, she was shocked to find a grin spreading across the surface of his face, like oil across water.

He was, like most guests, exquisitely dressed. His dark hair had been slicked back from his high forehead, and a single vein throbbed down the center as he stared directly into her eyes. It was like gazing into twin icy pools and made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Just as she started to worry others would soon notice his odd behavior, Faren shoved a tray of half-eaten hors d'oeuvres at her, blocking the strange man's view. When she didn't immediately respond to his outstretched arms, he whispered, "Ryla? Ryla, take the tray." Relief flooded over her as she snatched the tray, turned, and fled down the servants' stair. For the rest of the night, Ryla had done everything she could to avoid the strange man and his wayward glances.

Now she lay tossing and turning, trying to rid herself of the chill feeling of his eyes on her. As time passed, she felt herself slipping into a fitful sleep.

She was awoken by a creak.

Ryla's eyes snapped open. She couldn't tell how long she'd been drifting off, but she knew that creak. It was the same sound she heard every night when she trudged, exhausted, up the servants' stairs that led to the women's sleeping quarters. Only female servants were allowed up the staircase after dinner, and Gretha took meticulous care to secure the lock on the door at the bottom landing every night.