Fate's Choice

The Cut of Moonstone

The day of the claiming ceremony was one of hectic activity and anxious preparation.

While the palace staff labored over sumptuous delicacies for the evening's banquet and decorated the great hall, practiced the entertainment, and fine tuned the itinerary to be cool proof, Lamia was carefully brushing her lady's hair.

Though a single task, arranging the thin moist brown strands into a splendid style worthy of the occasion was just as tedious.

Lamia stood barefoot on tiptoe on the cold stone floor chilled and fingers blue, she silently brushed and braided and pinned Lady Aimee's hair as the young woman sat in a hand-carved wooden chair swaddled in fur.

Aimee, pale and willowy, admirer her alabaster complexion in the glow of candlelight before an enormous mirrored vanity.

What did she see? Wide ice blue eyes and a rosebud mouth painted the softest of pink? Lamia saw a wide forehead with limp hair growing too far back for fullness. She saw a protrusion of bones and a receding petulant chin.

But Lamia would never utter such reproaches; never would she speak ill of the daughter of the kingdom's highest decorated general; never hold she share her true feelings of the Prince's claimant and soon-to-be-bride.

Nevertheless, Lamia thought them. At night when she lay on a threadbare slip of cloth on the floor outside of Lady Aimee's bedroom and when her mistress decided to torment and humiliated her, she thought them.

Without warning a blue veined hand freed itself from the fur and smacked Lamia full in the mouth. The sharp impact sent her back, brush and pins scattering to the floor and Lamia after.

Aimee's little ginger was adored with a heavy moonstone, a gift from the Prince and brought to her after the negotiations for her claiming were finalized. It proved harmful as well as beautiful as blood spluttered from Lamia's slip lip.

As Lamia lay crumpled on the floor with her trembling hands clapped over her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes, Aimee glared into the mirror, her nearly invisible eyebrows knitted together in disgust. In no way a great beauty her contempt made her ghastly.

"Did you bleed on any of my fur?" Aimee hissed, her offending hand rested on the vanity.

Through her hot tears Lamia looked up.

"Well?" Came the demand and Lamia shook her head causing her matted hair to stick to her wet cheeks.

"No, my Lady."

Lady Aimee narrowed her eyes for a moment and then relaxed. Turning her head from side to side she admired Lamia's handiwork and then swiveled in her chair.

"I can't have you bleeding on me. Ring for Teresa." Aimee moved back to continue to stare at her reflection. "She'll dress me for the ceremony. Tonight is too important to me and to my family, to the kingdom!"

Grateful for the opportunity to escape her mistress's presence, Lamia struggled to her feet and cradled her ruined mouth with one hand and reaching for a long crimson cord that hang over Aimee's massive bed with the other. After tugging on it Lamia hurried to the heavy wooden door and seized the iron handle.

"Clean yourself up and be ready to follow behind the carriage when we depart for the palace."

Aimee's words spoken into the mirror cut Lamia deeper than the moonstone.

Lamia felt the heat of her pain and anger until they boiled her from the inside out but she did not give into it. Even when she glanced over her shoulder and saw the red smear of her own blood on her mistress's ring, Lamia held it all in.

That's what slaves do.

And so Lamia turned to face the door and croaked out, "Yes, my Lady," and slipped from the room.