Ch. 53: A Surprise Guest

Escape is futile, as expected.

When my tears dry up and leave a desolate wasteland in their tracks, I dully make fanciful escape plans to pass the hours.

I could fling my chamber pot like a frisbee at the window hard enough to break the iron bars and climb down by tying my bedsheets together. But the chamber pot of cheap tin isn’t strong enough to bend iron bars wider than my tiny wrist. Besides, at the moment, it is embarrassingly full as the servant who brings in my meals like clockwork empties it at that time.

It’s small moments like this that make me fervently long for modern appliances like the toilet. I exist in a state of limbo, the passages of time marked by the changing shadows that arch across the bedroom floor. I have nothing to work towards, nothing to look forward to. I can only wait for the inevitable verdict.

Sometimes I wonder how it will go. Will guards rush in dramatically at night and do away with me with only the moon as my witness? Or will a spectacle be made of my death, with the fanfare of a guillotine Winter experienced in the webnovel? I try to pretend I’m not frightened, but there is no point. There is no one to act for here, alone in this ‘luxury’ prison. But I still hide anyways, letting out silent tears in the cover of darkness when the fear starts to get to me.

One interesting development has come of this captivity. The charred tip of the candle shivers within the flame, ready to fall before I lick my right-hand fingers and do away with the flame altogether. Yes, my right hand. When I woke up the next morning after being brought to the tower, the crumbling pieces of dried mud flaked off to reveal the unexpected sight of untainted flesh.

I had inspected it vigorously, holding my appendage under the morning light to search for even the smallest speck of the black poison that had covered my fingers and brought me unimaginable pain. Like a dream, it was gone, all the ugliness and pain. But not without consequences. Out of habit, I reach for the small tin candleholder, only for the item to tumble out of my hands to the floor with a clang.

My right hand is now ridiculously weak. Like a newborn fowl trying to stand on its legs for the first time, my hand that appears perfectly fine is utterly incapable of doing the most mundane tasks. To my chagrin, I couldn’t wipe myself after using the chamber pot, having to obtain another piece of cheap muslin after the first tumbled from fumbling fingers into the container. When I tried to take my lunch tray of stiff bread and stinky goat’s cheese from the servant, it would have nearly fallen to the floor if it wasn’t for the servant’s quick reflexes.

.....

I try to look on the positive side. But locked up in a tower with dour prospects, there seem to be none. I can’t even pass the time by writing with shards of charcoal, as I did in Bianca’s shed, since I’m a rightie. Now I’m going to have to learn to write all over again with my left hand. And with the lackluster medical care of this era, not to mention the complete lack of doctors willing to take a look at my hand, I’m going to be stuck like this for life. If one thing came out of this, it’s that I hate Empress Katya more than I’ve hated anyone in my entire two lives, including my ex-fiance and ex-best friend.

I vividly imagine ordering Sir Finn to kick her in the shin with the special pair of steel-tipped boots knights wear in battle. Or forcing a herd of wild horses to run over her body. Since I can’t do anything in real life, I make sure each version is as painful as the strange needles that ruined my hand. My active imagination truly has no limits in the depths of my depression.

On the eighth day of captivity, I have now resorted to singing random songs I can recall from my time as Maria. I’ve gone through a few Destiny’s Child hits, too many Christmas carols to count, and am currently burning my way through anything else I can think of.

“576 bottles of beer on the wall. 576 bottles of beer on the wall. Take one down, pass it around, 575 bottles of beer on the wall...” I sing as I kick my feet on my thin bed covers. I’m no Mariah, but I’m actually not half bad, having partaken in choir in both high school and college.

“Little girl, do you plan on singing on the way to your execution?” an elderly says with a chuckle on his voice.

My singing stops for a second, but I carry on quickly and even louder than before.

“Take on down, pass it around, 574 bottles of beer on the wall!”

I’ve been saddled with a massive no-fucks-given attitude, the kind death row inmates settle into after realizing their fate is inevitable. But my mind hasn’t stopped working, quickly running through the possibilities of who this individual could be.

First off, he’s old, his voice carrying the typical roughness of one that has weathered more than a few decades. He also addressed me as ‘little girl’, an annoying moniker for my inner adult, but rather interesting as only someone who is highly ranked or of importance within the palace’s affairs would be so nonchalant about my title, for what little it is worth. Lastly, the framing of his question is more like that of an ally than a foe.

historical

But my mind drifts to my last noble ally, Duchess Taylor, and my still slightly swollen cheeks that have slowly recovered with the rough fabric of the Tower’s pillow. Her youthful spunk was definitely evident when she took a swing at me. Nonetheless, at the moment I am feeling less than charitable towards any potential future noble allies.

Move in silence, my mother had taught me. Now I understand that means forging ahead alone.

“I heard it’s your birthday,” the man says, undeterred by my lack of response.

This time I pause, my eyes widening from where I lay in my bed. I completely forgot.

“Surely you would much rather celebrate within the luxurious palace walls with gifts than can fill rooms instead of this decrepit Tower. The empress arranged a lovely location for you, this designated prison for criminals of... unique identities,” he continues.

Actually I’d rather celebrate far, far away from Radovalsk, maybe in a distant province in a tiny cottage where no one will ever find me. But I don’t respond with this, allowing an awkward silence to fill the air.

The old man chuckles a bit. He sounds completely calm, which I find interesting considering how the empress’ maidservants had been clear on how impossible it is to get in and out of the Tower. Just how potent is this man’s identity for him to move around the Tower like it’s his own home and speak to me through the small barred window on the door?

“How’s the food? Are your lodgings to your satisfaction?” he asks like he’s concerned.

I let out a small huff of a laugh, suddenly irritated by his false inquiries of my wellbeing. He doesn’t care about me. None of these aristocrats do. They just care about themselves at the end of the day: their goals, their people, their wealth. I wonder what this man could want from me too, for him to play nice with the worthless bastard.

“Quite satisfactory,” I finally reply with a sarcastic bite.

“It can’t be that different from how you lived with Bianca, right?” he asks, going for shock value.

It works. I instantly roll over on my bed, narrowing my eyes at the face I see between the bars. Both the Mad Dog and Finn assured me that no one would know of my past once I stepped into the imperial palace. Yet, it was alluded to on the field by Duchess Taylor and by this old gentleman now.

His hair is completely white and surprisingly full, his beard cropped short to give him a scholarly look in his dark clothing. He has the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, icy ones that makes me settle on my haunches like a threatened beast.

A jolly disposition flows around this grandpa in a way that should be disarming but sets my alarm bells ringing as if he were Santa Claus armed with a machine gun instead of presents. With one look, I can tell this is someone who has seen much and done much. And I have an inkling that this ‘much’ dabbles in places that would even make my adult self scurry away in fear.

Seeing my suspicious gaze, the gentleman just smiles wider.

“Lord Bromley, at your service,” he introduces after finally catching my attention.

“My title,” I murmur in a voice too quiet for him to hear.

“Pardon?” he asks in a good-natured way, turning his ear towards me. “I’m getting on in the years so it can be quite difficult to hear sometimes.”

“I said,” my blank expression the furthest thing away from a smile, “Why don’t you address me by my title?”

Lord Bromley looks puzzled for a second, but falls into an indulgent mood as he clearly chalks up my question to a child’s foolishness. Only a fool would worry about a silly title when their neck is on the line after all.

But my concern is not so childish. In my marketing classes, one of the most important things we learned about was how to sell a product, be it a person or an object. The most critical part of this process is the name, how it is addressed. If it’s a celebrity, you promote only with their stage name so they can be tightly associated with the image that name produces, sort of how Lady Gaga instantly brings to mind the image of a an eccentric pop star in a meat dress.

The magic of Lady Gaga dies when you look at her as ordinary Steffani Germanotta. So the same goes for my title: as superfluous as it seems at this point, it is irrevocably tied to my identity. To lose it, would be to lose my last edge in a sense. Thus, for this old man to call me ‘little girl’ and not call me your highness tells me wonders about his character. And that alone makes me averse to this supposed ally of mine.

“My apologies, your highness,” he starts with a disrespectful chuckle. Lord Bromley looks a touch more relaxed as if realizing he is truly dealing with a young child. I watch him with unamused eyes as he launches into his already failed pitch.

“...But you need to earn that title,” he finishes.

“Hmmm,” I reply, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. The old lord is correct in a sense, but that doesn’t change my opinion. He clearly wants something from me, but on the other hand, he doesn’t respect me enough as a potential partner.

His pride is now evident, his guard now lowered so much I can start to get a read on this fellow.

“You say you are a princess, but I would not know looking at you. It would be like calling a duck a swan. But you are not a duck are you?”

“Nope,” I decide to play along.

“No, you are not. You, just as much as your sister Julia, deserve to be a real princess. You deserve to live the best life full of riches and servants. After all that suffering in those slums, don’t you deserve that at least?”

I nod hesitantly, my 6-year-old eyes wide open like I’m buying every word. His self-assured expression makes me sick like I’m already in his grasp.

“Little girl,” he says switching back to the old moniker to bait me, “do you know who I am?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer before continuing with a look of immense pride.

“I am your father’s personal advisor, the man who put him to the throne. And if you do as I say, I can give you the life of delicious food and pretty dresses you dream of.”