Bethany knuckled the small of her back, dropping the mop into the pail of murky water. She wiped her brow with the corner of her rough homespun tunic, frowning at the stretch of corridor that still lay ahead of her.
“Every day,” she mumbled as her calloused hand wrapped around the handle of the mop again. With a yelp she tossed it aside, capsizing the bucket and spilling water all across the stone floor. She sucked at the splinter embedded in her palm, glaring at the rivulets running away from her. Her eyes widened. The princess stood at the end of the hallway, holding her pale silk skirts up out of harm’s way.
Heat infused Bethany’s cheeks and she lowered her gaze as the princess tiptoed past her. She glimpsed soaked silken slippers as the scent of lavender wafted by.
Bethany clutched at her skirts. It was suddenly all she could do not to kick the upturned bucket across the corridor. The woman smelled like lavender! And here she was, up to her arms in muck and sweat and tears, and that woman’s slippers had water stains on them. They were probably ruined now! She was going to tiptoe in her ruined slippers right into the arms of a prince who would sweep her off her feet and give her a hundred pairs of new silken slippers, adorned with gold and jewels and heaven knows what else princesses wear on their feet. She would spend her days lounging on a divan, sewing and gossiping and keeping her pretty little hands soft and fit for nothing but playing the harp. Oh, how Bethany envied the princess her life of comfort!
She sighed wistfully. Then, ignoring the pain shooting down her aching back, she retrieved the mop and the now-empty bucket. Muttering about the injustice of it all, Bethany trudged down to the courtyard to refill her pail at the well.
Elinoire examined the portrait of her betrothed, a small frown creasing her forehead. He was so… old. Thirty years old, to be precise, twice a lifetime to her. And he was king of Trotus. A fine match, her mother insisted. But it meant she had to leave her country, her home, for a cold, rainy, miserable little island up north. To marry a man she had never met.
She placed the sketch on the seat next to her and pulled her knees up to her chest, heedless of the wrinkles pressing into her silken gown, wiggling her toes in her damp slippers. Her gaze wandered out the window. It was a lovely day outside and the sun shone brightly in the bustling courtyard below. Elinoire’s lips twitched into a smile as she watched two women laughing raucously. One spilled her pail of water and the other dropped her handkerchief down the well. They laughed so hard Elinoire saw tears rolling down their cheeks.
A deep sadness threatened to overwhelm Elinoire as she watched the women’s antics from her perch high above them. What she wouldn’t give for such a carefree afternoon, for a good friend to laugh and cry with, for the weight of her future to be lifted from her shoulders, if only for a little while. Oh, how she envied them their freedom!
She sighed wistfully. Then, she turned her gaze from the window and back towards the portrait. She would do her duty. She would marry this man and secure an ally for her kingdom. She would keep her people safe.
Resolved, Elinoire marched out of her room in search of her mother, her chin held high, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her.