The connection had heavy static. “Your -ighness, she’s back!” the voice on the other end exclaimed. “The -incess’s ba—” The voice on the other end continued to talk, but I could no longer make out the words.
The Princess is back?” I asked. The problem was that I could name a number of people, all of whom were currently missing. “Where are you?”
The only word I could decipher was “lawn,” so I hurried upstairs, hoping for a better connection, but the line cut out before I reached the main level of the palace.
Instead of calling back, I rushed out the front door and surveyed the front lawn. The protestors seemed even louder now and it was a miracle gunshots hadn’t yet been fired. When I didn’t see the homecoming of a potential princess, I returned inside, headed for the gardens and back lawn.
My phone began to ring in my hand as soon as I reached a pair of French doors leading to the gardens. Just as I was about to answer, I saw what I was searching for—the Princess.
A team of four guards trekked through a garden path, one of them carrying a delicate, and barely conscious, Princess Amelia.
I stuffed my phone in my pocket and rushed out to meet them. “How did you… Where did you… How did you find her?” I was having a difficult time organizing my thoughts.
“At the interior border of the palace grounds. She was simply lying there,” one of the soldiers said, the tallest of the four.
I was speechless. This didn’t make sense. It was obvious it was Amelia from the way her limbs contorted and dangled, from the asymmetrical features and twitching of her face.
“She’s terribly dehydrated. We need to get her to the doctors to make sure there’s nothing more serious—it’s hard to tell with her condition.”
“Princess, you’ll be okay,” I said, gently placing a hand on her dirty, short hair.
Her eyes were only partially open and she peered up at me with slight recognition. One side of her mouth moved, but only a wheezing exhale escaped her lips.
“I won’t slow you down,” I said as the soldiers continued past me. “Take her to the Yellow bedroom and I’ll alert the Queen.” My hands shook as I retrieved my phone.
6
Victoria
I stirred the stew as it began to boil so the chopped vegetables wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Then I began adding spices. A dash of cumin, a few shakes of cayenne pepper, garlic powder, coarsely ground pepper, and an extra hearty helping of salt. I removed the lid from a salt shaker and poured in the entire bottle. Then I stirred vigorously. At first, the chemical smell was overpowering, but after I finished stirring, I added a handful of herbs I’d plucked from their stems, and threw in few more shakes of cumin and cayenne pepper; the beef stew once again began to smell appetizing.
My stomach churned from the memory of last night’s unpleasantness. I’d skipped breakfast and eaten a very light lunch. I stuck to water for much of the day.
Master Ramsey was pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the locked liquor cabinet when I carried the pot of stew into the dining room. The rest of the table was already set. I waited for him to sit before requesting the knife to cut the loaf of bread. As soon as I’d finished, he already had his hand outstretched, demanding the weapon be returned to his side of the table. Master Ramsey positioned the bread knife in line with his other utensils, on the side with his remaining hand. I proceeded to pour us each a bowl of beef stew, first setting his bowl before him, then retreating to the opposite side of the table with mine.
Master Ramsey sipped from his whiskey, glaring at me with narrow eyes.
“I’m still not feeling one hundred percent,” I said, scratching the skin beneath the electronic collar. It seemed tighter than previous times. “I can’t eat a lot.”
“And whose fault is that?” he snapped. “You may not be able to eat much, but you can eat some.”
I dipped my spoon into the bowl, swirling the liquid and watching the steam rise. My stomach ached. My throat constricted. I tentatively brought a spoonful to my lips, gently blew on it, then swallowed it down. While I chewed the meat, I grabbed a slice of bread, ripped a chunk, and tossed it into my mouth as well. “It’s hot,” I said. “A little too much red pepper.”
“You girls—always such weak stomachs,” Master Ramsey said, putting down his glass and grabbing his spoon. “Too much of something,” he said after his first bite. “Or not enough of something. But the spice isn’t overwhelming.”
He watched me intently as I took another spoonful. My stomach was already beginning to hurt. If last night was any indication, in fifteen to twenty minutes we’d be in pretty bad shape. Then the true challenge would begin.
After I’d had a few more bites, he seemed more comfortable with the stew despite the fact it didn’t quite taste right. As I’d suspected, all cleaning products and other potentially poisonous items were removed from my reach, but he still knew better than to trust me completely.
“Despite what you think, I didn’t take anything last night. I don’t know what happened. I think one of my wounds is infected. The room you got me in isn’t exactly sanitary. Maybe it was a virus or something.”
“Perhaps,” he said, slurping down another spoonful of stew, then another sip of whiskey. “You may have noticed, but I’ve taken extra precautions to help prevent any future potential illness.”
“If you truly want to help prevent illness, how about allowing me to use a proper bathroom at night instead of locking me in that cage with a bucket.”
“That’s simply one of my precautions,” he said with a malevolent grin. He scratched at his beard and returned to the stew.
I put down my spoon and reached for another slice of bread. When Master Ramsey looked over at me, I lightly dipped half of the slice in my broth. “The bread helps my stomach a little,” I said.
He didn’t answer, just continued to eat his dinner. When his bowl was empty, he drained the remainder of his whiskey and got up from the table to grab another. As he stood, he swayed slightly and steadied himself with his hand holding the glass. Master Ramsey didn’t look over at me as I thought he might. He simply shook his head and walked to the liquor cabinet in a way that overcompensated for sobriety.
I felt the ache in my stomach beginning to grow worse. I couldn’t eat any more beef stew if I wanted to be able to stand in ten minute’s time. Instead I stuffed more bread into my mouth, hoping it would soak up some of the poison coating my stomach.
Master Ramsey ambled back to the table with a glass twice as full as before.
“Can I pour you another bowl?” I asked sweetly.
“I don’t think so,” he answered.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a little indigestion. Nothing more.”
I drank some water and Master Ramsey sipped his whiskey. We sat in silence for a few more minutes.
“How long do you plan on staying here?” I finally asked. The ache in my stomach had turned to the feeling of being stabbed by a burning poker.
“Just until I finish my glass,” he replied. “You may start cleaning up.”
“That’s not what I meant. How long to do plan on staying here in this house?”
“This is my estate. I will not allow others to take it from me.”
“But the Queen—”
“Fuck the Queen,” he roared. “Mark my words, she will not be in power for much longer. Things are going to change and I will be an integral part. The 24th Ward will be mine again very soon, then the rest of the family will be able to return home and balance can be restored.”
“Frank isn’t going to win,” I said.
“He’s already won,” Master Ramsey said as he finished his final sip of whiskey. “Cheers to the King, who’s returned to restore order.” He stopped and studied my face. “I know this news disappoints you. I know you were beginning to believe you were meant for something more—luxuries, titles, prestige—but it’s time to return to reality and finally admit to yourself that you’re not. Y
ou’re precisely where you belong. Now do as you’re told and clear the Goddamn table.”
As he stood to emphasis his point and dominance over me, I could see he wasn’t well. He was trying to mask it, but I could see the pain in his stance.
“Of course,” I said and carefully rose from my seat. I left my dishes and proceeded to collect his first.
Master Ramsey held his empty whiskey glass, seemingly contemplating another. I internally begged him to go for it, but finally he replaced the glass for the bread knife in his one good hand. He watched me as I gathered his dishes, only his pushed-out chair between us. The blade of the knife was pointed toward the floor, but he gripped it tightly.
I wanted—needed to clutch my stomach at this point, but I couldn’t show how badly I was in pain. I couldn’t drop the dishes and give myself away. I walked slowly toward the kitchen.
When I heard the knife clang as it bounced off the hardwood floor, I spun around. Master Ramsey had dropped to his knees. He leaned forward, propping himself up with his remaining hand. His handless stump of an arm was wrapped tightly across his midsection.
There was no better beacon than the slumped figure across the room. I bolted to his side, throwing the dishes in my hands at him, and finishing with a barefoot kick to the ribs.
Master Ramsey cried out and toppled over, rolling atop the serrated breadknife and blocking it from my reach. He raised his stump arm to feebly block my second kick, then began throwing up.
Instinctively, I jumped back from the splash zone, which also gave him a moment to recover. And in that moment, I felt the bile rising into the back of my throat, threatening to spill out as well. Then there was no stopping it. I doubled over and splattered the floor with my own pool of vomit.
His eyes were wild now that he fully grasped what was happening. He pushed past his pain and sickness, trying to get to his feet.
I sprang to my feet, wiping my mouth, slipping in my own vomit and then his. My kick connected with his arm again, just barely missing his face. Then I felt my feet go out from under me as my momentum continued and the slick floor prevented me any kind of traction. I landed hard on my ass, now on fire from the switching endured two nights ago. The sudden jolt to my insides didn’t help my sensitive stomach, and it took all my concentration to keep from throwing up again.
I turned my attention back to my opponent who was consumed by another fit of vomiting. His position had shifted from earlier; I could now see the breadknife on the floor.
I dove for the handle. As he saw me coming—and the fact that the knife was within my reach—he scrambled away to put some distance between us. I gripped the long knife, and for the first time, we eyed each other like equal opponents. Neither of us was going to underestimate the other in this standoff.
Master Ramsey started to heave again, giving me an opening to attack. I wasn’t going to be deterred by the vile remains of my stew this time. He saw his vulnerability and took a few pained steps back as he fought to keep the wretchedness contained. When he finally lost the battle and the vomit came spewing out, I leapt forward, blade extended. He scurried backward as he tried to catch his breath. I jumped over the new puddle on the floor, but still slipped when I landed due to the soles of my feet still being wet.
If I didn’t lie down soon, I felt like I’d die—but if I did lie down, then I’d most certainly die. The only choice was to push on or die. There was no middle ground. And Master Ramsey saw it too. For the first time, I truly saw fear beneath the pain in his eyes.
By the time I regained my balance, Master Ramsey was staggering out of the dining room and into the hallway, heading toward the foyer.
“You bitch!” I heard him yell as I pursued him down the hall. “You will pay for this!” He choked on the last few words.
I was gaining on him but not fast enough. He was getting away. He can’t get away!
Master Ramsey grabbed onto the banister and spun around to reach the stairs. Then he was climbing. First on his feet, then stumbling and continuing the ascent by crawling on his hand and knees.
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, knowing what this meant. The skin beneath my collar itched as I considered my next step.
He didn’t glance back as he continued his labored climb to safety.
I wasn’t going to get another chance, I knew that. This was it.
I bounded up the stairs, crossing the electric threshold, which dropped me within a few steps. I fought to keep hold of the knife, but my muscles were spasming uncontrollably. A lightning storm erupted in my head. Blackness crept in from the corners of my vision. I could feel my tormentor slipping away. But, as slow as I’d become, I continued to climb.
Master Ramsey saw me still pursuing him and stopped, allowing me to close the distance between us. Then his foot came gunning for my face. I ducked, but his boot still grazed the top of my head. I re-secured my grip on the breadknife and drove the blade upward, which found the flesh of his calf.
He screamed and jerked his leg away, ripping the handle from my grasp. Before he could dislodge the blade from his calf, I reached desperately for the moving target, and miraculously found the handle and opened up his flesh further as I withdrew the blade.
Master Ramsey desperately tried to climb the remaining stairs with one hand and one good leg.
Blood rained down on me as I fell and slid down several stairs. I released the knife in order to stop my fall. And Master Ramsey kept retreating.
My fingers twitched as I clawed my way up one stair, then another, then another until I’d reached the knife. I found my footing and bounded up several more stairs on the last jolt of adrenaline and drove the blade into the same injured leg—and this time I didn’t let go. I rode out his flailing, which only deepened and lengthened the wound.
He howled before throwing up all over himself. I pulled at his leg, which at first helped me up, then dragged him down. He held onto the stairs for dear life with his remaining hand and tried to knock me away with his maimed arm. I grabbed onto the back of his shirt and drove the knife into his side… once… then twice… then he let go and we both found ourselves sliding down the stairs. His body pivoted halfway down, then we were tumbling, a tangled heap of limbs, vomit, and blood.
We crashed onto the floor, me landing on top of him before rolling a few feet away due to the built-up momentum.
I could no longer move. The electric shocks were gone, but so was my adrenaline. I tasted his blood on my lips. The stench of vomit hung low in the air. The sharp agony emanating from my stomach had only gotten worse. However, there was a small sense of relief amidst all my pain.
I carefully turned my head and saw Master Ramsey’s body lying motionless on the floor. The knife was still in his side, the hilt half buried inside his body. Blood continued to spill from the wound onto the floor.
“You’ll never touch me again,” I whispered, knowing that—this time—my declaration was true. I was finally free from my so-called master.
7
Byron
It was amazing how quickly the Queen could move when she was determined. She bounded up the stairs faster than me as we raced to Victoria’s old room. There, we were met by Dr. Alden, Dr. Young, and Dr. Crane, all surrounding the four-poster bed in which Princess Amelia lay. The soldiers who had brought the Princess home, stood along the perimeter of the room.
Queen Dorothea pushed past Doctors Young and Alden to reach her daughter. She fell to her knees and took one of Amelia’s crooked hands in hers.
“Mother,” she said hoarsely.
“Don’t speak, my darling,” the Queen said, kissing her daughter’s hand. “You’re safe now—home and safe. No one will ever harm you again. I’m here. Your doctors are here. Everything will be okay.” Her voice wavered and she took back a hand to wipe her eyes.
I still felt uneasy about the whole thing. I was thankful Princess Amelia was safe, but something just wasn’t right. Where was Bethany? Where were the other girls Victoria had sworn she’d
seen?
“How is she?” Queen Dorothea asked.
“We’ve administered an IV drip for hydration and recommenced her treatment,” Dr. Crane said. “Soon, we’ll try giving her some light food. Her condition does not seem to have worsened by any noticeable amount.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “You’re so strong, my darling. Incredibly strong.”
“She’s a fighter,” Dr. Alden commented.
The Queen stood and addressed my soldiers. “Where did you find her?”
“By the far West corner of the property, Your Highness,” Joshua said. “We’d completed—”
“You found her here? On the palace grounds?” the Queen interrupted, looking thoroughly taken aback.
“Yes, Your Highness. We’d completed the sweep of the lower levels and moved on to the palace grounds, primarily the wooded area past the stables.”
“Did you see anyone else? Did she have anything with her? Anything?”
Joshua shook his head. “The Princess was alone, lying on the ground when we found her.”
“No wheelchair?”
“Not that we could find.”
The Queen turned to me. “What do you make of this?”
“I’m relieved your daughter has returned seemingly safe,” I said. “But I’m skeptical. Something doesn’t feel right—doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree all too strongly.” Queen Dorothea glanced at Princess Amelia, then back to me. “Have your men do another sweep of the grounds. Perhaps there was something missed.”
“You heard the Queen,” I said and the four of them filed toward the door.
“I don’t trust the lower levels anymore and want my daughter to remain up here,” she said. “This room suits. I want guards stationed outside the door at all times. I need her safety secured.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” I said.
“And we’ll bring in the equipment,” Dr. Crane added.
Royal Threat Page 3
