by K. M. Shea
Emele carefully removed the splint from Elle’s leg, casting it aside before she helped Elle slide her legs under the covers.
“Thank you, Emele, for all your help,” Elle said.
Emele curtseyed and blew out the candles until the only light came from the fireplace on the far side of the room.
After a week of silent dinners with Severin, Duval presented Elle with two wooden poles. Each pole was topped with an oddly shaped pillow Elle saw Emele embroider during her bed rest.
“What are they?” Elle asked, for once not having to feign ignorance.
Duval presented a slate to her. Crutches.
The portly barber-surgeon passed the crutches off to Emele. The lady in waiting tucked a pole under each arm. She swung them forward and then stepped off a foot to glide forward, her weight resting on the crutches.
Elle didn’t understand quite how it worked, but she latched onto the important fact. “I can walk?” she said, barely able to contain her glee.
Duval hastily wiped his slate clean with a kerchief. SLOWLY, he wrote, underlining it several times.
“Of course,” Elle said as she hastily scooted to the edge of her bed. It was a difficult task thanks to all the underskirts and overskirts Emele had stuffed her into that morning, but at least Elle now understood why the ladies maid had fussed over her.
Emele dropped the crutches, which fell to the floor with a clatter, and rushed to Elle’s side to tug her skirts down.
Two masked footmen stood on either side of Elle—Elle suspected it was two of the four footmen who usually carried her to dinner based on their builds, but it was blasted difficult to tell the lower servants apart thanks to their uniforms, covered faces, and lack of a voice. They respectfully helped her stand, stabilizing her when she faltered.
The world tilted at an alarming angle as Elle tried to right herself. She couldn’t put any weight on her broken leg, and she was dismayed to discover that her uninjured leg shook with strain as she stood like a heron.
The footmen shuffled until they were able to prop the crutches under Elle’s arms, relieving some of the tension on Elle’s good leg.
“This will not do,” Elle muttered before she swung the crutches in front of her as she had seen Emele do, struggling to move the crutches against the material of her wide skirts. She then hopped forward and was nearly bounced backwards when her skirts caught on a rough edge of one of the crutches.
The footmen scrambled to support her as she teetered between the crutches and her awkwardly placed good leg.
Emele clasped her hands over her mouth to silence the scream she couldn’t utter as she watched the process.
Elle was breathing heavily when Duval smiled and held up his slate. Practice.
Elle grimly nodded and struggled across the room with her walking aids. “I will master this method of transportation, I am the captain of crutches—no, the commander!” She thumped awkwardly, nearly tumbling when the crutches caught on the edge of a rug.
Again the footmen righted her.
Elle reached the far side of her room and looked to Duval as she gripped the door handle. “Can I go out?”
The barber-surgeon nodded in encouragement. Emele, who stood next to him, shook her head no.
“I think I will agree with Duval in this case,” Elle said before she pulled the door open, almost taking out one of her crutches with it before a footman lunged forward to take control of the door.
The hallway proved to be tricky. A long rug ran through the center of the hallway, and it was difficult to swing her crutches over its tasseled edges. Additionally, the floor that wasn’t covered by the rug was bare stone—which proved to be a somewhat slippery surface.
“Commander of crutches might be out of my reach today,” Elle said when she paused for a moment to breathe.
A footman kidnapped an armchair set against the hallway wall and slid it up behind her. Elle gratefully sank into it. “Thank you,” she said, managing to plop on the cushion without whacking herself with her crutches.
Emele presented Elle with a handkerchief, which Elle reluctantly used to dab at the sweat beading on her forehead.
Duval smiled and presented Elle with his slate. Good job. His cheeks puffed with the size of his smile before he bowed and strode down the hallway, leaving Elle with Emele and the footmen.
“I lost a lot of strength,” Elle said discreetly rubbing at her underarms.
Emele patted Elle on her shoulder before flicking open a fan and fanning her.
Elle briefly leaned into the breeze. “It’s time to try again,” she said after a few more moments of rest.
Emele snapped the fan shut and twisted it in distress before she grappled for her small slate.
Too early.
“It’s fine. I need to push myself. I refuse to be complacent,” Elle said, wrangling her crutches into position.
Emele placed her hands to her heart before she tried again.
Too tired?
“Absolutely not. In fact, I feel refreshed,” Elle lied as the footmen helped her stand. She smiled triumphantly when the world did not spin or tilt.
Elle wobbled down the hallway, laboriously pulling herself forward against her skirts. She had never worn so much material in her life, and it was throwing her off balance.
Elle glanced at Emele, who had her lips pursed and was still strangling her fan.
“I wish you would have more confidence in me, Emele. I survived a fall from the ceiling, this isn’t going to break me,” Elle said as she marched on, the crutches tapping an unsteady beat on the floor.
Emele clasped her throat when Elle’s good leg gave out for a moment, leaving Elle dangling by her crutches. Elle quickly fixed the position of her leg and thumped forward before the footmen could grab her.
When Elle’s left crutch scuffed on a crease in the rug, making Elle jolt forward, Emele had enough.
The ladies maid stamped her feet in a most unlady-like manner before stabbing a finger at the footmen, swooping it in Elle’s direction, and finally pointing back down the hallway.
“I’m sorry; I am not fluent in that particular gesture. Could you write it—,” Elle was whisked up by the footmen and deposited in the chair before she had the chance to react. They carried her down the hallway in the chair and banged into her room, setting the chair down before she could protest.
Emele grabbed Elle’s crutches and pulled them from her grasp before setting them down near the windows. She fixed a curl that had escaped from her hairstyle before writing on her slate.
Rest.
“See now, I—,” Elle started.
Emele underlined Rest.
Elle stared at the slate before looking at her merciless ladies maid. “Fine. It appears I have been beaten today,” she said, settling in the chair as Emele dismissed the footmen from the room.
The next day Elle sat in an armchair next to the fire, the picture of innocence in her cast off dress from Emele. “Emele, is it tea time yet?”
Emele looked up from the embroidery piece she was working on. Not yet. She wrote on her slate. Why?
“I’m famished,” Elle said, setting a hand on her stomach while looking at Emele under her eyelashes.
Emele bustled to her feet with a smile. Tea time, she wrote on her slate.
“Thank you, Emele. You are as sweet as you are pretty,” Elle said.
Emele blushed and swatted a hand through the air to disregard Elle’s comment. Stay, she wrote.
“Of course,” Elle amiably agreed.
Emele smiled before she sailed out of the room.
Elle waited until Emele’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway before she grabbed the fireplace poker. She hooked it around her crutches—which Emele had leaned on a wall, tantalizingly out of reach—and pulled. The crutches fell to the ground, and Emele carefully reached out with her good leg, snagged her slipper on the crutches, and pulled them to her.
She had about ten minutes before Emele would return with the te
a, and Elle intended to use the time to slip off to a different part of the castle. She needed to practice using her crutches—without the easily startled ladies maid flittering around her like a butterfly.
Elle stood and wedged the crutches under her armpits. She kept her movements precise and unhurried as she thumped across her bedroom. She struggled with the door for a minute before she was able to maneuver it open and close it behind her after she made her escape.
Elle started thumping up the hallway, careful to keep to the rugs and off the stone floor. Based on the view from her window, Elle thought there were a few empty salons—sitting rooms—that weren’t too far away. If she could reach them before Emele returned she might be able to hide for a few minutes and practice.
Elle turned up a different hallway. When she reached an intersection and was deciding if she should go straight—where there was only one door—or if she should take a risk and go right, which would take her back towards her rooms she heard the crash of breaking dishes. The crash of a dropped tray. The crash caused by Emele returning to an empty room.
With renewed vigor Elle thumped up the hallway. She wouldn’t be able to reach a salon, but there was a large door further up the hallway. If Elle could just get to it in time…
Elle reached the door and wrestled it open, glancing over her shoulder when she heard footsteps. They were heavy and masculine, making Elle wonder if Emele had already spread word of her disappearance to the other servants.
Elle hastily slipped inside, ripping her skirt and almost wiping out when the door closed behind her. Elle leaned against it, listening as the heavy footsteps drew closer and paused outside the door. For a few long moments there was silence until the footsteps retreated back in the direction they had come from.
Elle exhaled and tipped her head back against the door. “That was shamefully close. A few weeks in bed and I am out of practice. Very disappointing,” she said before leaning forward on her crutches, eager to see what room she had walked into.
Bookshelves stood like giants in the shadows, stretching sky high to disappear into the gloom of the ceiling. Books lined the shelves—expensive books with leather covers and embossed spines. The furniture was big and invasively masculine. Portraits of rulers and royalty long dead hung on the walls.
It was the library, and it was undoubtedly the most expensive feature of the castle.
Elle thumped across lavish rugs, uneasily teetering as she shrugged off the unseeing stares of the portraits.
Elle explored until she found a velvet armchair—a larger version of the one in her room—pulled in front of an empty fireplace grate. Elle took small, mincing steps around the chair as she looked for tripping hazards. When she was sure the chair was an acceptable axis to use for her walking practice she adjusted her wooden crutches and took a deep breath before swinging her crutches in front of her. She frowned when she jostled forward.
“These dratted skirts make it impossible to correctly use my crutches. Who designed such foolish feminine wear? The proletariat class would never wear something so irrational,” Elle said, balancing on her good leg as she removed the crutches from under her arms to try and push the puffy skirt of her dress backwards.
Pinching her mouth in a grim line of determination, Elle replaced the crutches beneath her arms and moved forward. She did not take the small, careful strides she had used to hobble down the hallway. Instead she swung the crutches forward with faked expertise before pushing off her good leg.
Sometimes Elle hopped too high—like a frog clearing a lily pad. Other times she moved too slowly and her shoulder blades uncomfortably pinched. There seemed to be some sort of trick to keeping the crutches from moving. Half of the time they slipped when she hopped, and her shoulders hurt from pushing them forward like the oar of a boat. Elle was positive the volume of the dress was making the exercise more difficult than it needed to be. They forced her to keep the crutches angled out.
Twice Elle had to lunge forward to borrow support from the armchair to keep upright. Her underarms ached and the thigh muscles of her good leg burned as she charged ahead.
Occasionally Elle glanced at the library doors, but she never heard another set of footsteps, so she kept practicing.
Once Elle accidentally put her bad leg down. Pain shot through the limb. Elle narrowed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from yelping as she stood still. She shook her head, as if shaking the pain off, and grimly hobbled forward.
Elle was exhausted and ready to face the most likely murderous Emele when it happened. Her crutches slipped. The left one shot out from under her arm when Elle was hopping forward. She landed heavily on her good leg, spinning oddly with one sided momentum.
Elle knew she was going to fall, so she avoided calamity by falling into the armchair. Unfortunately she fell at a very awkward angle and was wedged into it, her good leg straining to keep her aloft.
“Oh dear,” Elle said, feeling her leg shake. She would have to figure out a way to slowly lower herself. Maybe she could slide to the floor and—
Elle’s thoughts were interrupted by the click of claws on stone.
A beastly, hulking shape emerged from the bookshelves. It was Prince Severin. He glided across the floor in his rolling gait, his velvet black fur gleaming dully in the torchlight.
Elle should have known someone was in the library with her. But she hadn’t heard him at all, were her skills slipping?
Elle’s leg almost gave out when Severin stopped next to her. The cursed prince reached out with clawed hands and gently—but impersonally—picked Elle off the chair. He set her on her good foot and presented her fallen crutch to her before he glided off.
Severin left the library, closing the door behind him.
Elle stared at the door, a puzzled frown slipping across her lips. What did that mean? Elle always thought Severin was the type to stand on top of those who had tripped and fallen. He was the master mind behind his inept brother. Helping peasant girls stand was not a character trait Elle would have thought he possessed.
Elle shook her head and limped to the door. “I must find Emele and repent. I really am famished now.”
At dinner Elle thoughtfully chewed her fish as she stared at Severin. He still ignored her as he tidily ate, reading papers and scribbling notes in between courses.
Elle slurped her tea, noting with interest when one of Severin’s cat ears twitched—in irritation most likely. At least he was aware of her, even if it was only auditory.
As Elle took care to slurp especially loudly, she wondered why the prince hadn’t sent her from the room. An illegitimate prince was still a prince, after all, and she was nothing but a supposedly ignorant peasant. An idiot, he said, as Elle recalled.
A maid glided forward, refilling Elle’s teacup when she set it down. Elle gave the masked girl a quick smile before she selected a few grapes to eat.
“The food is fantastic,” Elle said, speaking loudly enough for Severin and the servants to hear.
Severin didn’t so much as move a muscle, so Elle turned her attention to the servants. “Really, it is,” she said to the silent maid closest to her. “You must give Bernadine my compliments and highest praise. She brings credit to the already honorable occupation of cook.”
The maid curtseyed with the whisper of crinkling cloth.
Elle smiled at her before her attention began to wander. She eyed her crutches, which were placed near her on the ground.
A manservant noticed her gaze and swept her crutches out of reach before she could make a move. His lips formed a sweet smile as he leaned the crutches on the wall, aware of Elle’s aspirations.
“So, this is a big castle,” Elle said, folding her hands in her lap.
Severin turned a page in his book.
“It’s very nice. It’s well… furnished,” Elle said.
Severin managed—very aptly from what Elle could see—to hold a quill in his thick, claw tipped fingers and scratch out a note.
Elle shrugged at his
indifference and turned to look at her crutches again. Servants were lined up in front of them. All of them were nodding and smiling, looking encouraging as they gestured for her to keep talking.
The situation struck Elle as being odd, which was something she did not hesitate to tell Emele the following day after the footmen carried her outside for the first time since her accident.
“The entire dinner was awkward and silent. He only ever acknowledged me with his ears whenever I slurped my soup or clanged a dish,” Elle explained to her faithful ladies maid as they meandered down the path. (Emele finally trusted her enough to stroll down the level, graveled paths in the thick garden even though Elle’s puffy skirts still gave her troubles.)
“I fail to understand why I am brought to dinner with Prince Severin. Surely I’m beneath his notice,” Elle said.
Emele stopped to write. Companionship.
“Companionship? You are bluffing. Prince Severin needs my companionship like a peacock needs horse fur. He clearly doesn’t want me there. I am positive the only reason he does not send me off, bouncing on my way home and further injuring my leg is because of you and the rest of the Chateau servants,” Elle said, walking further up the garden trail. The armchair the footmen had brought her out in was still within sight, Elle felt confident she could go farther.
Never! Emele wrote. The Prince is too kind for that.
“Say what you will, but I have experienced otherwise,” Elle dryly said. “What are the terms of his curse? It seems to have done very little to sweeten his temperament,” she said. Little was known of Prince Severin’s curse, even among the Crown’s servants.
Emele shook her head and kept walking. Not my story to tell.
“Why not? You were cursed with him,” Elle said, thumping after her maid as they moved toward the outer patches of greenery. They walked the perimeter of the gardens, going down a path that was walled in by giant hedges. A wrought iron fence was snug against the outer hedge. Elle wasn’t sure if it was meant to keep intruders out, or everyone else in.
The weather was pleasant. The sun was warm and intense considering summer was leaving and fall would soon sweep through the land.
