by Amber Jaeger
Calia jerked her head back up and gave a little sigh. If she had been hoping to make a new friend she was sorely disappointed.
Finally finished with her measurements, the woman stood back and eyed Calia up and down. Calia shifted nervously on the stool. “You have unusual coloring,” the woman finally commented.
“Yes,” Calia agreed unhappily.
“No matter,” the dressmaker said. She picked up a huge swath of fabrics in all different colors and held them up to Calia’s face.
Calia risked friendliness again. “What’s your name?”
“Imogene.” The woman draped a royal blue piece of fabric around her neck and stepped back to look. A tiny smile turned her mouth up and she stepped forward to toss on a deep purple fabric. Her smile deepened and she swept them off to replace them with a black and white swath. “Excellent,” she breathed.
Calia was confused. “What are you doing?”
“Matching colors to your skin and hair tones. And the colors that best compliment you are also the ones that best compliment the king.”
Calia shook her head, still confused. “Why does that matter?”
Imogene threw a dark burgundy swath around her neck, shook her head and tore it off. “A king should always look immaculate. I dress our king to look his best and his servants to look their best but it doesn’t always work that the servant compliments the master.”
“Who is even going to notice?”
Imogene’s eyes darted up to hers. “Everyone who looks at you. Now put this on.” She handed over a dark, plain dress and Calia pulled it on.
She stood patiently with her arms out while Imogene jerked and tugged and pulled and made marks with a little piece of chalk.
“What types of dresses will you make?”
Imogene pulled a pin from her mouth to answer. “All types. Casual ones for every day, severe ones for court, ones for meeting other dignitaries.”
Calia gasped. “Do I really have to do that?”
Imogene frowned. “Of course. What did you think you were going to do? Sit around and serve him tea?”
“But I’m a nobody! He can’t really mean for me to sit in on such important meetings.”
“I don’t mean any offense but at this point you cannot even be trusted to pour tea. It will be some time before you will assist him in any business.”
Calia had no idea she would really be so involved in the inner workings of the kings affairs. Didn’t he know she was just an ugly girl that had been sacrificed by her town to fulfill his need for a servant? She knew nothing of royalty or manners or any of it. Calia was frightened to her core. She was a no one, she had no right to attend court or meet other kings. Her knees shook and she was relieved to finally be let off the little stool and allowed to get dressed again.
“I will return to do a final fitting,” Imogene said before shooing her out the door. To Calia’s utter relief, Abelina was waiting for her.
“Come with me,” the older woman said kindly. “We shall work on your serving skills.”
Calia followed her down to a large formal dining room and over to a table formally set up. A surly looking woman slouched in one of the chairs.
“Klaribel, do sit up dear. That must be torture on your back.” The woman, Klaribel, heaved a sigh and sat up.
“Why do you even need me for this? Can you not you just pretend you are serving someone?” she asked, clearly unhappy to be drawn into Calia’s lessons.
The startling woman wore a jacket and breeches with knee high boots. Straw clung to her clothes and hair and Calia was surprised to see she was as well muscled as any man. Klaribel swung her face to Calia’s and took her in with hard but not unkind eyes. She stuck a hand out that Calia was too surprised to refuse.
“Klaribel,” the woman said bluntly. “I am the stable master.”
“Calia.” That was all she meant to say but her curiosity got the best of her once again. “Aren’t men usually the stable masters?”
Klaribel snorted. “Yes. And women are usually the cooks and maids. But thankfully I did not get stuck with those roles when I chose to come here.”
The woman was surprising all around. “You wanted to come here?”
“Of course. What else was I going to do? Stay there and kept getting beaten by my step mother for wanting to wear pants and work with horses?” Klaribel snorted. “No, not for me.”
Her blunt honesty was surprising and almost unbelievable. She wanted to come to the castle? To be trapped, a servant, forever?
Abelina tapped a finger on the table. “Enough talk, my dears. We must teach Calia her skills.”
She began outlining each utensil, each item on the table, explaining its use and positioning. Only a few minutes into the explanation and Calia’s head was swimming. A quick glance at Klaribel showed the woman’s eyes had glazed over. Abelina tapped her finger on the table again and the attention of both women shot back over to her.
Abelina continued her lesson, occasionally tapping the table or stopping to answer questions. When it came time for Calia to demonstrate serving the tea she failed miserably.
“No, you must stand at the other side, the handle diagonal to the one being served. No, not like that!” Kind and patient Abelina took a deep breath. “Remember, you serve from the left, position the teacup correctly and pour, supporting the spout. It will come easier to you as you practice. Now we shall practice serving lunch before the bell rings.”
Calia’s stomach clenched as she thought of having to return to the king’s rooms to serve him. But Abelina’s lessons proved fruitful and she was able to serve the Cold King without committing any mistake major enough for him to comment on. She counted the moments until she could escape back to Abelina and her lessons.
As she cleared the dishes away the king finally spoke. “You will return to my chambers to continue working on my shirts.”
Calia nodded but her heart palpitated. Her mother had taken one look at her first attempts at embroidery and declared her a lost cause.
But she returned to his rooms and took a seat at the window and pulled the sewing basket onto her lap. As she pawed through it she found a few buttons with mud dried on them. Her chest tightened as she remembered helping the old woman gather her sewing supplies from where they had fallen. It felt like a hundred years ago but had only been weeks.
She glanced up to eye the Cold King. Was that how he felt? Was he really ageless, as they said? Cursed?
Sunlight darted off his mask as he lifted his head in response to her gaze. She snapped her head back down, wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and prepared to thread a needle.
Hours passed as she attempted to make tiny, straight, even stitches in the cloth she was practicing on. Her shoulders and hands were cramped. The sunlight she needed to see had overly warmed her and her neck itched.
“How are my other servants treating you?”
Calia looked up, surprised by the question, surprised he would even care. He remained bent over his desk, his quill stilled over his paper. If she hadn’t heard him so clearly speak she would have thought he didn’t even know she was in the room. “Very well, Your Majesty,” she finally responded.
“Are they being kind to you?” he inquired further.
“They are.” She rolled her stiff neck. “Were you afraid they wouldn’t be?”
His invisible gaze snapped back to her and she knew she had chosen the wrong word. “I fear nothing.”
“Of course,” she murmured and turned back to her sewing.
When she served him his dinner that night he said nothing, only excused her with the wave of his hand. Determined not to fail in absolutely everything, she returned to practicing her stitches.
And that was how their week continued. She served him breakfast before Abelina
taught her more about serving and proper manners. Occasionally she roped in another servant for Calia to practice on and they were all agreeable, save for Jos.
“I have better things to do than stand around so this tart can figure out exactly how many steps she should stand behind the king,” he snapped when asked for his help.
But everyone else was helpful, if not overly kind. The butler, Marchello, still looked at her as if she had dirt on her face but she soon realized he looked at everyone like that. Klaribel was crass but could usually be convinced to help when bribed with sweets. Iago offered his help several times before Abelina was forced to accept it. Calia was surprised at her reluctance but soon learned why she had avoided the kind man’s offers.
“You are doing just wonderful,” he praised, turning around in the chair they were pretending was the throne.
“Turn around,” Abelina chided. “And try to act like the king.”
She turned back to Calia. “Always two steps back and two steps to the right. No, based on the size of his feet, not yours.”
Iago turned around again. “Do not worry, you’ll get it soon enough.”
Abelina gave him a pointed stare and he turned around again.
She sighed then continued. “Right. Now shoulders back and tray balanced in both hands, always level with your navel. Right again.”
Iago glanced back. “Perfect, my dear!”
Abelina stomped her foot. “The king is not constantly going to reassure her, she needs to learn this perfectly! She will be on her own!”
“Ah, I apologize.” He gave a quick wink at Calia and settled back in the chair.
Chapter Five
Calia was on her own when it came to the cursed shirts. She wanted to beg Abelina for sewing lessons but remembered the king had forbidden her from even speaking of anything to do at all with the garments and so she refrained.
Thankfully the cloth she practiced on was dark because soon her finger tips were raw and bloody again. Every other stitch she somehow managed to poke herself no matter where she put her fingers. Exasperated, she tossed the cloth to the floor just as a knock sounded at the door.
The Cold King looked up from his scribbling to glance at the door then at Calia.
“Do I answer that?” she squeaked.
“Yes,” he drew out, his annoyance perfectly clear.
She rushed to answer it and welcomed the dressmaker in. Marchello came behind carrying a huge trunk and scowled at Calia’s imperfect manners in regards to answering the door.
She ignored him.
Imogene set her things back up in the dressing room and handed Calia gown after gown to try one. They were deep violets and blues, stark black and whites, and there was one very lovely green dress, just the color of the king’s eyes.
“I love them all,” Calia gasped. The dress maker eyed her creations critically, picking at invisible lint, clipping tiny threads.
Each dress fit perfectly. Out of the heavy trunk Imogene pulled shifts and silk stockings and under things. Calia had never seen the likes of such luxury and her head swam thinking that it was all for her.
Lastly Imogene pulled out a pair of white shoes trimmed with lace. The toes were pointed and they had smart little heels.
Calia stomped out of her old boots and eagerly slid her feet into the new slippers. Then she winced.
“They pinch a little,” she said, hoping not to upset the dressmaker. They more than pinched, it felt as if they had been carved from wood and the stiff material rubbed against her heels and toes as well as the sides of her feet.
“I am sure they do, you will have to break them in.” Imogene began packing her things up.
“Break them in?” Calia wiggled her feet in the shoes and tried to curl her toes away from the pointed ends.
“Haven’t you ever had a new pair of shoes before?” Imogene asked.
Calia shook her head.
“Well, your feet may be sore soon but you’ll get used to them.”
She did not get used to them.
The first day her feet pinched and ached and that night when she pulled her shoes off she found her stockings stuck to the sides of her toes and the back of her heel with blood. She held her breath and pulled them off to find large, open blisters.
The next day was even worse. She cried out when she tried to slip the shoes on and cried actual tears when they were finally on her feet. She limped down to the kitchen with red eyes.
The cook looked up at her sniffling. Spatula in hand he hesitated, then finally asked, “What’s wrong?”
“My shoes,” Calia mumbled.
He winced. “First pair of new shoes?”
She nodded miserably.
Cato handed her the heavy breakfast tray and said, “I’ll send Iago after you today.”
The stairs were torture and she paused to wipe her face before entering the king’s chambers. She shuffled in on stiff legs, trying not to make any move that would cause her feet to rub against the shoes.
The Cold King sighed before looking up. “You lack a core grace most people naturally develop, whether they be farmers or royalty.”
Calia blinked new tears away, cursing her inherent weakness. “I apologize Your Majesty; I am having a hard time adjusting to my new shoes.”
The king cocked his head, the dreadful mask obscuring his feelings and mood as always. “Do they not suit you?”
She carefully shifted from one bloody foot to another. “Perhaps I could have my old shoes…”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Never. Never would I allow you wear those ugly things in my palace. Continue to wear the shoes I gave you, you will get used to them.”
Calia gave a little nod and tottered to her chair. With great relief she settled into it and took a little of the pressure of her abused feet. It took everything she had not to kick the shoes off and away. Not only would it not be appropriate, she wasn’t sure she would be able to get them back on later.
Leaving for her own lunch and returning to serve the king was torture and she did it with her jaw firmly closed against her little moans of pain. Dinner was even harder and the instant she was freed from her duties she limped over to her rooms were Iago was waiting for her.
“There’s water in the tub, you’ll need to soak your feet.”
She nodded gratefully and stumbled past him, pulling of her evil shoes and bloody stockings as she went. The tub was only filled shallowly and steamed with fragrant water. With a sigh she eased her feet in. When the water cooled off she reluctantly dried her feet on a rug and limped back out to Iago.
He looked at her feet and grimaced. “First pair of new shoes?” he asked.
“How does everyone know?”
He gave a low chuckle. “Most of us received our first pair of new shoes here. Not the luxury we were expecting, but your feet are the worst I have seen. Have you asked the king to allow different shoes?”
She sighed and tried to not flinch as he applied ointment to her raw heels. “He wants me to wear these shoes.”
Iago nodded. “Appearance is very important to him.”
“But it’s my feet.”
“Yes, and you are his servant. He wants you to be the best representation of him you can be.”
“Well I do not see how I am going to accomplish that limping around on bloody feet.”
Iago sighed and continued bandaging. “I am sure the shoes will wear in soon and your feet will heal. The most important thing is to not let infection set in.”
He instructed her on soaking her feet, applying ointment and how to bandage them at night so her feet would fit in the shoes in the morning. She listened with growing horror and anger. Surely the man would relent when he saw her sheer agony.
But he did not, or he chose to ignore it, a
nd her pain lasted for several days. Help finally came from the most unexpected place.
One morning, while Calia sat miserably in her chair with her terrible stitching in hand, a knock came at the Cold Kings door. Perhaps taking pity on her, he called for the person to enter instead of making her properly answer it.
Marchello stepped in, holding a silver platter with an envelope on it. “For you, my lord,” he said in his deep rumbling voice. He bowed as he presented the platter and held it up for the Cold King to take his letter. The king dismissed him with a wave of his hand and Marchello turned to leave but paused at the door.
“Miss Calia,” he said, causing her head to snap up. “Might I say your shoes are absolutely delightful? That style was always my favorite when I was younger and I’ve waited years for them to be back into vogue. They are so much more lady like than the dreadful flat ankle boots I see on the ladies so recently. I said as much to the dressmaker but she seems to think they will soon be all the rage.”
He added a wink and Calia nearly fell out of her chair but she stilled herself as the Cold King looked her up and down.
“That is all, Marchello. But please send word to Imogene that I require her. Today.”
When the dressmaker arrived later that evening the Cold King cornered her, all the while pointing at his servant’s feet. Calia clutched her needle and thread to her chest, hoping against hope she would finally be rid of the evil shoes.
Imogene waved her into the dressing room and Calia limped over. “No, that will never do,” the Cold King said under his breath as she passed.
The dress maker gave her a little grin then pushed a finger against her lips, silencing Calia’s joy. “These shoes are not to his majesty’s liking. Sit, and remove them.”
She did so with great relish and sighed in relief when Imogene pulled several pairs of soft, flat shoes from her trunk.
Twenty minutes later she left the small room with her tender feet encased in soft leather boots with rounded toes that did not rub her sores. They were nearly like slippers with their flexible soles and she almost danced out of the room.
