Page 2 of The Midnight King

Touch a tear on the face, and a kiss grants his grace.

I’ve never been able to figure out what that means.

Closing the watch, I slide its chain around my neck and drop it inside my dress. As always, I arrange my collar to hide the hint of silver, just in case my stepmother might change her mind and decide to confiscate it.

The morning’s work progresses as usual. I take care of the animals first—two cows, some chickens, a pair of horses, a few goats, and a fat pig I’ve named Lord Hogmorton. I dread the day when I’m told to kill him. Knowing my stepmother, she won’t want to pay the butcher to perform the task—she’ll make me do it, partly to save money, and partly because, despite my best efforts, she has figured out that I’m fond of the pig.

Anything I care about is sure to be used against me, so I’ve perfected a bland, apathetic expression. If I pretend I don’t care, she has fewer weapons with which to torture me.

Unfortunately, my stepsister Vashli overheard me talking to Lord Hogmorton a few weeks ago and told her mother. So his days are probably numbered.

After the outdoor animals are taken care of, I must tend to the indoor animals—the kind that walk on two legs. They’re farless pleasant. No matter how carefully I tailor the breakfast to their individual preferences, they’re sure to find something wrong.

This morning is no exception. The moment I set Amisa’s plate in front of her, she wrinkles her nose. “The eggs are too moist, Cinders.”

I stare at the very dry scramble on her plate. If I’d cooked the eggs any longer, they would have been brown.

“Honestly, can’t you ever get anything right?” Amisa pouts as if she’s two, not twenty. “You know I despise runny scrambled eggs.”

“I can cook them a little longer for you,” I offer.

“But the rest of my food will get cold.”

“Then what would you like me to do?”

“Cinders,” says my stepmother warningly. “Mind your tone. Throw that plate of food to the pig, and fix a new one.”

Keeping my tone as even as possible, I reply, “There aren’t enough eggs for another plate, my lady.”

My lady.That’s what she has insisted I call her, ever since she and her daughters came home with my father. I had no warning of his impending marriage. He went to oversee one of his shipyards in a distant town while I stayed with my governess, a woman who had been with me since my mother died when I was three. When my father returned, he was married. My new stepmother and her little girls moved in, and my governess, whom I loved dearly, was dismissed the same day.

I began to hate Gilda then, though I didn’t fully understand how evil she was until months later.

Bound as I am by the various rules my stepmother has laid upon me, there’s little I can do by way of vengeance. But I do take pleasure in giving her bad news. When I mention the lack of eggs, I relish the way her eyes widen slightly with alarm. She knows as well as I do that the house and its property are declining due to poor management and dwindling funds, butuntil now, she has managed to keep the knowledge from her daughters.

“Not enough eggs?” asks Amisa shrilly. “What is she talking about, Mother?”

I cut in before Gilda can reply. “Instead of buying chickens at the market, we’ve been roasting hens from our own flock. So there are fewer birds to provide eggs.”

Gilda’s eyes flash a rebuke and inwardly I cringe, unsure if I’ve pushed her too far. But she only turns to Amisa and says evenly, “Eat your breakfast.”

“But—”

“Now, Amisa.” When she uses that tone, not even her pampered daughters dare to cross her. I suppress an instinctive shudder and retreat to the kitchen.

There’s one egg left, so I fry it quickly and gobble it down while it’s so hot that the runny yolk burns my tongue. I’ve learned to consume whatever food is leftover, as quickly as possible, or my other stepsister, Vashli, will claim it. She’s the quieter of the two, and finds refuge in sensory pleasures like food and wine.

Once, I thought perhaps Vashli and I could be friends, but she seems to despise me as deeply as Gilda does. When she does speak to me, her words cut far deeper than Amisa’s, because she takes the time to consider and craft phrases that are especially cruel. She always smiles after delivering her vicious comments, as if causing me pain is one of the true joys in her life. She and her mother are identical in that respect.

Within the hour, Worden enters the kitchen and asks me to tell the ladies that their carriage is ready. Worden is an older man who stops by Eisling House to do some of the heavier stable chores and repairs. The way things are going, we won’t be able to pay him much longer. And he’s already the cheapest stablehand and gardener to be had in this area. He moves slowly and jerkily due to injuries sustained in the border wars a fewdecades past. Not many people are willing to hire him, and I hate to think what will happen to him if we’re forced to let him go.

I hand Worden the rest of my black coffee, and he downs it gratefully before going back outside. I return to the breakfast room and declare, “The carriage is ready.”

As usual, my stepmother and her girls leave the dining room in utter disarray. The breakfast table looks as if a herd of pigs descended to gorge themselves upon the food, rather than three fine ladies. I know they understand table manners; they manage to remain neat and proper when they’re dining out. But when they’re at home, they go out of their way to create the biggest possible mess, just so I have to clean it up.

An outsider might think I’m just tired and bitter, that I’m seeing malicious intent where there is none. But I know these three women all too well. I know they do it on purpose.

Thankfully the three of them will be out of the house for a while, off to Lady Something-or-Other’s sewing party. Precious little sewing will take place, I’ll wager. I’ve served at one or two such parties, and it’s mostly fashion, gossip, and a critique of all the eligible gentlemen in the area, which, with our proximity to the capital, always leads to everyone twittering breathlessly about the young Crown Prince.

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