Page 23 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

I land on one particular doorstep, my knuckles raised to knock.

There’s no going back once you knock,I tell myself.

I hesitate, running over my plan in my head. I’ve just got to keep a low profile, stay out of the way of the fae that I will be serving, and hide here until my birthday. Being a servant here is ideal, because this fae won’t know me—unlikeallof the other well-situated families in the city—and because I might be able to glean information that will help me run my raids more effectively.

There’s no point in second-guessing myself. Mary already got me this job, and if I fail to show up now, I cannot get hired anywhere else.

I knock.

The door opens to reveal a sharp nosed, tall woman in a dark blue dress and starched white apron. She wears a cap over her tightly pulled-back hair. Every line of her face is severe. She studies me for several minutes, standing in the doorway, refusing to speak or open the door to me.

It feels like she is climbing into my brain and reading all my secrets.

This is the true test of my disguise,I think while my body goes stiff. There’s no way this eagle-eyed woman is going to be fooled by my extra-large pants and chest binding. If she is, however, then I think I might be able to fool anyone.

I bow. “Ma’am. I’m here for my post.”

“How old are you?”

I clear my throat. “Twelve.”

“We don’t hire children here.”

“No, no, ma’am, I’ve already been given the job.” I pull the notice out of my pocket. Mary thought of everything—brilliant girl—and leveraged her connections hard to get me this position. “I was to report here this morning.”

The woman frowns at the note. “You’re Mary’s little brother?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You look nothing like her.”

I wince. “I fear she got all the pretties, ma’am. She takes after our mother.”

“And you got all the freckles, I see. Well, come in. You’ll need a uniform if you’re going to be working under my watch. I am Mrs. Banks, and you answer to me.”

A potent mix of relief from my success and trepidation that the real trial is yet to come fills my blood. I follow Mrs. Banks inside. She gives me a new uniform: a pair of tighter fitting breeches that I almost am too afraid to wear for fear of them revealing my hips, a stiff, collared white shirt, and a pair of suspenders. I’ve never worn suspenders before. I do not like them.

She sits me down at a stool before a large bucket of potatoes and hands me a knife. “Peel these spuds.”

And so begins my first day as a servant boy. I put my head down and peel those potatoes, trying to find a sweet spot between speed and minimal waste. As my pile of peeled vegetables grows, so does my confidence. I find myself growing distracted, however, by the people bustling around the kitchen. All unfamiliar faces. There is the woman who moves expertly about the kitchen, reminding me of Viola. A little girl sits in the corner, about eleven years old, with a pile of mending on her lap.

And Mrs. Banks said they didn’t hire children!

There are several men. Two manservants in livery, and an older man in much dirtier clothes who must tend the grounds. When he walks through the kitchen, Mrs. Banks shouts from the other room, “I don’t want your nasty boots on my floor, Clifford!”

Mrs. Banks returns twenty minutes later to inspect my work. I restrain my proud smirk.

“How are you only half done with those potatoes? Are you slower than a crippled horse?”

I bristle and stick my head back down, vowing not to let my focus waver one second.

When I’m finished with the potatoes, there is no word of praise. I quickly realize just how silly of an expectation that is. Mrs. Banks orders me out to the well to draw water for the kitchen. The buckets she gives me are alarmingly large. These will beveryheavy when full. I’m an athletic person, but carrying heavy things is not my particular strong suit. That was always Mary. She has the strongest arms of anyone I’ve witnessed.

I’ll just have to pretend I’m Mary to get these buckets of water back to the house.

Once they’re full—ormostlyfull, as my courage faltered while I was filling them up—I wrap one hand around each handle and give a hefty lift. They barely budge.

“Saints have mercy on me,” I mutter.

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