Page 24 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

My limbs shake from hunger, even though I thought I’d eaten enough. Apparently not. No one has seen through my disguise yet, but with these breeches, I fear I might need to continue limiting my food. Whatever happens, I cannot risk being discovered.

An embarrassingly loud grunt slips between my teeth when I heft the water buckets up.Saints have mercy,I think again as I begin to worry about my elbows being pulled out of their sockets. The distance between the well and the kitchen door is far too long, and I perform an awkward shuffle-run in an effort to carry the water buckets for the least amount of time possible. I drag them inside, breathing hard, and pause as water sloshes over the edges. Where am I supposed to take these buckets?

“My five-year-old nephew is stronger than you!” exclaims Mrs. Banks from my left.

I whip my head to the side. She regards me from over the tip of her severe nose. I didn’t realize she was in the kitchen.Oops.“Sorry, ma’am,” I reply dutifully, instead of letting my instinctive snappy reply fly free.

I’m tasked with carrying wood to all the grates in the house. Mrs. Banks says that will be one of my everyday tasks, along with chopping the wood. When I dump the wood into the dining room hearth and soot shakes free and lands on the pristine red rug, Mrs. Banks threatens to box my ears. I scrub the soot out of the rug until my hand is shaking. When I am handed a dead chicken and told to pluck off its feathers, I swallow my instinctive need to vomit and pretend I’m Viola, unphased by a jiggly bird’s neck with no head. I don’t do that fast enough to please Mrs. Banks, who happens upon me mid task and announces: “Mary owes me one for asking me to hire you!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, just as Mary would have wanted me to.

I’m sent outside to collect eggs from the chickens. The slight reprieve from the hot and full kitchen is everything I needed—and yet my shoulders drop when I see the angle of the sun. It’s only been a few hours. I count the rest of the hours in the day and nearly fall over.

“Mary must be a demigod,” I conclude as I take a few pecks from the speckled chicken while fishing for her eggs. How she can handle this level of labor every single day is beyond me!

If I thought those first few hours of the day were difficult, the rest of the day only proves worse. Sweat pours down my face and I become endlessly thankful for the layer between my chest binding and my shirt, otherwise my sweat might have revealed my secret long before the day is over.

I work harder than I have ever worked in my life, enduring Mrs. Banks’s endless displeasure, trembling from hunger, and there is no sign of this supposed fae master. I’m beginning to think I might not have a single opportunity to glean information that will be helpful on my raids. This might just be the worst arrangement I could have possibly ended up in.

Marrying Lord Boreham grows oddly more appealing by the moment.

Then I think of Bartholomew. I clench my jaw and force myself to work harder. I will not let Agatha’s schemes dictate my life. I willnotlet her win.

“Have you ever milked a cow before, lad?” Mrs. Banks asks mid-afternoon.

“No, ma’am.”

She sends her gaze heavenward. Then she gestures sharply for me to follow her outside to the barn. The chickens scatter at her angry strides as she approaches the grazing cow with a soft brown coat and whites rimming her black marble eyes. She takes a milk pail and a bucket of grain, opens the gate to the cow’s pen and motions for me to shut it behind me.

“Missy is a good cow,” Mrs. Banks says. I think that’s the only praise I’ve heard her offer all day. “She doesn’t need a milking stanchion. As long as she has some grain, she will usually hold still for you.”

Mrs. Banks gives Missy the cow her pail of grain and then squats beside her. I steal a glance at the woman, somehow surprised that someone so perfectly starched and pressed would demonstrate for me how to milk a cow. I watch carefully, and when it’s my turn, I mimic her movements. It proves to be a tricky task, but I pick it up quickly. My experience with Bartholomew seems to give me a slight edge. Mrs. Banks eventually stops giving me cues. It’s as close to recognition as I think I’ll ever get from her.

The milk is foamy and warm in the pail when I finish.

“Carry it back to the house. We must filter it. Finch will make butter from the cream for tonight’s supper,” Mrs. Bank says.

A grunt escapes me as I lift the heavy pail. It’s several gallons—an awkward weight for one hand. I’m already sore from today’s work and there was no midday meal provided for me. It’ll be a steep challenge, but if I can get this all the way back to the kitchen, I will also consider myself a demigod like Mary. A much lower and far more pathetic breed of demigod, but still one nonetheless.

Mrs. Banks’s eyes burn into me from ahead as I pretend this pail of milk isn’t too heavy for me. I keep shifting it from one side to the other, which earns me a sharp bark of, “Don’t you dare spill that!”

“Yes ma’am!”

Don’t fall on your face, Kat. Don’t fall on your face.

She disappears into the kitchen, too impatient for my slow pace. I hurry to stop lagging so much.

A new voice interrupts my focus.

“As you can see, Master, the grounds are well kept. There is a stream this way. I’ve found the water to be a refreshment after the way the human scent floods the city.”

I follow the voice until I find a mop of curly hair, from which protrude nubby horns. Energy flashes through my body.A fae.A low fae, specifically.He isn’t tall—a little shorter than the average human man. He wears a black uniform that is perfectly tailored to his form. If the horns were hidden, I might not have recognized him as a fae at all. Then he takes a few steps, and the movement is so unlike a human’s, I take back my opinion. He’s got hooves like a goat, complete with the strange backward-jointed knee . . .thingthat goats have.

He walks toward the tree-shielded creek, talking to someone I cannot see because of a well-placed shrub. Whoever it is must be this very mysterious fae everyone is talking about. I keep walking, trying to get a clear look at him.

He comes into view between two shrubs. His back is to me, his hands resting lightly on his hips as he listens to the low fae speak.

It isn’t his height or his warrior’s build that makes my blood turn to ice. Nor is it the distinctly fae style of his clothes, with a long tunic, leather jerkin, and a belt designed to carry weapons.

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