Page 11 of The Tsarina's Favorite
The tsarina strode back to me, disregarding Sergey entirely, and threw the contents of her own glass in my face.Then she laughed.
“Sergey,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on me, “if you’re going to do it, do it with intention next time and then let us know so that we can share in your amusement.”
She held her empty glass out in front of me and waited.
I poured her a new glass as kvass trickled down my forehead and cheek.
“You can squawk as much as you like, Mikhail, but chickens that don’t lay eggs have to provide something else.”The tsarina’s mouth split into a grin.“I would like to keep you around.So why don’t you lay an egg for us?”
“I have no eggs to offer,” I said as I wiped my face.
Her eyes flattened and her face tightened.“Do your best.”
And so, swallowing down the little miserable bit of pride that still protested, I did my best.
Icontinued to do mybest throughout the following days.Each day became a little easier in action if not in emotion.The daily exercises wore me down until I no longer recognized myself.I barely ate.And when others reminded me of my place and function, I performed like an automaton.I no longer noticed those who stopped at my basket to gawk.Even the sores that cracked and bled from the unfinished leather of my beak could not recall me from my growing apathy.Yet somehow, despite my skin thickening and my heart numbing, the torments still found my unguarded places.
The days blended into one another.I wore a significant amount of old kvass despite cleaning during the nights, the stains stark against the white padded costume, although the white had softened to a general yellow-brown.
Alone one night and absently pushing the dregs of my stew around the bowl, a voice pulled me from my wool-gathering.
“It’s the chicken prince.”
My back stiffened, aware that such an address could not mean anything good.Recalling the tsarina’s warning, I pulled the mask back up, although I continued picking at the soup as if I had not heard.
They approached from the left, a mob of well-dressed fools with enough drink in them that I could smell it across the room.Several held wine glasses as they meandered over to me.
“How is the tsarina’s pet this evening?”
“Finishing up dinner,” I said.
“Since when do chickens use spoons?”
One of the querants moved forward and smacked the bowl out of my hands.The bowl hit me in the jaw, and the contents of the stew ran down my front and into my lap.
“Bawk, bawk,” one of them jibed as he leered over me.
“You do that rather well.”Against good sense, I looked up into his face.“I’ll be sure to tell the tsarina, and she can give you a nest beside mine.I’ll carry her kvass, and you can spend all of your energy trying not to make an idiot of yourself.I would find it most entertaining to see you perpetually fail.”
The jiber took a step forward, but one of his companions caught him by the arm, preventing him from immediate action.
I didn’t know the group of men.They were newcomers, youths — a mismatched conglomerate of sons, military upstarts, and those who married into court life.None of them would have ever been worth my notice.And they knew it.
“You have a surprising bite for a chicken,” said the one who seemed to lead the group, a fair-haired man who wore a moustache and a military uniform, a young officer in Her Majesty’s guards.“I think you’ve forgotten how a chicken acts.”
“Have I?Why don’t you demonstrate?I would appreciate seeing a more accurate portrayal.”
“He thinks he’s funny, Krintova,” one of them said to the leader.
“I’m a jester now,” I said.“I have to at least try.”
“We can find ways for you to amuse us,” Krintova said.
Two men approached me, one from either side.
Maybe I could have fought.I probably could have successfully fought off one.Maybe two.Although my lack of energy and will to live had reduced me to nothing but a shell of myself, I did not want to try it.
“What do you want from me?”I asked.
