The Cold King (6 page)

The cook must have noticed her eyes on him and he glanced up again. She flushed and jerked her eyes away, towards Jos. He was glaring at her cattily.

Unable to tolerate his unfriendly presence anymore she jumped down from the stool. “Thank you for breakfast,” she mumbled.

“That’s my job,” Cato said and she could not tell if he was joking or not. She wrapped her arms over her chest, wishing for Abelina or the gardener.

“Where am I supposed to meet the Cold King?” she finally asked.

“Do
not
call him that,” Cato snapped. “Not to his face, not in his castle.”

Calia began to tear up and ducked her chin.

“He’s in his rooms,” Jos said, responding to her question. His tone implied that it should have been obvious, even to her.

She shifted from foot to foot. “I do not know where those are,” she admitted quietly.

Jos gave an exasperated sigh. “Right across from yours. You are his personal servant, remember?” Under his breath he muttered, “Idiot.”

With that, the tears began to fall freely and she rushed from the rooms.

“Be nice,” she heard Cato scold.

But Calia felt that nothing would ever be nice again. She was trapped with the Cold King in his ice palace and would be there until she died.

She shivered when she wondered how long it would be until then. Would he kill her when he realized she was just an ugly nobody? Or would she live to be elderly, still meeting his every demand like his last personal servant? She did not know which was worse.

The bright, empty halls became only slightly less confusing as she realized she recognized some of the art work she had passed on her way down to the kitchen.

Her heart sped up as recognized the door to the room she had slept in and turned to face the doors opposite it.

He was in there. Waiting for her. And she did not know what he wanted.

Chapter Four

S
weat bloomed across her upper
lip as she gathered the courage to knock. Finally she was able to force one small, shaking fist to rap timidly against the decorated wood.

“Come.”

The heavy door opened easily under her hand and she crept over the threshold. The room was the same bright, light decor as the rest of the palace and the Cold King sat bent over a desk in the far corner. He did not acknowledge her so she crept closer and closer until she stood at the edge of the massive mahogany table.

“I am… I am here,” she finally whispered when he failed to acknowledge to her.

The Cold King sighed and threw his quill down. “Well, I see the first thing we have to do is work on your manners.” He looked up and immediately frowned. “And your poise. And looks.”

His little barbs hurt her more than she thought they would.

“Who are you?” he suddenly demanded.

Calia ducked her head to hide her confusion. “I am Calia? Your new servant?”

He shook his head, his annoyance apparent. “No. You are the personal servant to an ageless king. Not a messy, cowering child.”

She bit her lip, unsure of what to say.

He gave another exaggerated sigh and stood from his desk. “I require many things from you. Some will take time to learn but the most important is that you, as my servant, are representative of me. You will be graceful, capable, poised. Every word and action should be well thought out and appropriate to the situation. Do you understand?”

Tears threatened again. “No.”

“You will.” He pointed to a spot at the right corner of his desk. “Each time you come to me, you will enter after one knock and come to stand there until I acknowledge you. You will never look me in the eye and respond only as ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ or ‘No, Your Majesty’ unless a different response is specifically required. You will stand straight with your eyes ahead. You will not fiddle with your dress or bite your lip.”

Calia quickly pulled her teeth from lip and smoothed her face.

“I do not want to have to instruct you in every little thing so you will learn my schedule and follow it unfailingly.”

Calia nodded.

“And do not nod!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She felt like a kicked puppy and it took everything she had not to fold in onto herself.

A little smile played on his lips. “At the first bell you will enter my room with my breakfast tray and set it here,” he said pointing at his desk.

Calia’s eyes jerked to round, mahogany table in the corner. “Why do you eat at your desk when you have such a lovely table to dine at?”

He gave another sigh. “I always eat alone. I may as well get some work done while I do it. And don’t interrupt. At the third bell you will bring my lunch and at the sixth bell my dinner.” His hateful mask was distracting her and loosened her tongue.

“And all the time in between?”

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And you will never question me. You alone will clean my rooms and do my laundry. You will stand at my side whenever I have an important meeting and attend me at any function with other royalty. I can only assume you know nothing of serving meals.”

She bit her lip again and shook her head.

He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Then we must start small. You will stay with me today, and the next and the next, until your manners are acceptable.”

Her heart palpitated at the idea of being trapped in his rooms, standing at attention and having to keep her mouth shut.

He strode over to a large wardrobe and pulled out a bright, silken shirt. She did her best to stand tall and keep her eyes on the wall as he approached. He stopped too close to her and she shivered, trying not to look at his glittering mask.

“Do you sew?”

His breath wafted over her clammy forehead and it took all she had not to step back.

“I do, a little,” she said uncertainly. His chest brushed her shoulder and she jumped.

He pushed the cloth at her. “You will sew my shirts.”

She looked down at the gorgeous article in her hands and then could not help looking up at him. From that angle she could just peer under the little hoods on the mask that shaded his eyes and could see they were a warm, deep green. She shuddered again. No wonder he kept them hidden. They clashed with his image of the Cold King.

“And you will
never
mention my shirts, their construction or the fact that you sew them to another soul!” She cringed, although she wasn’t sure if it was because of his tone or the further proof that he was a mad man. Who cared about how a shirt was made or who made it? His paranoia was alarming and she resolved to step lightly around the crazy man. If he even was a man.

The king moved away from her and she glanced back at the wardrobe the shirt was taken from. It was filled with pristine white garments and she immediately forgot her vow. “But you have so many…”

If he was annoyed with her he did not show it. “The sewing basket is next to the armchair. Several girls found it helpful to take a shirt apart to see how it all fit together.”

Confused, she floundered over to the arm chair and plopped down. She could hear his teeth grind together and tried to arrange herself as elegantly as possible in the massive chair.

Upon closer inspection, the snowy white button down shirt revealed itself to be ridiculously confusing. It was of a double layer with no true seams to press inward on the skin when worn. Everywhere the cloth joined together it met smoothly, as if sewn inside out. She turned the garment in her hands, finding only more to confuse her. Why would anyone require such an intricate garment? But she continued her inspection, working from collar to hem, finally finding the only area where the shirt could have been sewn from the outside. It was only as wide as her hand and at the very back, bottom hem of the shirt. Would she have to sew with her hand inside for most of the time? Puzzled, she opened her mouth to ask a question and barely stopped herself. The king was seated at his desk again, writing furiously.

Her mother had always found her too clumsy and oafish to teach her real sewing and she viewed her insurmountable task with dread. Finally she picked up a tiny shears and began snipping away the stitches that held it all together.

Calia was late getting the king his lunch and his dinner. She was supposed to be ready with the tray when the bell sounded, not jumping up from the chair to get it. There were no clocks in his room and she struggled to adjust herself to his passing of time.

In the kitchen, she cried. Cato handed her the dinner tray with a look of commiseration but did not offer any comfort.

“Why are you crying?”

Calia spun to find Iago behind her and the silverware flew off the tray.

“Easy, girl,” he chided. “What‘s the matter?”

“Everything!” she bawled. “I have to sew his stupid shirts and I do not know—”

“Hush,” he said harshly. “You mustn’t speak of anything he asks of you.”

Her tears paused. “But you are a servant too.”

He shook his head. “But not
his
servant. Our king holds his privacy dear. You would do well never to speak of him to us.”

She nodded her head but did not understand.

Iago gave a gentle smile. “How are your hands today?”

They had not bothered her at all and she only remembered then that they had been injured. “They are fine,” she said with surprise.

“I’ll come look at them again tonight,” he promised, placing new silverware on the tray. “And I know Abelina will stop in to see you as well.”

She wanted to cry again but at least there were a few kind souls haunting the terrible palace. With that thought she was able to force her way back up to the Cold Kings rooms.

Calia set the king’s tray down exactly as he had instructed and resumed her spot back in the chair. Her mind wandered as her fingers worked. Who was so rich, so not wanting for anything that their silk shirts had to be double thick?

As she worked she worried. Calia had never had anything so fine and wondered how angry the king would be when he realized she wouldn’t be able to replicate such perfect work.

But still she sat in the chair while he scribbled furiously and tried to piece together why and how the shirt was fashioned.

The tiny muscles in her fingers were cramped and her vision blurry before he finally spoke. “You are excused for the evening.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and dumped everything from her lap into the basket.

“Manners!” he reminded her sharply. She struggled to rise gracefully from the chair on numb legs and hobbled over to his desk.

“Can I get you anything before I leave? Your Majesty,” she added hastily.

“No, thank you,” he said and waved her away. “Stop,” he suddenly commanded.

She turned around slowly, afraid of what he would say. Most likely it would be something disparaging about her looks or lack of grace, but he surprised her. “Through the patio of the west wing there is a private yard. You are never to go there. Ever.”

Calia opened her mouth and he glared through the slits of his glittering mask.

She could not help it; she rushed for the door and slammed them shut behind her.

In the room she had barely begun to think of as hers she stripped off the claustrophobic dress and dove at the bathtub, flipping the handles until hot water poured out. She had to ease herself in and even then she knew she would be an angry shade of red when she got out.

Nothing was right and nothing made sense but she hadn’t been hurt this day and was still free to indulge in the most glorious thing she had ever felt.

Water closed in over her head as she sunk down. What did he want? For her to sew his fancy shirts? It did not sound like a lot but she did not think she could spend eternity trapped in that room with him trying to complete perfection in the form of a garment.

Calia broke the surface and experimented with all the little bottles lining the edge of the tub. For a slave it seemed she was well kept. The thought made her stomach turn but part of her could not help but think what she would be doing if she were home. She would just be starting the dishes after stoking the fire and heating the water. Her hands would soon be water logged and sore and yet the pile still had to be done. At home, bedtime would be a long way off if she had any hopes of getting all her chores done and not earning a beating. At home, sleep would mean sharing an itchy straw mattress with her sister and listening to her mother snore.

Calia was already soundly asleep in her bed when Iago and Abelina came.

They peered at her from the door, watching her sweet face twitch in the moonlight.

“She seems to be all right,” Abelina whispered.

“She’s very strong,” Iago whispered back.

“I just worry for her, being stuck so close to him.”

The gardener put a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be alright. Maybe she’ll even be the one.”

Abelina sighed. “There is no ‘one’. This curse will never end.”

“Maybe not,” Iago replied. “But he should not have to spend eternity alone as the Cold King. And she is so very different from all the rest.”

Abelina gave a sad nod before turning from the doorway.