"David!"

"David! Come, we need your help!"

"David!"

The second footman saw two females beckoning him with flailing arms; females whom he did not know nor have to comply with because they were mere young maids. Pulling into his direct vision was someone he couldn't help noticing, however, as he returned to his charge. Theresa Tyrone; a chippy, young maid of six-and-ten with brownish-red hair, an unruly pair of chocolate eyes that reminded him of his sister, and a vivacious abraded tenor in her voice whenever she got riled up about aristocratic drama... or about him.

"Is there a problem, David?"

He was curious why her urgency required assistance from a footman when stillroom maids usually reported directly to the housekeeper. "No, sir"—but he chose to respond solemnly. The first prince, Eric, whose thinning patience spurred from much more than David not opening a carriage door, huffed his aggravation before entering the vehicle. "Your highness," he bowed, accompanying the ticking-timebomb-of-a-man off at the side seat with a well-polished coachman.

That had terrified Lucy.

"D-do you know any other footmen? Surely David can't be the only one."

"He's the only one I'm close with..." a blush briefly danced across her cheek. "Well, sort of." Theresa could not help but notice panic suffuse Lucy's already dark, desolate disposition—proverbials say eyes were the window to the soul, after all. "Why must we go on this 'adventure', Lucy? Are you in trouble?" A pretty close guess in itself, but not exactly correct.

More than the threat of prince Dedrick capitulating to his mistress' will in an instant, she was more scared of what the witch would do if she ended up staying at the castle any longer. For Lucy, it was better to be rid of anybody or any complications that would place her in danger's way—just one minute with the wicked, old wench ended with a bloody head.

She would be in trouble if she didn't see this illegal nonsense through.

"Does this have to do with the woman lounging in the servants' hall?" Theresa probed for more answers from her secretive senior. "C'mon, we maids can't be seen strolling about the palace! We only work in the shadows—my kind the most! Let's go, we can't loiter in the front hall any longer!"

"What is with you and this 'my kind' garbage!" Lucy snapped at the prattling girl. "We are all the same as far as I'm concerned! Servant," she pointed at Theresa, "Servant!" Then at herself.

"You say that only because you're not me!"

"I'm damn elated not to be!"

"At least you can serve refreshments at afternoon tea, sometimes dinner—the cleaning is just a minor quandary in the grand picture—while I'm stuck in a lame still-room making alcohol, oils, medicines, and damned cosmetics all day! Have you seen my dress? I don't even have a decent uniform!"

"Your job sounds fucking fun, you little prick! I'd jump at the chance to play pretend in a half-kitchen, half-lab in a heartbeat!"

"You get a change of scenery!"

"Tending to these royal asses all day is not at all glam as you think it is!"

"You get a larger pay!"

"You!" Lucy tried to think up a rebuttal, but couldn't. "You... get some of that too... cleaning action... when you're not in the lab."

"I'm not talking about the cleaning! I want to see royal processions, too—"

"You two there!"

Popping out as if she had an unfailing compass which led directly to Lucy irrespective of time, place, continent, and yelling up a storm as she approached, too, was Durrell—the housekeeper. "What are you doing loitering the entrance hall when there is much work to be done! Move it now, or go packing!"

"Go packing again?" Lucy muttered to nobody in particular. It was beginning to sound like a nightingale that wantonly tormented children with nightmares.

Mentally setting that aside in place of apt, much-needed critical thinking skills, she formulated a justifiable excuse in the nick of time. But it needed effectuation by the lovely Theresa. "Tell your chambermaid friend to gather the lady's things secretly and have them moved to the gardens under darkness. I'll take care of this."

Theresa—the lovely's—eyes slimmed with anger.

Lucy was selfishly using her and couldn't bother to say what the whole fiasco was about or talk her through its repercussions. "She won't do it," she conveyed. But Lucy pushed the dubious girl away before the storm approaching from behind could unleash its wrath. "Convince her otherwise!"

It was too late. It had just arrived.

"What seems to be the matter here?"

"Nothing important ma'am. I was just telling Theresa that Vector said it's of paramount importance that Matilda told me how wanting walnut oil is, to tell her—Theresa—to make more olive oil."

"To do what now?"

"She's got the message already. Right, Theresa?"

Her scowl was hidden beneath her drooping head, "Yes, ma'am," but Lucy felt anger sans unrestrained in her docile, subordinate tenor.

"Then best be on your way, girl!" Theresa did as so by the cranky old woman. "And you go help clean up the gardens. Afternoon tea with their royal highnesses is finished."

"Yes, madam Durrell." Lucy swiftly made her way to the gardens, surprised she somehow duped the dour woman but overall excited to remove herself from her presence, quickly finish the task given, and find herself a footman willing to help.

Using designated servant backstairs scattered around the palace, and only cutting into hallways when necessary—royalty took sharing halls with peasants quiet personally—outside, she walked for 20 minutes from the palace building to the event site where maids placed valuable china into cushioned boxes, dusted, footmen dismantled extravagant props, as other's sneakily ate untouched leftovers from the event. Upon examining how cleanup was practically not finished, she deducted that their highnesses probably came and returned with a superfluous amount of coaches to the palace a long time ago—some weird tradition Merthinian queens invented over the centuries to assuage their boredom; showing off their carriages, crests, colts, and everything stable-related.

"Maybe that's why we couldn't find any unengaged coachmen—or footmen. They were helping here... and some will definitely come back after tending to the used carriages."

"You bet!"

Lucy turned around to see a fellow housemaid.

"It took us a week to set this whole scene up in preparation for the princess; of course, we'll need the help moving it back."

"They sure love to spend lavishly, don't they?"

"Like crazy, too," the maid agreed, and Lucy concurred with subdued laughter. "Personally, I think they should be investing coin in the army instead. I heard the North just took over Sewithia and are advancing to Merthingham faster than expected. Crypton will be next if Alledore falls."

"They're that close?"

Hope grappled with certitude over the woman's features as she agreed. "The continent is calling them 'mighty and unstoppable'."

"Unstoppable" could not have been a flattering title. If it touches this perilous predicament, it inexorably spelt an end to everything. Genesis war, which started as rumors six months ago, was charging headfirst for the continent's most unstoppable people; the Merthingham nation. And they seem to be bending under pressure, appeasing the threat's challenge with an arranged marriage instead of showing face, having ruled with a renowned, universally known history.

Merthingham himself was a powerful wizard king who created the continent and established many nations within it, ceasing power at the resourceful, gold-riddled south as his dwelling. His actions accompanied a fervid desire to preserve his linage, his death at age five-and-one hundred was a formal decree made to ensure that the thrown only be passed onto the purest in Merthingham family: both in blood and character. The world thought of Merthingham: the creator of life itself. Because, for centuries, wars would come and go... kingdoms would rise and fall... but his was forever unshakable.

That was, until now.

Marrying to conjoin forces with another kingdom meant weakness and uncertainty in one's strength or abilities. And ever since this marriage got a calendrical date to betide, this Kingdom swiftly became a continental laughing stock, never to revisit its previous glory days.

"We can only pray that our faithful king will help us from above, right?"

"He's dead." The maid gave Lucy a derisive look. "He cannot do anything in the grave. He's rolling in it—we are all doomed."

"And you'll be doomed faster if you don't silence that gutter you call a mouth."

The woman's body froze, only her mouth retaining some form of movement. "Y-Y-You're highness!" She exclaimed, shell-shocked the man had been patiently listening to her besmirchment of a great family name—his great family name. The blonde stranger wore his hair packed up in a ponytail and lounged lazily dressed in a white shirt and green pantaloons. His eyes were a different shade of blue underneath the cover of green leaves; a sea-green of some sort, Lucy noticed again. Hers was always black despite locations or lightings.

"I shall ignore this once, but I won't be as merciful if I so hear of a repeat."

"Yes, your highness! Thank you, your highness!" The woman sprinted for dear life, like her making a deal with the devil never even happened.

"And as for you," climbing down nonchalantly from his position atop an old oak tree, his attention dawned on Lucy. "Come with me."

_ _ _

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