The kitchen staff couldn't give Matilda any plausible answers because no one ever knew where Lucy was most of the time. Maids went wherever they were needed anyways. And it wasn't that they held a grudge against her, but because, despite her chatty eccentricity, there was no other reason to be solicitous about Lucy Auclair.

She looked like most everybody else—every other commoner, to be exact—so telling her apart from a crowd was a special skill in itself. Plus, she was usually a punctual person who need not much supervision or reprimands to acquit herself accordingly with her service—most of the time.

Practically every staff bellowed impersonal truths in a meshed array of noise, proceeding a fellow maid who attended afternoon tea's clean-up. "I think Fanny," the housemaid who Deidrick had sterned earlier, "Said the second prince took her away in a nasty temperament. She barely escaped the savage duress herself"—Fanny. "Poor Lucy."

"A scolding?"

"I'm here! I'm here!" Her hair was a stringy, palpable wet; passably presentable, but barely managing to cover signs of hastened scamper. Her uniform was freshly washed, ironed, and starched, meaning it must have been her second pair, Matilda took notice.

What exactly had she gotten herself into after leaving that afternoon? "Da second prince scolded ya?"

"It's really not important."

"Matilda, where do I take these?" A subordinate approached, seeing as things had resolved themselves. Then several other demands ensued, also.

"Excuse me! My Lords are wondering when the young master's dinner plates are to arrive."

"Mine too. He cannot consume meaty meals, however; been awfully picky about raising awareness for animal cruelty. He will create a scene otherwise."

"Pardon me, but my ladyship requests someone heat up her room during dinner before she turns in! She has been suffering a dreadful cold recently, you see. Can I speak to the Housekeeper?"

A number of lady maids, governesses, square valets, and companions who chaperoned respective families crowed over the kitchen corridor.

"The dining hall is packed and the second-course meals need cleaning. Mr. Valingo," the butler, "Needs to borrow some more of your girls; five, if that's alright with you. We best transition swiftly," Mrs. Durrell imperiously bellowed her way through the clustered throng of bodies shouting their urgent requests.

"I will go help."

"And we'll talk later," Matilda told Lucy who had volunteered amidst the chaos, getting back to work. "Have at 'em! Four only, 'owever!"

"That will do fine," Durrell settled. "The ensuite ball will begin shortly after," pushing in some more and eyeing the room for eligible participants, "I've been assigned accounting for its various light refreshments," she subtly probed the kitchen staff; neither directly at Matilda or indirectly at Victor, the head Royal chef who was far off cooking in the corner. It was already a palpable insult the royal highnesses gave him—hiring a foreign chef to take charge of dinner preparations—but it wasn't one's position to question the authority of those outside (or above) one's work station, as there were hierarchies withstanding to uphold. This applied to Durrell herself.

"Everything's as 'er majesty requested—truffles, petit fours, and all dat."

"Very well," she turned to usher the compiled maids to where they were needed. Although higher in position to the royal cook, compassion failed to elude her senses. "I'm sure they will all be exceedingly scrumptious. Right along girls."

Escaping the tumult behind and moving into a sparsely populated passage, the girls lined up according to class—such was the way of life—so Elizabeth Durrell could better inspect each respective fingernail, glove, uniform, mobcap, personal hygiene, and most importantly, the maids' nimble preparedness. If anything were to go wrong or servants failed to look their best or exhibited the slightest form of nerves, not only would their majesties reputation tank amongst their peers but the house name would be sullied extensively as well.

"Teeth," she told a younger girl, three down from Lucy—"It'll do"—then took to bombarding her with swift queries of public conduct.

This part of the job, especially as the housekeeper, was vital to venerate the Royal family's perpetual pride and create a collective sense of dignified servitude. Lucy, however, had a menacing feeling that she would dismantle the whole thing on its axis tonight when, confoundedly, Durrell's renowned eagle eyes missed the jutting gauze that had slipped out of place on the run over behind her humid, sparse locks.

Truthfully, she wanted to avoid working in the hectic kitchens—that is why she opted to clear dinner plates instead. Irrespective of inexorable tongue-lashing, it was much preferred to requests like helping beggarly scullery maids; their jobs were clear-as-day what people called nightmares.

So, for better or worse, Lucy ended up tottering plates to and from the kitchen and dining hall, and conveniently wasn't allowed to enter its ornate vicinity. It didn't irk her—she wasn't particularly itching to be caught, throbbing and ill at ease, neither did she feel like subjugating herself to opulent, self-declared peers. But she was eerily downcast not being able to snag a sparing glance of the gallant Sir Eli.

"How lucky they are," being able to dine beside him. He had told her earlier to address him as so, promulgating that "Elijah" was far too formal and outré seeing as everyone else kindled little fancy for his first name. She was basically on much the same level with everyone else; the intimate nickname being very impersonal.

"To eat?" Theresa, beside her, asked.

Well, no. Not at all, actually, Lucy allowed her thought to run-on undividedly. Even nursling babies knew it was degrading to like a maid when recently appointed and esteemed by his royal majesty himself. That aid and benign display from earlier was simply a gentleman's conduct. Knights were supposed to be chivalrous after all.

"The jelly pudding smelled absolutely heavenly, I suppose," Theresa continued, refusing to welcome the hasty silence. "And also the marbled beef tenderloin sent in from Crypton... some foreign oysters made an appearance, too... now, they very much are lucky!"

Lucy barely spared Theresa a taste of acknowledgment. "Hm." She got up.

"Where are you going? You haven't told me how you solved that vice woman's issue!"

"I didn't."

"Who then did?"

"The knight," Lucy pointed in a vague direction, hoping it was close enough to the dining hall. "Sir Elijah, I believe."

"The Sir Eli?"

"I'd heard of him—yes, him—but I didn't think he could easily disparage a precarious frontier to attend the royal wedding."

"Isn't he needed at the salient eastern lines?"

"I'd implied just as much—"

"What did he do? How did he do it? When did this happen? Spill it all out already!"

"After," Lucy scurried off down the backstairs. "We need to get back to work else madam Durrell's blood pressure might hit a new record today."

"You're right," she finally settled, "But I want every nitty-gritty detail, alright?"

"That will be at my discretion. Remember your place, would you." Just great. The hieratical hymns were beginning to get to her head. "Y-you know what I mean."

"You're stingy, Miss Lucy!"

She didn't mean to, she thought as they turned themselves into a corner at an incoming aristocrat. Unless currently servicing them, you were required to be invisible while avoiding them.

"When they said they needed more people, I thought it meant I would be able to serve in person. Why didn't you?" Theresa revved the brusque conversation again as they turned a corner into the south wing where the servant quarters were situated. "Aren't parlor maids allowed to serve in place of or with footmen?"

"I thought she hadn't seen my bandage," Lucy propped a finger at her forehead. "I was very wrong."

"Trust her eagle eyes," Theresa shrugged. "What a dastardly woman; fettering our chances of first-person viewership."

"You mean yours."

"You do not fancy viewing dear Sir Eli?"

That stumped Lucy. "Ours it is." Then Theresa prattled on some more.

"I heard from a friend of a friend"—Another questionable friend? Lucy thought—"That prince Eric"—that must be the first prince she hadn't had the pleasure of meeting. Hopefully, he would be more charming than his counterpart—"And princess Cecilia's chemistry wasn't there at all."

"Surely that couldn't be a requirement for world peace."

"Of course it isn't," Theresa eyed Lucy, horror-stricken and completely missing the humor of the statement. "They will marry, love or no love because the continent depends on it," She turned her face away. "But it would've been nice to know that they sought comfort in one another. Since one can not live out one's romantic endeavors—"

"You mean, you cannot live out your romantic endeavors."

"Have you never fancied a man?"

Again, Lucy was stumped. "Okay... 'one's' it is."

"Since one can not live out one's romantic endeavors, it's a shame those who can fail to hang unto it."

"'it?'"

She turned again; astonishment: the emotion clouding her features. "Love. Love, Miss Lucy. Have you never experienced its bliss?"

Bliss? That wasn't the appropriate word for her type of love.

Ashley's Stevenson's 9th-grade crush rejected her because he couldn't take the responsibility of dating (highly unlikely, but marrying, also) a deaf girlfriend. And Lucy Auclair certainly couldn't wish for better luck, seeing as she inborn as a far-from-fortuitous maid.

Love for her was not "bliss".

"My love acts as a poison in disguise."

_ _ _

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