"What did you say, Miss Lucy?"

"I said I wished the sky paid my bills!"

"Really? If that set Durrell off, she must've been very tired, indeed." The scullery exploded in laughter.

Strictly appointed at a copper sink, Lucy eyed the arduous chore of china after china before splashing foam off her pruney fingers and stepping into a thin sleet of water below its duckboard platform.

"Can I take five?" She bellowed in earnest, a hint of anger accentuating each vowel. "My hands are aching."

"Nobody takes zero," A young scullion, no less than 13, replied, slushing about the murky surface with plenty plates to spare. "Until supper at 3, there's no shortage of grime or sludge to scrub!"

So, boxed into admission, Lucy took to examining her surrounding: an apt terracotta flooring which, with the constant rush of dirty water, appeared wenge brown; a space made to capaciously account for bustling denizens—a rarity for any scullery; and plenty, sturdy pieces of equipment sounding hard against each other—pots, fricandeau pans, and fish kettles enacting a cacophonous production.

All in all, Incessant chaos steamed hot, attempting to mask the extortive undertow of young labourers crammed within its wet abyss, which even its veneer of luxury couldn't hide—being largely the reason for Lucy's impaired productivity.

"By God! It's a metal hell." Rarely did she enter the scullery during her 5 years of service. So, while everyone else moved with schooled familiarity through the steel implements, she staggered, bearing a passing resemblance of a wounded predator aiming for its unsuspecting prey.

"Jenna!" Lucy yelped. "Can I help over here?". A nervous stammer swiftly refluxed at the girl's cynical gawk. "W-with the d-drying?"

"Miss."

"Yes?"

"You wished the sky paid your bills, right?"

Was this a trick question? "Yes. That's correct," Lucy replied in earnest, unwavering in her childish fervor.

"Well, it won't," The girl's face turned sour. "And it can't. So, respectfully, stop weighing the rest of us down with you."

Although spoken conscientiously, each word prodded Lucy's chest with tinges of despair and plenty reality—having been accustomed to disparage and vitriol long before this world, for a younger girl to serve it hot churned her insides. How worldly at such a tender age. And how foolish she must've seemed. To Matilda... to Theresa, and... even though she didn't want to admit it, Durrell, as well.

"Wish, was the keyword, Jenna," Lucy solemnly returned to her charge. Every douse and desiccation of water quickened her mind, desperate to retrace where she'd begun inching out of line. Maybe it was after getting away with securing a coach?... or had it been the stranger who'd assisted incited such emotions, subsequent to the sentimental chat with Theresa.

Glancing back at the girl, Lucy found the obvious conclusion. Such is life: scrubbing with no end, capitulating to others' will, running here and there for less than 20 mercs a year. And that the thrilling possibilities of escaping the hapless cycle in which life revolved around... that wanting more than she deserved was truly as dangerous as it seemed.

An apprehensive roll of a dice called fate is the be-all or end-all; being tossed out unto the mercy of back street alleys, picking scraps in lieu of meals, pickpocketing until one's forced into harlotry since respectable trades were reserved solely for men.

She wouldn't subject that young girl—or herself—to such suffering and justify weary fingers for a fate worse than death; which is candidly paradise in comparison. She had to get her act together. "I've got to get my act together—"

"Miss Lucy!"

Catching Theresa skip into the suffocating vicinity, straight to her side, her mood instantly chippered. "Sweet Merthingham! A familiar face!"

"Dignity in all labour, huh?

"How is serving their noble migraines treating you, Tyrone?"

"It becomes increasingly boring." The whimsy companion (tried) settling beside the sink, resolved in executing the impossible mission of leaving a scullery spick, span, and dry. "Seeing so much lavishness after being tucked away is, I must say, ironically underwhelming."

Lucy heaved as she settled a silver salver on a dry worktop. "Not surprised."

"However..." In seeing some slight satisfaction lift her rigid lips, Theresa tacked on a sly remark. "Were I the one doing more of the reveling and less of the serving..."

Enjoyment? "Tyrone, what are you doing down here?" Lucy shot down the thought, vision, and longing immediately. Fresh wounds did not exactly heal with extra salt.

"I am but a humble paperboy." Who, unlike somebody, is very generous with my details, she wanted to add. "I have news to report."

Sarcasm riddled Lucy's response. "Magnanimous of you."

Foam danced off her fingers into the lethal embrace of air; some landing on Theresa's uniform, which she quickly patted dry with a piqued scowl. Lucy riposted with an unimpressed stare that read: Dry? Seriously? In here of all places? Therefore forcing Theresa to soldier on, ignoring her lame conversationist.

"The second prince was seen chatting it up with some grotesque wallflower in the ballroom," deep heaves escaped her thin lips. "Merthingham help us all if he chooses to pursue her. Her mother especially; extremely cruel, self-indulgent and comes from a cowardly, ill-reputable line of Marquises."

"Grotesque?"

Weren't wallflowers simply "plain" or" unexciting", Lucy thought.

"Yes, Miss Lucy, grotesque. A nonpareil beauty in youth—the duchess however much her kin is otherwise."

"Oh." Even in the rare case of borderline ugly, "grotesque" was never a term readily used unless she was a yeti or some supernatural creature. Someone uglier than herself? "Interesting." It'd pique any sane person's interest.

"Lilith's was her name... or was it Belinda? Oh, bother! Even I wouldn't cross out the rumors of curses from her checklist of ruination. Plus, how would our future highness look were the prince spellbind!"

"As in, she is outlandish, or..." Curiosity overcame her. "Or she is queer—in Merthinian standards, of course."

"From all I've reported, a selective adjective bothers you the most?"

Her prickly conversationist semi-corrected herself with cold fervor—"I meant to ask how it concerns me!" The reason being: denying gossip was borderline denying bread and wine below stairs, and she couldn't do that! Even if the topic of conversation ardently disquieted one's heart rate, entertainment was entertainment. Especially when it touches aristocrats; one could hardly find fault in amusing themselves with their curated angelic lives that really hid malicious, scheming, and sinful secrets.

"To whom it may concern," Theresa paused to accentuate before continuing her story. "She, the fiend, had crone-paired eyes, is rounder than we put together, and portly-er than a gnome to say the least. The second prince isn't known for taking interest in fine-bred, aristocratic ladies, parading, eh, rather sinful tastes. Do you think—"

"Again, how is this my problem?"

"Miss Lucy, you are so—" Theresa bit her tongue. "I am trying to build up to the aggravating part." That revived Lucy's interest. "The vile lady we helped 2 days ago, turns out she's the second prince's mistress!"

"Shocker," Lucy's shoulders slouched with pristine dissatisfaction.

"Not shocker! She came back."

"What?" They leaped back up.

"Walked into the ballroom, gave me a fright and everything!" Scanning the perimeter for listening ears, Theresa drew closer. "After struggling to get a coach she thinks she can just parade in here like nothing happened. We broke rules, Miss Lucy! We broke rules!"

Lucy's silence was frightening. She was never a silent kind.

"So... eh, you and Madam Durrell."

"This isn't permanent. It's just for one night." she resumed drying.

"Forgive me for holding doubts out on that one."

"And you mean what by that?"

"Miss Lucy, Durrell's pissed. Like, as in, very pissed." That hadn't convinced her, however; Durell was always pissed. "Her eyes are bloodshot."

"They're always bloodshot."

"They're bloodshot-er!"

Yep! She believed it now. "I'm so dead."

"You are!"

"What am I going to do?"

"I, unfortunately, have no answers for that."

"That bitch came back to ruin me!"

"W-what?" Theresa almost fell over from shock. "We are talking about the same person, right?"

"I didn't take her to be such a heel! She was so keen on running away—there was adamant, tenacious passion in her eyes when she'd ordered me to fetch that carriage!" Forgetting to dry her hands, Lucy grasped hard on her friend's shoulders. "Why would a woman, desperate to leave a person, suddenly return to that dire situation, Theresa?"

"My uniform! These are the most expensive fittings I've worn in my life and they're not even mine!"

"Oh, confound it! I have to go!"

"Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy, you can't!"

Loosening her apron and tossing her mob cap, "Why's that?" she asked. "I risk expulsion either way—the plates aren't going anywhere; I'll have them finished by tonight!"

"Merthingham above—Miss Lucy!" Theresa quickly raced out the door. "You'll be dead, not just removed at this rate!"

_ _ _

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