An 11-year-old Nia scrubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of sticky brown something on the kitchen floor. The bristles of the brush made a rhythmic shushing noise that she could sometimes turn into music! Sort of. And only when she was sure Mrs. Nesta was not around. She did not want to sit through a repeat of the ‘taking your duties seriously’ lecture.

Nia did not see why she could not do both – the percussive scritch of the brush had to have some rhythm, and a fun one would make the task go by more quickly. Nia did not mind the task so much. Lili and Myfi were the other two scullery maids, and they were busy washing the dishes from lunch.

Nia pulled a face just thinking about it. She hated touching old food. On the plate it was fine, but as soon as the meal was done, it gave her the shivers. She still remembered the first few times she had tried doing dishes. The instant she started touching the leftover food on the plate, something strange had happened to the air. It was like the air did not work anymore, like all the good and pure and life-giving parts of it had been taken away, leaving Nia to gasp and suck down dead air through a throat that was trying to close up.

Nia had to pause in her scrubbing, as a faint echo of that sensation tightened in her chest. She angrily pushed it down and redoubled her efforts. She wracked her brain as to where that might have come from. She saw Mr. Steffan acting like the air did not work for him once. It was when one of the hounds got loose from the kennels and decided to beg the kitchen staff for treats. Mr. Steffan started breathing fast and yelling and had to drink three mugs of mulled wine to calm down.

Nia had wondered why, but Mr. Steffan did not seem to like her very much, and she did not want to push her luck with him. Still, she had seen scars on his legs once. They looked like bite marks. So maybe, if someone has a bad experience with something, it laid a curse on that person, to rip the air from their lungs when they run into that thing?

Except that made no sense for Nia. She had no traumatic experience, no time that a curse could have set in. And how would dirty dishes give someone a curse anyway?

Nia’s vision swam as she was overtaken by a memory that was not hers.

“Erica you need to be more careful!” Daddy was yelling, his eyes wide with more fear than she had ever seen. Her eyes were blurry from tears and hot from her fever. His fists were clenched tight against the glass that separated them. She had long gotten used to the odd echo to their voices from being transmitted both through the glass and the intercom. She pressed the intercom button.

“I’m sorry daddy.”

“You need to be smarter than this! The doctors are working on helping you, but until then, one mistake-“ He choked off the end of this sentence, turning around, away from me. Daddy did not like to let me see him cry.

She was crying openly. She was afraid. At first, it was fear because Daddy was yelling, and Daddy never yelled. Then, slowly, the creeping realization of why he was afraid overtook that.

Erica looked down at the dirty plate she had left on her desk. She looked at the mistake that could have killed her.

She wept.

Nia squinted her eyes shut, wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her servants’ uniform. The visions happened every now and then. They were moments of another life, intrusions that made her feel off-balance and uncertain. They were not her memories, but they felt like hers. The terror of the dirty plate had felt like Nia’s terror. The man that Ni- Erica had talked to through the strange device felt more like a father than Lord Lewys ever had.

Nia squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the tears. She was Nia. Nia. Her mother was Rhoswen, former Lady of the Aberoedd Barony. Her father was Lord Lewys, and he would never be that scared for her.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Nia was startled out of her reverie by the heavy kitchen door banging open. The kitchen servants were eating their own lunch, the household and upper servants having eaten already. Nia was alone in the kitchen, the only sounds up until this point had been her brush, the splashing of her bucket of water, and the crackling of the kitchen hearth.

A boy stomped into the kitchen, his fine blue clothes rumpled and sporting bits of his lunch. Nia - still reeling from her out-of-body experience - looked up at him.

“Owen?”

He stiffened, a peacock whose ruffled feathers have been insulted. Some fading remnant of Erica wondered if he practiced his ‘The Young Master’ shtick in the mirror.

“Servant, when your Lord enters the room, you will stand and curtsy.” He had a slightly imperious air, that he immediately ruined by stomping a foot. Nia shook herself, then sprang to her feet and offered a shallow curtsy.

Owen stomped up to her. They were about the same height, though he was a year younger.

“I don’t care if you are father’s bastard. You are still a servant, and you aren’t my sister. You are the least important person in this house, and I am the second most important.”

He glared at her until she dropped her gaze.

“Yes, my Lord”

“Good. Now. Bring me a marzipan cake.”

Nia started to move, then stopped herself. She cast an eye over the lordling. He stood tall, or as tall as he could. Something about his eyes, though. He looked around, and then glared at her.

“Hurry up!”

Nia shrugged and went into the pantry. The Marzipan cakes were made once a month by the best baker in Cysgod. They were expensive, and there were few of them. When Nia dragged the stepstool over to the correct shelf, there were four little Marzipan cakes wrapped in cloth.

Nia stood on her tiptoes to bring one down. It almost fell, but she managed to catch it. Placing it on a lower shelf on the sack of speckled white beans, Nia climbed down.

“Servant. Now!”

Nia rolled her eyes and put the stool away. She was glad that the little lordling would never deign to enter the pantry. Retrieving the cake, she returned to the kitchen.

Nia handed the bundle of pink cloth over to Owen just as Mrs. Nesta returned from her lunch. Mrs. Nesta was an older woman, aging gracefully through middle age. The first tendrils of grey were creeping into her brown bun.

“Oh? What’s this then, young Master?”

Owen froze in the middle of trying to hide it behind his back. Nia opened her mouth to reply, but Owen glared at her to shut it again. She ignored him.

“I was just fetching a marzipan cake for Lord Owen at his request.”

His glare turned thunderous.

“Oh? I’m sure that can’t be, little Nia. After all, his Lordship instructed that young Master Owen was not to have sweets for the next two days.”

Owen avoided her piercing blue gaze, a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“So I am sure that young Master Owen would not come to the kitchen when he knew I would be at lunch to make the scullery maid get a marzipan cake for him.”

Nia’s eyes widened. He had come then on purpose? The scheming little toad!

“After all, he would never want to disappoint his father, would he?” Mrs. Nesta’s voice was casual, but her gaze was piercing. Owen fidgeted, then his eyes lit up with an idea. He whipped the marzipan cake out in front of him and examined it like he had never seen it before. Nia privately thought that the sniff was overacted.

“A marzipan cake? Stupid servant.” He stomped over to Nia and shoved the bundle into her hands. “I asked for a cheese bun, and you give me a marzipan cake? Go get me a cheese bun!”

Nia frowned at him, then looked over to Mrs. Nesta.

“No you didn’t? He ordered me to get you a Marzipan cake.”

Owen swelled to yell but Mrs. Nesta cut in.

“We can make you some cheese buns for breakfast tomorrow, young Master Owen.”

Owen glared at Nia, then spun on his heel and flounced out.

“I didn’t- He asked for a-“ Mrs. Nesta cut her off. Nia’s face burned with impotent outrage.

“I know.” She shook her head. “Go put it back and bring me the potato basket.”

Nia did so. When she returned, Mrs. Nesta was overseeing two kitchen maids in collecting the correct cookware.

“Nia, come here.” Mrs. Nesta waited for Nia. “When a noble and a servant disagree, the noble’s word is always correct. It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid, it doesn’t matter if he is clearly lying. The noble’s word wins out. Whatever else you are, you are a servant.” Her words were not said unkindly. Nia felt tears welling up but blinked them away.

“Why does he hate me?”

“Not my place to say.” Mrs. Nesta inspected the potatoes, then handed the basket to one of the kitchen maids. “Lyn, get those chopped up and in the pot. Even chunks, this time. Remember to measure with your finger alongside the blade.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nesta.”

Nia fidgeted, waiting for either more advice or a dismissal. The burn of tears receded. Eventually, Mrs. Nesta turned to her.

“Finish up here, put away the dishes that the girls cleaned, and then we’ll call it done for the day, hmm? I think Ms. Rhoswen mentioned having time to teach you tonight.”

Inwardly, Nia grimaced. Etiquette lessons. Joy.

Outwardly, she curtsied to the older woman.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nesta.”