There were three very simple things Chandler wanted in her life: money, power, and to stop being assigned to laundry duty. Her hands were bright red and cracking from swirling skirts around in steaming vats of soap and putting them on the line to dry. She often felt woozy from the fumes, but the minute she stepped outside to clear her head, the head maid would infailibly walk in, demerit her, and assign her even more clothes to wash. There was no winning, only sweating and steam frizzled hair.

This had not been Chandler's plan. Sick of her village not getting any money for infastructure projects, she had decided to get a job at the ducal manor two towns away, where she would wheedle away at the lords with her winsome presence and convince them to build bridges at some very specific locations along the Purple River that she felt would greatly improve industry in the dutchy. She had expected a few months of working her way up in the ranks, but it had now been six months in the estate and she was still elbow deep in the laundry vats.

'It sucks in there,' her neighbor Emmaline had told her. 'There's good reason why I decided to quit and return to Streamfield.'

'I'm built different,' Chandler had replied, and slid into the open spot in the castle with Emmaline's backing. The pay was better than anything offered in Streamfield, meals and lodging were provided, and Chandler would have an opportunity to rub shoulders with all the barons and princes who frequented the estate. Except the beds were lumpy cots with straw poking through the sheets, the food was just potatoes all day every day, and maybe some broth leftover from the noble dinners, and nobody important ever came to the laundry room.

Her only consolation was that her coworkers' gossip network was wildly entertaining.

"I swear I'm not lying. I swear. It was Monica that Prince Jonathan has been making out with in his bedroom. Why do you think she got moved to the east wing of the estate? It's not because she's any use at tidying up, that's for sure."

"I thought Monica got moved to the east wing because she spilled the mop bucket in the foyer right before that horse breeders conference?" Lottie replied.

"No, I'm absolutely positive that it was because she and Prince Jon have been hooking up. The girl's tits were practically bursting out of her dress," Lydia continued. Chandler didn't believe a word she was saying. Lydia was always trying to invent scandals, she was convinced the head maid and butler's antagonistic relationship was due to a secret affair. It was not. It was because the head butler always insisted on having an unecessary amount of maids at the door instead of having them do their tasks.

Chandler looked around the room, finding no head maid in site. She dipped her hands out of the water, patted them dry on her skirts, and slithered over to the folding table.

"Monica's been moved out of the foyer? Do we know who's replacing her?" she asked.

Imagine: Chandler is mopping the foyer. She does an actually good job. A lower ranked baron comes over and goes, 'wow, these floors sure are shiny! my horseshit covered shoes feel honored to be here!' and then Chandler would poke her head in and humbly say, 'thank you.' The somehow she would turn the conversation towards bridges. Maybe how bridges are good for horses? She'd think of a way. This would merely be the first step in her inevitable success in enacting the bridge agenda.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

But Lottie shook her head. "No dice Chandler, they moved Susan out of the kitchen to replace her."

"And Susan's spot?"

"One of the cook's nieces took it."

Chandler scowled darkly and retreated back to removing fancy shirts from the laundry tub and hanging them on the line.

"Well I'm looking to move up to the north tower," said Lydia.

"What, they're hosting another equestrian resident?"

"You don't know?"

Lydia saw the confusion on Lottie's face and paused her folding dramatically.

"I can't believe you don't know. It's all anyone's been talking about!"

"Lydia. Just tell me."

"Oh my god!!!" Lydia squealed, clasping her hands in excitement. "I get to tell you something for once!"

Chandler's hands were poised above the tub, listening intently.

"The duke's aunt died!"

"The one who raised him?"

"Yes!!! They're hosting a MASSIVE funeral, absolutely massive. Everyone's been in uproar preparing, I mean, the banquet alone is going to be SPLENDID."

"Is that why this is all black?" Chandler asked, lifting up a soaked specimen of some black overcoat.

"Hold on," said Lottie. "If we're about to get hundreds of guests, how much laundry are we going to get?"

"Think of the drama of it all!" Lydia exclaimed. "All these people sobbing, mourning, emotions running high, people who need a shoulder to cry on..."

"Snot. Snot on the overcoats. Booger encrusted shoulderpads. More scrubbing."

"They need more maids helping out with this? You said you're moving up to the north tower... do they have more spots?"

"Chandler honey, I'm sorry, but I think you're just going to spend even more time in here," said Lottie. "But you might be able to take Lydia's spot at the folding table."

Ah yes. The joys of folding. A step up from puckered palms and smelling like laundry detergent all day, but nowhere near where Chandler wanted to be. She didn't have time to waste on menial tasks like this. Yes, she was only sixteen, but she was going to finish this bridge thing before her nameday if it killed her. That was less than two years from now. And at this rate, she was going to be stuck in laundry for another decade. And if there was one thing her uncle had taught her, it was that large scale infastructure projects (such as bridges) can take a decade or more to reach completion.

The last of the clothes were on the line, and the water was getting cold. Chandler sighed, and walked over to the birdbone pump to pour some hot water into a bucket to dump in the tub.

It was somewhat frustrating that the castle and surrounding area was able to have the latest in boneware heating technology, while everyone else a few miles out was still stuck burning peat and corpses to keep things warm. Chandler was grateful in how it made her job easier, but her job was to take care of nobles, so it felt counterproductive to her goals of industrializing the dutchy. Being this far west, there wasn't much but struggling farms and ranches. Maybe the occasional vineyard or dairy, but nothing capitalizing on the new advances of blood powered engines. She had spent years flipping through the magazines her uncle's friends out east mailed him, and they lived in a completely different world. Able to travel hundreds of miles in a day, mill grains into enough flour for everyone to have sweetcakes, even construct buildings with dozens of stories. There was no reason why they couldn't have that in Horace either.

Chandler's uncle had allowed her to clip our her favorite articles, illustrations of the belching trains and sacks of flour. She had them pasted into a little notebook she now kept under her lumpy mattress, and flipped through whenever her hands started bleeding from work and she thought about going home. That book was her goal. That's what Streamfield would look like someday.

She just had to will it into reality.