The Cumbrian palace, built in the year of our Good Lord 1011, was 106 feet wide with approximately 2,108,555 square feet. It had three gardens: central, back, and main. Two supplied the kitchen staff with what they needed; the other consisted of a multitude of flowers—roses, daisies, marigolds, the like.

With three hundred and fifty servants, including thirteen thousand ladies and gentlemen of the royal court, the place was hardly empty. Equipped with seven hundred and fifty rooms, staff and hired help occupied the lower quarters. The basement, which was located at the bottom of the palace and one of the oldest structures, was one spot that very few went down to retrieve an item. Forgotten by the royal Cumbrian inhabitants, it sat covered in cockroaches, spiders, and mouse droppings. A stack of moldy books sat in the corner, the pages glued together and the printed ink blurry and inaccessible to the eye.

Filled with mostly empty crates and dust covered barrels, a wet, earthly scent wrapped around the stale air. When it rained, water dripped down from the ceiling, causing moss and algae to form on the uneven stone and brick walls.

* * * * * * *

“John?” The heavy knock on the door was muffled, echoey. “John, I need you to open the door. You’ve been in that room for ages.”

The doorknob twisted and turned.

“I can’t find the key, darling.” The voice faltered. “I’m going to write a letter and send for the physician. You remember Dr. Crowsley, yes? He will be here by boat in three days.”

The Cumbrian ruler did not look up, not even at the sound of Gloria’s persistent tone. He sat in a large washbasin, the warm water murky and gray. Soap bubbles clung to his flesh and hair. His eyes were bloodshot, and he buried his head in his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. His ears were ringing excessively, and the throbbing in his head intensified. His study was a blur of colors.

”Talk to me,” Gloria pleaded. “Please. Your mother is worried sick. And so am I. And the children, too. Please, just open the door.”

It had been three months since John had set foot outside the palace walls. He hadn’t slept, or eaten anything really, besides the cups of wine he sipped on throughout the evenings. He had the servants leave them outside of the door. He furiously began to scrub at his flesh until it bled and the water grew pink.

“John!”

He tried to open his mouth, but not a single word would come out. Eventually, the banging on the door stopped—he could hear the queen’s footsteps retreat down the hallway.

He closed his eyes.

* * * * * * *

Elsie wearily carried the tray up the sixth flight of stairs, her face coated in sweat. It weighed heavily down upon her arms: minced pies, jams, biscuits, and a large pot of steaming tea. Balancing it on her hip, she reached the door at the edge of the hallway and rapidly knocked her foot upon the carved door.

“Who is it?”

”Tea, your Grace,” she replied.

There was an abrupt sigh, before the door opened. Thera Tillamore folded her arms and scowled. Her hair, which was usually so elegantly styled, now resembled a squirrel’s nest that hung about her shoulders underneath her crown. A strange odor rose from her stained dress, and her dark blue eyes fell upon the young woman, who gave her a polite curtsy. To Elsie’s surprise, her fingers were bare, as the only jewelry that she wore was the diamond chain around her neck.

”I thought you could use some refreshment.”

“Set it down over there,” Thera said, pointing at her disorganized desk. “And leave me. I have the most terrible headache.”

”Yes’m,” Elsie whispered, stepping into the room. Her fingers were tightly clenched across the tray, turning white at the bone. The heat from the crackling fireplace only made it more difficult for her to breathe. In the corner of her eye, Thera slumped into a wingback chair and watched her with a lingering gaze.

“Elsie.”

She spun around, smoothing out the wrinkles of her skirt. “Yes, your Grace?”

Thera winced in pain and placed a hand against her forehead. “I need more candles for this room. There’s been such a draft coming in from all the rain outside, and I believed I’ve caught cold. Would you be a dear and fetch some from the basement?”

”Candles, your Grace?” Elsie asked. “Do you prefer that I run to the market and get you some fresh ones? The ones down there are probably useless after being—”

”I do not wish to quarrel with you,” Thera snapped. “You stubborn cad. Why do you wish to deny me this request? And hurry, please. These stumps are about to go out.”

The young woman bit her tongue. “Forgive me, your Grace. It would take but a moment.”

Thera sighed and placed both of her feet upon a patterned stool. “Thank you.”

When Elsie closed the door, she glanced at the hallway. Thunder rumbled from outside, and lightning forked the gray sky. After stretching her back, she yawned and began to make her way down the steps, her shoes echoing against the vast marble floor. Her stomach rumbled. The sooner that she would be able to be done with this, the sooner that she could retire for her noonday meal of potato soup and warm bread. The cook had taken a liking to her; given her double portions for taking on most of the load in the kitchen. She hoped to impress him further.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

The rain began to patter across the windows.

As she finally approached the stairwell leading to the lower level, a strange, unfamiliar scent met her nose. She then lit a candle and shone the light over the steps, hesitating at the pitch darkness below. A frown spread across the young woman’s face. Didn’t they put candles down there for staff as they did with all of the other rooms? How inconsiderate, she thought, quite cross. How inconsiderate, indeed.

She descended down the steps.

* * * * * * *

Six-year old Cassandra Tillamore dragged her jump rope across the ground, picking up her long skirts so that they would not get caught beneath her brand new shoes. She paused to adjust the lopsided jeweled crown that rested on top of her dark brown curls. Mama often got quite cross with her when she engaged in such unladylike things, and she did not want to dirty up her hemline. A proper princess would not want to do anything of the sort. As the youngest triplet, she knew she had to watch and learn by example.

Her sisters had snuck into the kitchen to help themselves to gingerbread and cake. She planned to join them as soon as possible—just as she could skip to a hundred without stopping. Grandmother had given the jump rope to her the previous week. With her cheeks flushed, she had attempted several times, only to make it to twenty-five. She tried to show Mama, but she had noticed her sitting on her bed, sobbing hysterically in her hands.

Charlie was fast asleep in his wooden cradle, peacefully sucking on his hand. He was getting fatter every day, and Cassandra couldn’t help but admire his chubby cheeks and tiny little feet and toenails. More than anything, she enjoyed making him laugh, to see his pink gums.

Mama didn’t seem to notice him. She spent long hours in her room, before going upstairs, then returning, even more shattered than before. She hadn’t held Charlie for a while, and the young princess couldn’t figure out why. Every morning, after the nurse had fed him, Cassandra would sit in the big rocking chair in the parlor and sing to her new baby brother.

She had asked if Papa was on a trip—and when he would be coming back soon. Her mother, through the tears that spilled down her face, gave her a weak smile and cupped the side of her face with a cold hand. She hoarsely whispered, “Soon, poppet. Very soon.”

That had been five days ago. Grownups were very terrible at telling time.

Cassandra exhaled and leaned against the stone brick wall, breathing heavily. One of the guards—the fierce looking man that stood in front of the throne room, was walking down the hallway, his uniform crisp and ironed. He was a favorite in her father’s court—Stephen Gupervinne. Due to him being the tallest person that Cassandra had ever seen, even taller than Papa, he had first intimidated her. But when he spotted her, he stopped, the stern expression on his face quickly disappearing, before deeply bowing.

The young princess stared at him.

”Good afternoon, your Highness.”

Cassandra curtseyed the best way she knew how—the proper way that her grandmother had taught her. Her new shoes were indeed slippery, and the crown on her head had become lopsided again. Frustrated, she pushed it back upon the sweaty mess of curls on her head, causing Stephen to smile.

”I see you are in the middle of a game.”

“ ‘Tis more than a game. I can’t get to a hundred,” she complained. “I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t. I want to go outside and play, but Mama thinks I’ll catch a cold. The floor is too smooth.”

“You best listen to your mother, then,” Stephen said, kneeling down to her level. He chuckled. “And all this needs is just some practice, alright? I believe that you are doing a fine job, Princess. It is no easy task.”

“I’ve never even made it past thirty,” Cassandra replied, folding her arms. “What a lousy number. Anne can do forty in her sleep.”

“Well, could you have reached that number when you first started?”

“No. Before, I couldn’t do even five without getting tired. Or the rope getting tangled.”

Stephen’s eyes twinkled. “Then there’s no point in giving up now, is there? Keep at it. You’re getting better with each passing day.” He reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out a white daisy. “Until the rain stops, you can indeed carry a little bit of the outdoors with you.” He winked. “Here.”

Cassandra smiled as she took the flower. She inhaled its sweet aroma, the soft petals that tickled her nose. She watched as he rose to his feet, tilted his hat at her, and continued down the hallway, his head held high. Grinning, she tucked the daisy in her wild curls and took off running in the opposite direction, her shoes echoing against the floor.

* * * * * * * *

“….thirty-four, thirty-five…”

Jumping rope down the steps was no easy feat, but she wasn’t about to surrender. Her chubby hands gripped the smooth handles.

”…forty, forty-one, forty-two…”

The dim candlelight illuminated the basement hallway, casting her shadow against the stone walls. Cassandra giggled, picking up the pace once she reached the last step. She was so focused on where her feet landed that she hardly noticed the pungent aroma that met her nose, assuming that it came from her flower. She had beaten her sister’s record. Now, she would be very sure to tell her tonight, since Anne had always bragged about doing things better than her anyways.

“…forty-five, forty-six…”

The basement was even hotter than upstairs. It glowed like a furnace; like the cathedral that she had seen in Guadana during Christmas service, with all of its brightly shining lights. Candles were lit in every corner. Cassandra hopped around the wooden crates, skipping her left foot over her right. Behind her, one was spilled over, unlit wax candles spilled upon the ground. Her curls bounced up and down, and her blue eyes were wide with excitement.

”…..fifty…fifty-one…”

The young princess circled around the barrels, before heading up the steps again. Her loud voice filled the humid air, grew dimmer as she hopped upstairs, returning to the main floor. As her figure disappeared from the basement hallway, the lit candlesticks began to flicker, swayed by a gentle wind.

A pool of dark, thick blood stained several of the barrels and crates in the far back left corner of the basement. It soaked the floor and the corner of the walls, painting them in a deep crimson shade that merged well with the swirling shapes and growing algae on the floor. Slowly, cockroaches crawled up from a split crack in the wall, swarming in multitudes. Some attempted to travel through the blood but drowned beneath its inky surface.

One of Elsie’s shoes were missing, leaving her right pale bare foot halfway submerged into the puddle of blood. Her still form, which was slumped against the wooden crate, gradually faded in the dim light as the lit candles took on a greenish hue. A cockroach then crawled from the right side of her mouth, which was still partially open. In her left hand was a broken candlestick, still tightly clenched between her fingers—worn from a decade of scrubbing and mopping and sewing and gardening.

Her head was turned in the opposite way on her body—her large eyes staring at the wall forever. All of the bones and tendons attached to her neck were uprooted, like an old tree being removed from the earth. The candles extinguished, leaving a thin, twisted trail of smoke that rose up in the air.

The basement became engulfed in darkness.