Chapter 2

• Polishing the queen’s silverware is among the most prestigious tasks assigned to a servant. It’s not merely about ensuring the cutlery gleams; it’s a testament to my reliability and discretion. In a household brimming with gossip, I pride myself on my ability to keep confidences—a rare trait in today’s environment.
• Lunch preparation proceeds smoothly, though I’m not required to assist with serving. Instead, I focus on arranging the dishes in the kitchen and them in order . Today’s menu is simple yet refined: roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, and freshly baked bread.
• Rumors persist that these dishes were staples of humanity before the beasts seized power. Oddly enough, the beasts have adopted several of our customs, particularly in their culinary practices. The rich aromas wafting from the kitchen are tantalizing, and I find myself acutely aware of my growling stomach. Missing my second meal yesterday after falling behind on my cleaning duties was a mistake, added to the news of transferring some of us to Rebar also got me thinking and restless which I’m now paying for.
• I push the hunger aside, knowing I’ll be allowed to eat once the Royals have finished their repast. After plating the food, I wash my hands and grab cleaning supplies, hoping to distract myself. The rhythmic scrubbing of counters and the clatter of dishes in the sink offer a momentary reprieve from my body’s protests.
• “You’re free to eat now,” the head chef announces, waving me toward the servant’s dining room.
• “Thank you!” I reply, already hurrying out the door. Cleaning the queen's quarters takes most of the day, and I’ll need to eat quickly to stay on schedule and to get myself to order.
• The dining room buzzes with conversation as I step inside. The chatter is dominated by talk of Rebar Kingdom and the dreaded transfers. Spotting an empty seat between a gardener and one of the laundry women, I sit down and serve myself a bowl of porridge. My spirits lift slightly when I notice the addition of brown sugar—a rare treat.
• I had to observe everyone, to know if they were actually eating the same meal on the table, before I hurriedly deep my spoon into the porridge to have a taste of it.
• “You know,” the laundry woman says, her tone light, “I wouldn’t mind being transferred. The rules may be harsh, but have you seen their King? Talk about gorgeous.” She laughs before shoveling a spoonful of porridge into her mouth.
• An older woman sitting across from us scoffs, pointing her spoon accusingly. “Watch your tongue, girl. You don’t want anyone overhearing that and putting your name on the list. Besides, do you honestly think the King of Rebar would spare a glance at a human? Wishful thinking.”
• “I heard a boy was killed just for sneezing,” the gardener interjects, his voice low and uneasy.
• Sophia chuckles, shaking her head. “Well, to be fair, I heard he sneezed on the King.”
• Their banter continues, but I tune it out, focusing on finishing my meal quickly. The porridge is warm and satisfying, but I don’t have time to savor it. Peter is likely already waiting for me outside the queen's quarters.
• I rush through the halls and round the corner to the large corridor leading to the King and Second’s suites. As expected, Peter is standing near the massive oak doors, looking uncharacteristically put-together.
• “Sorry I’m late,” I say, slightly out of breath. “I had breakfast before coming over.”
• Peter shrugs, offering a crooked smile. “No worries, I just got here myself.”
• As I approach, I notice something unusual. His usually messy hair has been neatly combed back, and the ends appear freshly trimmed. His finest shirt is crisply ironed, and his black shoes shine like polished obsidian.
• “Why are you so…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Cleaned up?”
• Peter shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks tinged with pink. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I thought if I looked presentable, I might be less likely to be chosen for the transfer.”
• I suppress a frown, offering him a soft, reassuring smile instead. “Well, you look great! How about this: I’ll take the queen suites, and you can handle the Second’s. Then we can meet up for dinner later.”
• Peter nods, grateful for the change of subject, and we part ways to begin our tasks.
• Typically, a Beast guard is stationed outside the suites to log who enters and exits, but today the hall is eerily empty. I’ve been cleaning these rooms with Peter since we were fourteen, and over the years, the guards have grown more relaxed about monitoring us.
• The queen's door, heavy and imposing, creaks as I press my shoulder against it. I slip inside and let it slam shut behind me with a dull thud.
• The entryway is surprisingly tidy; the queen has kept her shoes in order, and the small table along the wall is free of clutter. But as I step into the living room, I’m met with chaos.
• The room was in shambles, a reflection of the chaos and grief that had long consumed its inhabitant. Empty bottles lay scattered across the floor, and photographs—faded and weathered—were strewn haphazardly on the couch and table. A children’s book, its pages worn from years of handling, lay open on the floor, glorifying the Beasts’ invasion two centuries ago. The book was a cruel reminder of what had been lost, though no one dared to discard it. Plates of half-eaten meals cluttered the bookshelves along the far wall, their contents long forgotten. Dust coated every surface, untouched by a servant’s hand for years.
• This room, once a place of warmth and laughter, had become Queen Victoria’s prison.
• It had been five years since the battle that claimed both her husband and her only son—the king and the prince who had once stood as symbols of hope against the Beasts’ oppressive rule. Five years since the fields ran red with the blood of humanity’s last great defense. The loss was not merely a blow to the kingdom but to Victoria’s very soul.
• She had been a proud, steadfast ruler once, her voice commanding and her presence unyielding. But now, she was a shadow of herself, haunted by memories that wouldn’t fade. When word of the king’s and her son’s deaths reached the capital, she did not scream or collapse as the court feared. Instead, she became silent—too silent.
• I decide to start with the photographs. Knowing their importance to the queen , I carefully pick them up, ensuring they’re free of smudges or spills. Years ago, I memorized which albums each photo belongs to, but I still take my time, handling them with the utmost care.
• Once the photos are safely tucked away, the rest of the cleaning goes quickly. Though tedious, the work is straightforward. By the time I’ve finished dusting and taken out the trash, only a couple of hours have passed.
• At the door, I knock firmly, hoping Peter is nearby. Usually, the Beast guard opens it for me, but with no one on duty, I have to rely on him.
• Years ago, I’d convinced myself I could muster the strength to pry the door open on my own. After many failed attempts, I reluctantly accepted that while I could push it open enough to enter, pulling it open to leave was beyond me.
• As I waited for Peter to hear my knocks, the stillness of the queen's quarters pressed down on me. The faint smell of old wine and dusty parchment lingered in the air, a reminder of the man’s solitude. My thoughts drifted to the photos I’d carefully tucked away moments ago, their faded images whispering of a life long gone. For all her power, the queen seemed as trapped in his own grief as I was behind this door.