Chapter 34: Of Dust, Dung And Dignity

Lyria’s POV

He considered me.

Then nodded once.

"You have six minutes."

"If you are not back within six minutes," he continued evenly, "I will be obliged to report the delay to the Princess. And I would prefer not to invite her displeasure."

"I u–understand, sir," I told him.

No one who worked in the palace wanted to invite the displeasure of the royal family.

"Do not make me regret extending the courtesy," he told me.

"I w–will not."

He gestured toward the courtyard.

"Go."

I curtsied without thinking and turned at once.

I moved as swiftly as I could.

The path back through the palace felt longer than before.

My breath burned faintly in my chest as I climbed the stairwell to my chambers two steps at a time. The narrow wooden steps creaked beneath my hurried feet, the sound sharp in the quiet shaft of stone and rail.

Six minutes.

I counted them in my head as I moved.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

My door yielded beneath my hand.

I immediately changed into the sturdy trousers I kept hidden beneath my gowns. They were old and mended more than once, but they were strong and useful.

I stripped off my outer skirt and petticoat with quick, practised hands and tugged the trousers into place, fastening them tightly at the waist.

My shirt followed.

I rolled the sleeves.

I crossed to the mirror.

I gathered my hair swiftly and twisted it into a firm bun at the nape of my neck, securing it until nothing remained loose to catch in reins or brush or muck.

Then I made sure my mask was still in position and retied it firmly.

I glanced at the ribbon Corvin had given me, the same one Jacinta had requested I return to her in the evening.

I made a face at it, then thought of how it would do me better to give it to her, since I had lost all affection for it... or I was trying to.

The moment I was done, I left my chambers and hurried back to the stables.

My lungs burned by the time I crossed the stable threshold again.

The man was still standing where I had left him.

He lifted his brows slightly.

"You made it."

"Y–yes, sir."

He nodded once.

"Good."

He turned and motioned for me to follow.

"I am the stable master," he said as we walked. "You may call me Master Harlan."

I nodded. Actually, I knew who he was. I had seen him before, and there was a time I had even worked at the stables. I had no idea if he was pretending not to recognise me or if he truly did not recognise me.

We moved down the central aisle between the stalls.

The air inside was warm and thick.

Horses shifted and stamped, their sides rising and falling with slow, powerful breaths. Some turned curious eyes toward me as I passed.

Master Harlan stopped beside a rack of tools.

"You will begin with the guest stalls."

He gestured toward the far end of the building.

"Feed them. Brush them down properly. Check their hooves for lodged stones."

"Y–yes, sir."

He handed me a rough cloth and a stiff-bristled brush.

"And your primary task," he added quietly, his gaze steady upon mine, "will be mucking out."

I nodded. There was no surprise that that would be the task I was given.

He paused, and his eyes softened just slightly.

"You are fortunate I am not inclined to cruelty for its own sake," he said low enough that the nearby boys could not hear.

"But you are still bound by Her Highness’s command."

"I know."

He inclined his head faintly.

Then he pointed toward the first occupied stall.

"Begin there."

I stepped forward without hesitation.

The horse inside was a tall chestnut gelding, his coat gleaming despite the dust of travel. He snorted softly as I approached, ears flicking toward me in cautious curiosity.

"It is all right," I murmured softly.

My mother did tell me that, like us, animals were living creatures, and most times the best way to communicate was by speaking.

I wondered if the horse had a name. I would have loved to know.

I set down the feed bucket and poured in his measure of grain. He lowered his head eagerly at once.

I lifted the brush I now carried, and the first stroke across his flank raised a faint cloud of dust.

I coughed softly. It had been a while since I worked in the stables after all, but soon everything came back to me, and I fell into a smooth rhythm.

Brush.

Sweep.

Long, steady motions, down the shoulder, across the back, along the powerful curve of his hindquarters.

The steady scrape of bristles against hide quieted something in my chest that the palace never quite managed to still.

When I finished brushing, I knelt and checked his hooves, easing out a small wedge of dried mud from the frog with careful fingers.

He stood patiently, like I was his attendant. I chuckled at that. At this point, it would prove true that I was the attendant.

When I was done with him, I moved to the next stall. I worked without pause, giving the same care and attention to each of the horses.

By the time I reached the final guest stall, sweat had dampened the back of my shirt and streaked faintly along my temples beneath the mask.

Then came the work no brush could soften.

Master Harlan left me with a shovel and a barrow.

The smell intensified at once. It clung to my nostrils and settled stubbornly at the back of my throat.

My arms ached and my back protested. Strands of hair escaped and clung damply to my neck.

When the last stall lay clean and freshly strewn, Master Harlan returned.

He surveyed my work and nodded once. Then he pointed to the barrow.

"Take that to the far heap."

I obeyed immediately.

And when I returned, breathless and streaked with dust and sweat, he handed me another brush.

"There is still tack to be cleaned."