“So you live here?”
“Not here.” They lowered their voice. “This is Scotland.”
“So?”
“The du Lacs aren’t supposed to be—”
I heard a wet-sounding smack, and she stopped speaking.
It’s the last place he’ll look for you. He’d never think to check under his own fucking nose.
West’s cryptic words just before we left Crowne Hall popped into my head.
“They’re not supposed to be here? Here like Scotland? Or here like…” I glanced around, at the cobblestone walls and long-stemmed candle
s dripping black wax on to crystal votives. “Like this place?”
They didn’t respond.
After the bath, a silk blue robe was waiting for me. I slid one arm in, then the next, stretching the silk against my chest to see the du Lac fleur-de-lis symbol embroidered in white.
Next came my hair. While I sat on a soft, velvet vanity, they oiled it until the curls shone and draped down my back.
“Where is West sleeping?” I asked while they fingered more product into my curls.
They shared a look. “You mean Mr. du Lac.”
I sucked in a breath. “Where is Mr. du Lac sleeping? Is he here?”
“If he decides to sleep here, then he’ll be in your bed.”
I went rigid at the thought. I don’t care what he decided, he wasn’t sleeping in my fucking bed.
They kept looking at one another as they braided white gold into my hair. Whispering and then shoving each other. I felt like I was back at Crowne Hall, playing games with the servants as we worked together.
I’d done many a similar ritual to Abigail, and even Lottie, but in those scenarios I was never scribbling in a notebook.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
They shared a look, but only scribbled more.
And then we descended into silence.
“Is it true you’re the Cinderella of Crowne Hall?” one of them blurted, the blonde one with light brown eyes, while the one with eyes like gemstones shoved her.
This time, I didn’t answer.
They finished their grooming and went to stand guard by the door, while I stayed seated on the vanity. My wild curls were braided with diamonds and white gold hoops. My skin was soft and had a subtle shine. I looked more like Lottie than I ever had before.
“I don’t think it’s her,” one of them whispered. It was low enough, I think they thought I couldn’t hear, but I was a servant, and I was trained in whispers. I kept my eyes down, catching glimpses of them reflected in the vanity.
The blonde one leaned slightly to whisper to her friend. “Then why does she have the locket?”
I touched my locket absently.
I’d avoided as much of the internet as I could after the attack. I didn’t need the world deciding if I was Cinderella or the Stepsister Slut—but just because I avoided it, didn’t make it go away. These two girls were proof. I listened harder as they discussed the possibility of my identity, and what that meant. Who was right, who was wrong…my life’s facts twisted in fiction.
My very real heartbreak someone’s fan fiction.