The Cold King

CHAPTER FOUR


SWEAT BLOOMED ACROSS HER UPPER lip as she gathered the courage to knock. Finally she was able to force one small, shaking fist to rap timidly against the decorated wood.

“Come.”

The heavy door opened easily under her hand and she crept over the threshold. The room was the same bright, light decor as the rest of the palace and the Cold King sat bent over a desk in the far corner. He did not acknowledge her so she crept closer and closer until she stood at the edge of the massive mahogany table.

“I am… I am here,” she finally whispered when he failed to acknowledge to her.

The Cold King sighed and threw his quill down. “Well, I see the first thing we have to do is work on your manners.” He looked up and immediately frowned. “And your poise. And looks.”

His little barbs hurt her more than she thought they would.

“Who are you?” he suddenly demanded.

Calia ducked her head to hide her confusion. “I am Calia? Your new servant?”

He shook his head, his annoyance apparent. “No. You are the personal servant to an ageless king. Not a messy, cowering child.”

She bit her lip, unsure of what to say.

He gave another exaggerated sigh and stood from his desk. “I require many things from you. Some will take time to learn but the most important is that you, as my servant, are representative of me. You will be graceful, capable, poised. Every word and action should be well thought out and appropriate to the situation. Do you understand?”

Tears threatened again. “No.”

“You will.” He pointed to a spot at the right corner of his desk. “Each time you come to me, you will enter after one knock and come to stand there until I acknowledge you. You will never look me in the eye and respond only as ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ or ‘No, Your Majesty’ unless a different response is specifically required. You will stand straight with your eyes ahead. You will not fiddle with your dress or bite your lip.”

Calia quickly pulled her teeth from lip and smoothed her face.

“I do not want to have to instruct you in every little thing so you will learn my schedule and follow it unfailingly.”

Calia nodded.

“And do not nod!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She felt like a kicked puppy and it took everything she had not to fold in onto herself.

A little smile played on his lips. “At the first bell you will enter my room with my breakfast tray and set it here,” he said pointing at his desk.

Calia’s eyes jerked to round, mahogany table in the corner. “Why do you eat at your desk when you have such a lovely table to dine at?”

He gave another sigh. “I always eat alone. I may as well get some work done while I do it. And don’t interrupt. At the third bell you will bring my lunch and at the sixth bell my dinner.” His hateful mask was distracting her and loosened her tongue.

“And all the time in between?”

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And you will never question me. You alone will clean my rooms and do my laundry. You will stand at my side whenever I have an important meeting and attend me at any function with other royalty. I can only assume you know nothing of serving meals.”

She bit her lip again and shook her head.

He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Then we must start small. You will stay with me today, and the next and the next, until your manners are acceptable.”

Her heart palpitated at the idea of being trapped in his rooms, standing at attention and having to keep her mouth shut.

He strode over to a large wardrobe and pulled out a bright, silken shirt. She did her best to stand tall and keep her eyes on the wall as he approached. He stopped too close to her and she shivered, trying not to look at his glittering mask.

“Do you sew?”

His breath wafted over her clammy forehead and it took all she had not to step back.

“I do, a little,” she said uncertainly. His chest brushed her shoulder and she jumped.

He pushed the cloth at her. “You will sew my shirts.”

She looked down at the gorgeous article in her hands and then could not help looking up at him. From that angle she could just peer under the little hoods on the mask that shaded his eyes and could see they were a warm, deep green. She shuddered again. No wonder he kept them hidden. They clashed with his image of the Cold King.

“And you will never mention my shirts, their construction or the fact that you sew them to another soul!” She cringed, although she wasn’t sure if it was because of his tone or the further proof that he was a mad man. Who cared about how a shirt was made or who made it? His paranoia was alarming and she resolved to step lightly around the crazy man. If he even was a man.

The king moved away from her and she glanced back at the wardrobe the shirt was taken from. It was filled with pristine white garments and she immediately forgot her vow. “But you have so many…”

If he was annoyed with her he did not show it. “The sewing basket is next to the armchair. Several girls found it helpful to take a shirt apart to see how it all fit together.”

Confused, she floundered over to the arm chair and plopped down. She could hear his teeth grind together and tried to arrange herself as elegantly as possible in the massive chair.

Upon closer inspection, the snowy white button down shirt revealed itself to be ridiculously confusing. It was of a double layer with no true seams to press inward on the skin when worn. Everywhere the cloth joined together it met smoothly, as if sewn inside out. She turned the garment in her hands, finding only more to confuse her. Why would anyone require such an intricate garment? But she continued her inspection, working from collar to hem, finally finding the only area where the shirt could have been sewn from the outside. It was only as wide as her hand and at the very back, bottom hem of the shirt. Would she have to sew with her hand inside for most of the time? Puzzled, she opened her mouth to ask a question and barely stopped herself. The king was seated at his desk again, writing furiously.

Her mother had always found her too clumsy and oafish to teach her real sewing and she viewed her insurmountable task with dread. Finally she picked up a tiny shears and began snipping away the stitches that held it all together.





Calia was late getting the king his lunch and his dinner. She was supposed to be ready with the tray when the bell sounded, not jumping up from the chair to get it. There were no clocks in his room and she struggled to adjust herself to his passing of time.

In the kitchen, she cried. Cato handed her the dinner tray with a look of commiseration but did not offer any comfort.

“Why are you crying?”

Calia spun to find Iago behind her and the silverware flew off the tray.

“Easy, girl,” he chided. “What‘s the matter?”

“Everything!” she bawled. “I have to sew his stupid shirts and I do not know—”

“Hush,” he said harshly. “You mustn’t speak of anything he asks of you.”

Her tears paused. “But you are a servant too.”

He shook his head. “But not his servant. Our king holds his privacy dear. You would do well never to speak of him to us.”

She nodded her head but did not understand.

Iago gave a gentle smile. “How are your hands today?”

They had not bothered her at all and she only remembered then that they had been injured. “They are fine,” she said with surprise.

“I’ll come look at them again tonight,” he promised, placing new silverware on the tray. “And I know Abelina will stop in to see you as well.”

She wanted to cry again but at least there were a few kind souls haunting the terrible palace. With that thought she was able to force her way back up to the Cold Kings rooms.

Calia set the king’s tray down exactly as he had instructed and resumed her spot back in the chair. Her mind wandered as her fingers worked. Who was so rich, so not wanting for anything that their silk shirts had to be double thick?

As she worked she worried. Calia had never had anything so fine and wondered how angry the king would be when he realized she wouldn’t be able to replicate such perfect work.

But still she sat in the chair while he scribbled furiously and tried to piece together why and how the shirt was fashioned.

The tiny muscles in her fingers were cramped and her vision blurry before he finally spoke. “You are excused for the evening.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and dumped everything from her lap into the basket.

“Manners!” he reminded her sharply. She struggled to rise gracefully from the chair on numb legs and hobbled over to his desk.

“Can I get you anything before I leave? Your Majesty,” she added hastily.

“No, thank you,” he said and waved her away. “Stop,” he suddenly commanded.

She turned around slowly, afraid of what he would say. Most likely it would be something disparaging about her looks or lack of grace, but he surprised her. “Through the patio of the west wing there is a private yard. You are never to go there. Ever.”

Calia opened her mouth and he glared through the slits of his glittering mask.

She could not help it; she rushed for the door and slammed them shut behind her.





In the room she had barely begun to think of as hers she stripped off the claustrophobic dress and dove at the bathtub, flipping the handles until hot water poured out. She had to ease herself in and even then she knew she would be an angry shade of red when she got out.

Nothing was right and nothing made sense but she hadn’t been hurt this day and was still free to indulge in the most glorious thing she had ever felt.

Water closed in over her head as she sunk down. What did he want? For her to sew his fancy shirts? It did not sound like a lot but she did not think she could spend eternity trapped in that room with him trying to complete perfection in the form of a garment.

Calia broke the surface and experimented with all the little bottles lining the edge of the tub. For a slave it seemed she was well kept. The thought made her stomach turn but part of her could not help but think what she would be doing if she were home. She would just be starting the dishes after stoking the fire and heating the water. Her hands would soon be water logged and sore and yet the pile still had to be done. At home, bedtime would be a long way off if she had any hopes of getting all her chores done and not earning a beating. At home, sleep would mean sharing an itchy straw mattress with her sister and listening to her mother snore.

Calia was already soundly asleep in her bed when Iago and Abelina came.

They peered at her from the door, watching her sweet face twitch in the moonlight.

“She seems to be all right,” Abelina whispered.

“She’s very strong,” Iago whispered back.

“I just worry for her, being stuck so close to him.”

The gardener put a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be alright. Maybe she’ll even be the one.”

Abelina sighed. “There is no ‘one’. This curse will never end.”

“Maybe not,” Iago replied. “But he should not have to spend eternity alone as the Cold King. And she is so very different from all the rest.”

Abelina gave a sad nod before turning from the doorway.





Calia balanced the breakfast tray on one hand and knocked with the other. Her arm shook with the weight of the king’s meal and she nearly crashed through the door as she opened it. His exasperated sigh echoed out into the hallway and tears threatened again as she straightened up and steadied the expensive teapot on the tray.

“Set it here,” he reminded her, rushing her over to the desk. She set it down and he waited with arms crossed, leaning back in his chair. “Well? You may serve me.”

Her cheeks flamed and her hands hovered over all the specialty cups and utensils on the tray. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I do not know how to serve.”

“What kind of household did you grow up in?” he snapped. “Surely your mother prepared you for marriage?”

The heat in her cheeks grew, but this time from anger. “No, she did not. That’s why I was chosen to come here.”

He steepeled his fingers and regarded her over the perfect, oval tips. “I have no doubt that you will make an excellent personal servant, I just did not realize you would be so lacking in basic skills.” He stood from his desk and motioned for her to follow him. “No matter, Abelina shall assist you with these matters.”

Calia struggled to keep up with him then almost slammed into his back when he stopped at the door to his dressing room. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

He said nothing, just ushered her in. A small woman in a plain dress with a measuring tape looped around her neck sat on small stool as if waiting.

“That’s not Abelina,” Calia said, edging into the room.

The king pressed a finger to his temple as if pained. “No, it is not. I did not anticipate having to teach you basic table setting and serving. This is my dress maker.”

Calia turned back to the king. “I already have dresses.”

“No, you had rags that I burned. You have cast off dresses that I have given you but you need several more. I cannot let you be seen in such poorly fitting attire.”

‘But who is there to see me?’ she wondered. Perhaps she would have better luck getting answers from the dressmaker.

The Cold King shut the door behind him as he left and the woman hopped up. “I need you down to your shift,” she said. Calia complied with embarrassment, undressing until she stood in her only her thin, cotton undergarment. “Now up on the stool, arms out.”

She did as she was instructed and waited patiently while the woman carefully measured every length of her. “My name is Calia,” she finally said when the woman remained silent for so long.

“I know. Keep your chin up.” The woman kept measuring.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. I think I am doing all right—”

“No, I mean keep your chin up. I need you to stay still while I measure.”

Calia jerked her head back up and gave a little sigh. If she had been hoping to make a new friend she was sorely disappointed.

Finally finished with her measurements, the woman stood back and eyed Calia up and down. Calia shifted nervously on the stool. “You have unusual coloring,” the woman finally commented.

“Yes,” Calia agreed unhappily.

“No matter,” the dressmaker said. She picked up a huge swath of fabrics in all different colors and held them up to Calia’s face.

Calia risked friendliness again. “What’s your name?”

“Imogene.” The woman draped a royal blue piece of fabric around her neck and stepped back to look. A tiny smile turned her mouth up and she stepped forward to toss on a deep purple fabric. Her smile deepened and she swept them off to replace them with a black and white swath. “Excellent,” she breathed.

Calia was confused. “What are you doing?”

“Matching colors to your skin and hair tones. And the colors that best compliment you are also the ones that best compliment the king.”

Calia shook her head, still confused. “Why does that matter?”

Imogene threw a dark burgundy swath around her neck, shook her head and tore it off. “A king should always look immaculate. I dress our king to look his best and his servants to look their best but it doesn’t always work that the servant compliments the master.”

“Who is even going to notice?”

Imogene’s eyes darted up to hers. “Everyone who looks at you. Now put this on.” She handed over a dark, plain dress and Calia pulled it on.

She stood patiently with her arms out while Imogene jerked and tugged and pulled and made marks with a little piece of chalk.

“What types of dresses will you make?”

Imogene pulled a pin from her mouth to answer. “All types. Casual ones for every day, severe ones for court, ones for meeting other dignitaries.”

Calia gasped. “Do I really have to do that?”

Imogene frowned. “Of course. What did you think you were going to do? Sit around and serve him tea?”

“But I’m a nobody! He can’t really mean for me to sit in on such important meetings.”

“I don’t mean any offense but at this point you cannot even be trusted to pour tea. It will be some time before you will assist him in any business.”

Calia had no idea she would really be so involved in the inner workings of the kings affairs. Didn’t he know she was just an ugly girl that had been sacrificed by her town to fulfill his need for a servant? She knew nothing of royalty or manners or any of it. Calia was frightened to her core. She was a no one, she had no right to attend court or meet other kings. Her knees shook and she was relieved to finally be let off the little stool and allowed to get dressed again.

“I will return to do a final fitting,” Imogene said before shooing her out the door. To Calia’s utter relief, Abelina was waiting for her.

“Come with me,” the older woman said kindly. “We shall work on your serving skills.”

Calia followed her down to a large formal dining room and over to a table formally set up. A surly looking woman slouched in one of the chairs.

“Klaribel, do sit up dear. That must be torture on your back.” The woman, Klaribel, heaved a sigh and sat up.

“Why do you even need me for this? Can you not you just pretend you are serving someone?” she asked, clearly unhappy to be drawn into Calia’s lessons.

The startling woman wore a jacket and breeches with knee high boots. Straw clung to her clothes and hair and Calia was surprised to see she was as well muscled as any man. Klaribel swung her face to Calia’s and took her in with hard but not unkind eyes. She stuck a hand out that Calia was too surprised to refuse.

“Klaribel,” the woman said bluntly. “I am the stable master.”

“Calia.” That was all she meant to say but her curiosity got the best of her once again. “Aren’t men usually the stable masters?”

Klaribel snorted. “Yes. And women are usually the cooks and maids. But thankfully I did not get stuck with those roles when I chose to come here.”

The woman was surprising all around. “You wanted to come here?”

“Of course. What else was I going to do? Stay there and kept getting beaten by my step mother for wanting to wear pants and work with horses?” Klaribel snorted. “No, not for me.”

Her blunt honesty was surprising and almost unbelievable. She wanted to come to the castle? To be trapped, a servant, forever?

Abelina tapped a finger on the table. “Enough talk, my dears. We must teach Calia her skills.”

She began outlining each utensil, each item on the table, explaining its use and positioning. Only a few minutes into the explanation and Calia’s head was swimming. A quick glance at Klaribel showed the woman’s eyes had glazed over. Abelina tapped her finger on the table again and the attention of both women shot back over to her.

Abelina continued her lesson, occasionally tapping the table or stopping to answer questions. When it came time for Calia to demonstrate serving the tea she failed miserably.

“No, you must stand at the other side, the handle diagonal to the one being served. No, not like that!” Kind and patient Abelina took a deep breath. “Remember, you serve from the left, position the teacup correctly and pour, supporting the spout. It will come easier to you as you practice. Now we shall practice serving lunch before the bell rings.”

Calia’s stomach clenched as she thought of having to return to the king’s rooms to serve him. But Abelina’s lessons proved fruitful and she was able to serve the Cold King without committing any mistake major enough for him to comment on. She counted the moments until she could escape back to Abelina and her lessons.

As she cleared the dishes away the king finally spoke. “You will return to my chambers to continue working on my shirts.”

Calia nodded but her heart palpitated. Her mother had taken one look at her first attempts at embroidery and declared her a lost cause.

But she returned to his rooms and took a seat at the window and pulled the sewing basket onto her lap. As she pawed through it she found a few buttons with mud dried on them. Her chest tightened as she remembered helping the old woman gather her sewing supplies from where they had fallen. It felt like a hundred years ago but had only been weeks.

She glanced up to eye the Cold King. Was that how he felt? Was he really ageless, as they said? Cursed?

Sunlight darted off his mask as he lifted his head in response to her gaze. She snapped her head back down, wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and prepared to thread a needle.

Hours passed as she attempted to make tiny, straight, even stitches in the cloth she was practicing on. Her shoulders and hands were cramped. The sunlight she needed to see had overly warmed her and her neck itched.

“How are my other servants treating you?”

Calia looked up, surprised by the question, surprised he would even care. He remained bent over his desk, his quill stilled over his paper. If she hadn’t heard him so clearly speak she would have thought he didn’t even know she was in the room. “Very well, Your Majesty,” she finally responded.

“Are they being kind to you?” he inquired further.

“They are.” She rolled her stiff neck. “Were you afraid they wouldn’t be?”

His invisible gaze snapped back to her and she knew she had chosen the wrong word. “I fear nothing.”

“Of course,” she murmured and turned back to her sewing.

When she served him his dinner that night he said nothing, only excused her with the wave of his hand. Determined not to fail in absolutely everything, she returned to practicing her stitches.

And that was how their week continued. She served him breakfast before Abelina taught her more about serving and proper manners. Occasionally she roped in another servant for Calia to practice on and they were all agreeable, save for Jos.

“I have better things to do than stand around so this tart can figure out exactly how many steps she should stand behind the king,” he snapped when asked for his help.

But everyone else was helpful, if not overly kind. The butler, Marchello, still looked at her as if she had dirt on her face but she soon realized he looked at everyone like that. Klaribel was crass but could usually be convinced to help when bribed with sweets. Iago offered his help several times before Abelina was forced to accept it. Calia was surprised at her reluctance but soon learned why she had avoided the kind man’s offers.

“You are doing just wonderful,” he praised, turning around in the chair they were pretending was the throne.

“Turn around,” Abelina chided. “And try to act like the king.”

She turned back to Calia. “Always two steps back and two steps to the right. No, based on the size of his feet, not yours.”

Iago turned around again. “Do not worry, you’ll get it soon enough.”

Abelina gave him a pointed stare and he turned around again.

She sighed then continued. “Right. Now shoulders back and tray balanced in both hands, always level with your navel. Right again.”

Iago glanced back. “Perfect, my dear!”

Abelina stomped her foot. “The king is not constantly going to reassure her, she needs to learn this perfectly! She will be on her own!”

“Ah, I apologize.” He gave a quick wink at Calia and settled back in the chair.