The cold, chafing environment crushed Maia’s spirits, and she found herself frequently ill, with a persistent cough nagging in her throat. She knew no one at the manor cared for her. The other servants stayed away from her for fear of having their own work increased if they were caught assisting her or associating with her in any way.
Maia wondered if even the wretcheds at the abbeys were treated with more dignity. Her treatment during mealtimes was so horrible that she took to eating as much as she could during breakfast. Later, she would claim she was too ill to eat, and ask for bread and milk to be brought to her in the attic. This happened for several weeks until Lady Deorwynn heard of it. Thereafter she was forced to take all her meals in the hall, where her tormenters could continue to rail against her.
Maia refused to acknowledge her new station, however. She realized that her situation was an attempt to force her mother, who was still at Muirwood, to divorce her father. She was a game piece now in their rivalry, and no matter how much her father may have cared about her, she knew he would use her to achieve his ends. That he would stoop so low wounded her.
However, Maia did not use her title out loud, for when she did, Lady Shilton would immediately strike her face. Several stinging slaps had proved the point, so Maia refused to speak of it, but she also refused to deny her station, despite the others’ constant wheedling.
Part of Maia recognized that she was dreaming, that she had already lived through those miserable days in Lady Shilton’s manor. But she could not wake up. It felt as if she were on a small boat on a lazy river, being carried along its current. The dream was like a prison, forcing her to stay unconscious no matter how she tried to rouse herself, sucking her back into the nightmare of her time with the vicious Lady Deorwynn and her children.
The river of her dream seemed to speed up, and Maia recognized the moment it was leading to: her father’s visit to Hadfeld. After learning of it, she had wandered the manor with giddy excitement. If her father could only see her suffering, she knew his heart would soften, and he would summon her back to court. Her servant’s dress was torn and soot stained. They would not offer her a replacement or even a second gown, so she was forced to huddle beneath a blanket in only a shift after she washed it and it hung drying. She would do that at night, after the other servants had gone to bed, so she could use a fire Leering to dry it more quickly. If only her father could see her, he would end the cruel punishment aimed at his true wife, Maia’s mother.
When the horses arrived at Hadfeld, Maia found a window and watched, her excitement exploding inside her chest. But she was quickly snatched away by a groomsman and swept up to her room in the attic. The door was locked to keep her inside. She had pounded on the wood until her hands were bloody, furious that she would not be able to see her father during his visit. She paced the room, ears straining for footfalls on the steps. Surely he would summon her. Why else would he have come to Hadfeld?
The afternoon waned, and she was about to give up hope when she heard boots marching up to the attic. Her heart began to pound with excitement. She waited at one side of the room as the door was unlocked. Two men entered, but she only recognized one of them. One of her visitors was handsome and wore a soldier’s uniform with her father’s crest and a sword belted to his waist. One of her father’s knights—Carew. The other wore a nobleman’s finery and the stole of the chancellor’s office around his neck.
She curtsied formally, despite her ragged dress.
“Ah, Lady Marciana,” the chancellor said. “This is Captain Carew. I am Crabwell. Do you know of me?”
“You are the king’s new chancellor?” she asked.
He nodded discreetly. “I served under Chancellor Walraven as a scribe. He always spoke highly of you. He said you had great intelligence. A natural gift for languages.” He switched his tongue to Dahomeyjan. “Is that still true?”
“It is, my lord,” she responded in kind, changing her inflection.
“Wonderful,” he said flatly. His eyes were dark and brooding. He looked nothing like Walraven, save for silver in his hair. He was broad around the shoulders, though not very tall. He tugged at one of his gloves. “I understand from Lady Shilton that you stubbornly cling to your past title as princess, refusing to acknowledge the Act of Inheritance.”
Maia stared at him, feeling her hope turn to ash. She sighed wearily, feeling her shoulder slope. “Lord Chancellor, who gave you your title?”
“The king. Your lord father,” he answered crisply.
“And if my father wishes it, could he remove the chancellorship from you as he has with your predecessors?”
“Naturally,” he responded. “He is the king. Which is why, by the Act of Inheritance—”