She dashed burning tears from her cheeks and scurried after the maid before she lost complete sight of her. Curiosity mingled with fear as they twisted through a maze of darkened hallways and winding staircases. Never seeing another soul in their pursuit of…of what?
Ten minutes passed before they burst out onto a wide corridor. No other souls graced the hall. The maid pushed open the door to a spacious and richly furnished bedchamber.
"Oh, my," Cinderella breathed, spinning slowly. A much-too-large bed with humongous four-posters with a canopy of sheer gauze occupied a good portion of the space in shades of green and cream that reminded her of a brilliant spring day. Waking in such luxury would feel she lay in a field of grass filled with wild flowers. A barrage of pillows in a multitude of shapes and sizes would serve a brilliant hiding place. A giggle escaped though rusty and hoarse from lack of use.
There was a sideboard with a pitcher of fresh water and basin bowl for washing. A vast armoire stood in one corner, and wood floors waxed to such a lustrous shine one could use as a looking glass. The sun beamed through sheer linings framed by green velvet drapes threaded with gold. Someone had left a warm and toasty fire burning in the grate.
That same someone had obviously ushered her to the wrong chamber. This was much too extravagant for the likes of her. Cinderella spun to apprise the maid of her fallacy, but said maid had vanished as whimsically as she'd appeared.
Cinderella dropped into a brocaded, gilded chair, mouth agape. She never dreamed such luxury existed. Mayhap getting lost in the bowels of the castle would not be such a horrific thing after all. Mayhap she would never happen to venture across Prince or Esmeralda. She pulled her hand from her pocket where Marcel beamed her with a cheeky smile.
"Mayhap, I could hide here-forever," she choked out on a whispered laugh .
He nodded. He would, of course, if they had cheese.
*****
"I don't suppose it's possible my mother will gain me leave of supper," Prince said.
Arnald answered with a raised bushy brow and held out an open waistcoat. Prince shrugged into it and mumbled, "What good is a servant who has naught of substance to say?" He turned away from Arnald's irritating smirk.
"No good, Sire," Arnald chuckled, "when said servant is also your older cousin." Arnald's intonation of 'sire' was a sore point.
"Six months out of the year? I think not." Older, indeed. They were both nineteen for at least another four months. Another thought occurred to him, and he pierced Arnald with a scathing glance. "You are not holding bets from the servants on the outcome of my upcoming nuptials, are you?"