straw? She could hear her mother and the Marquis talking downstairs,something about the fireplace smoking. She didn’t like that the floor was so thin. She didn’t want to hear them talking…or worse. “I’m starving.”
“I found out that the last sitting for the higher staff was about an hour ago,” Clorine said, digging around in her basket and handing Petite a length of jerky. “In the morning it’s at prime—they’ll ring a bell when the table is laid. That will give you plenty of time because the Princess doesn’t rise until terce, just before Mass.”
“But then what am I supposed to do? Do I put her fire on?”
“No, the butler does that.”
“Do I take out her chamber pot?”
“No, there will be a chambermaid for that.”
“Do I wake her?”
“I believe her nurse will be the one to do that.”
“Does her nurse help her dress as well?”
“That’s the job of the mistress of the wardrobe, but you or the other waiting maid may be asked to tie a ribbon, or comb out the Princess’s hair, for example.”
“I can do that,” Petite said, reassured. “Do princesses ever eat?”
“Of course. You’re to stand behind her commodité de la conversation when she’s at table.”
“A commodité de la…what?”
“Conversation. That’s what they call a chair here.” Clorine rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You may eat what’s left on the Princess’s plate after she’s finished.”
“And then what?”
Clorine shrugged. “And then you just stand around waiting. You are, after all, a waiting maid.”
Chewing on the jerky, Petite gave this some thought. She could do a lot of things passably well, but waiting was not one of them.
“Y OU ARE TO CALL ME Little Queen,” Princess Marguerite informed Petite the next morning. The Princess lifted her skirts and sat down on a necessary, a padded open seat over a tin chamber pot. “Everyone does.” Broken strands of gold thread glinted on her underskirt.
“Yes, Little Queen,” Petite said, clasping her white-gloved hands behind her back. She shifted her hands to the front, and then let them hang down by her sides. There was a correct posture, no doubt.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“Why, Little Queen?” The Princess was wearing ear-rings made of bone buttons. Petite had known only a few girls of her own age, and certainly none of them ornamented. A foul smell filled the room.
“Because I’m going to marry the King.”
Petite took in this astonishing news. “I didn’t know that.” Was it permissible to admit such a thing? “Little Queen,” she added.
“I’ll be ten on July twenty-eighth, so when the King and I marry in four years, I’ll be fourteen and he will be twenty. How old are you?”
“I’m ten. Little Queen.” Petite calculated that she was one year and eleven days older than the Princess.
“I was born with the sun in Leo.” Marguerite put out her hand.
Unsure, Petite placed her hand in the Princess’s.
“No, fishhead—a cloth. ”
Petite looked around, then handed the Princess a cloth from a stack on a side table. The Princess cleaned herself and stood, handing Petite the soiled linen. Petite took it by one corner.
“The astrologer said I’ll make a good queen because I’m proud, dignified, commanding and powerful,” Marguerite said. “The King is a Virgo, but his moon is in Leo. What sign are you?”
“I’m Leo as well,” Petite said, tucking the soiled cloth into the waistband of her apron. “Little Queen. But with a Cancer ascendant.” The astrologer present at Petite’s birth had written out a full report. According to his calculations she was sensitive to others—attuned, even, to mystic vibrations—and although rational by nature, he’d written that her “affective sensibility tended to overheat,” concluding with the warning that her mild manner veiled a voraginous passion. Petite had yet to discover what voraginous meant, but because of a line in the Aeneid
“I found out that the last sitting for the higher staff was about an hour ago,” Clorine said, digging around in her basket and handing Petite a length of jerky. “In the morning it’s at prime—they’ll ring a bell when the table is laid. That will give you plenty of time because the Princess doesn’t rise until terce, just before Mass.”
“But then what am I supposed to do? Do I put her fire on?”
“No, the butler does that.”
“Do I take out her chamber pot?”
“No, there will be a chambermaid for that.”
“Do I wake her?”
“I believe her nurse will be the one to do that.”
“Does her nurse help her dress as well?”
“That’s the job of the mistress of the wardrobe, but you or the other waiting maid may be asked to tie a ribbon, or comb out the Princess’s hair, for example.”
“I can do that,” Petite said, reassured. “Do princesses ever eat?”
“Of course. You’re to stand behind her commodité de la conversation when she’s at table.”
“A commodité de la…what?”
“Conversation. That’s what they call a chair here.” Clorine rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You may eat what’s left on the Princess’s plate after she’s finished.”
“And then what?”
Clorine shrugged. “And then you just stand around waiting. You are, after all, a waiting maid.”
Chewing on the jerky, Petite gave this some thought. She could do a lot of things passably well, but waiting was not one of them.
“Y OU ARE TO CALL ME Little Queen,” Princess Marguerite informed Petite the next morning. The Princess lifted her skirts and sat down on a necessary, a padded open seat over a tin chamber pot. “Everyone does.” Broken strands of gold thread glinted on her underskirt.
“Yes, Little Queen,” Petite said, clasping her white-gloved hands behind her back. She shifted her hands to the front, and then let them hang down by her sides. There was a correct posture, no doubt.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“Why, Little Queen?” The Princess was wearing ear-rings made of bone buttons. Petite had known only a few girls of her own age, and certainly none of them ornamented. A foul smell filled the room.
“Because I’m going to marry the King.”
Petite took in this astonishing news. “I didn’t know that.” Was it permissible to admit such a thing? “Little Queen,” she added.
“I’ll be ten on July twenty-eighth, so when the King and I marry in four years, I’ll be fourteen and he will be twenty. How old are you?”
“I’m ten. Little Queen.” Petite calculated that she was one year and eleven days older than the Princess.
“I was born with the sun in Leo.” Marguerite put out her hand.
Unsure, Petite placed her hand in the Princess’s.
“No, fishhead—a cloth. ”
Petite looked around, then handed the Princess a cloth from a stack on a side table. The Princess cleaned herself and stood, handing Petite the soiled linen. Petite took it by one corner.
“The astrologer said I’ll make a good queen because I’m proud, dignified, commanding and powerful,” Marguerite said. “The King is a Virgo, but his moon is in Leo. What sign are you?”
“I’m Leo as well,” Petite said, tucking the soiled cloth into the waistband of her apron. “Little Queen. But with a Cancer ascendant.” The astrologer present at Petite’s birth had written out a full report. According to his calculations she was sensitive to others—attuned, even, to mystic vibrations—and although rational by nature, he’d written that her “affective sensibility tended to overheat,” concluding with the warning that her mild manner veiled a voraginous passion. Petite had yet to discover what voraginous meant, but because of a line in the Aeneid
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