"Coin?"

"Yes."

"'Coin?'"

Lucrecia looked at Lucy funny, wondering if she was experiencing some form of mental deterioration. How hard is "I want money before I can aide you" to understand?

"Yes, 'coin!' Settle me with coin before abetting me!"

But Lucy did not have any more of it to sweeten the pot. Not so long ago, she had just pledged 30 mercs—a sum one would have to work months on end to earn, needless to say, was 30 percent of Mrs. Durell's paycheck and 60 percent of her's—to a very rapacious individual! Plus, wasn't this supposed to be a friend of Theresa's? Why would she be keeping such noxious company? That poor girl was in dire need of guidance pertaining to the judgment of character with whom one associated with, Lucy thought.

If this was a friend, David would probably be nothing short of malevolent.

"Do not help, then!" She turned around to resume her charge. "I will handle this by myself." Eminently improbable, yes. But "hope" is defined by believing some sort of good would arise from a precarious situation... sort of halt the world on its axis and force a miracle to occur if publically declared.

In earnest, she had not said it to beseech a heart in the selfish person standing beside her; her blood was too poisonous to nurture the intimate organ.

"You cannot expect me to believe you."

"What a trifling comment," Lucy muttered purposefully, loud enough for the pesky acquaintance to hear and hopefully exit the room, too... with any luck, disappear from the face of this planet. "Am I tieing you down? Take your own advice and leave already."

Vexed, the young girl propelled the guest's property from Lucy's choosings with an overindulgent intensity. "I will alert madam Durell of what you're doing sans authority which is heavily against household decretals!"

Then she stood there. Nose turned up and arms crossed—the young chambermaid's. Mimicking a legitimate display of superiority, a smug tilt on her lips strenuously reinforced the perverted appeal for attention. And she sure as hell would get it, of course.

"You're sure as hell showing more unwanted help than wanted help, you greedy, evil, insolent-" Clutching a firm grip on the chambermaid's brown locks, Lucy pulled, twisted, lurched, and clawed until the surly girl wept bitter tears from a pair of hazel-brown eyes.

"It isn't fair!" Lucy grumbled, taking notice of herself.

The girl was mean, bumptious, and haughty, yet she spawned into this world with a slightly above-average characteristic undeservedly! Moreover, the fact she wasn't even above in position-or age, for that matter-was the most audacious part of it all. "Beautiful, enchanting, golden-eyed," she digressed, "yet terribly disrespectful leprechaun!"

Finally set free at Lucy's volition, the girl's face stained red, over wrath with each embarrassing plea of surrender while remembering her previous display of pomposity. In the same manner, she scootched into a corner and sat, cradling her hair whilst watching her senior resume stowing gowns, shoes, and jewelry; fervent and eerily nonchalant after the ruthless thrashing.

"Are there any other suitcases? How many did she come with? And have you unpacked plenty?"

The girl gave no answer.

Her victimized face morphed into impish undertones, wearing an expression that plotted revenge of the highest order.

"Surely, all pieces of jewelry haven't been unpacked. How many pairs of shoes are accounted for, do you know?"

Still, nothing.

"On Merthingham's grave, say something!"

"You just assaulted me, you crazy bitch!"

"AND I WILL GLADLY DO IT AGAIN IF YOU DON'T START TALKING, YOU LEPRECHAUN!"

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE—WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT, ANYWAYS!"

What did she mean "What was that?" A leprechaun was a cereal-box, Irish icon who was sold alongside every breakfast meal that ever existed, Lucy was about to say, but ceased oral mobility after realizing the apparent confusion.

She felt utterly abashed.

Stupid.

Despite reincarnating at infancy into this world, it was hard to break "illiterate habits," as locals called them here—this one amongst others—like relating personalities from her past life with applicable persons presently. She was always teased for one thing or another whichever ill-fated existed she spawned into. Like in grade school, "friends" would grovel waste into her locker for geeking out about villainess Eun Hyung for days on end. Or how in Merthingham's orphanage slums, where Disney princesses or superheroes were dismissed as illiterate tales, kids would mock her for delusional, unworldly imaginings.

But how could someone who acted and looked—for the most part—like a leprechaun not be addressed as a leprechaun?

"IT D-DOESN'T MATTER!" She then stammered.

Stammered.

Everyone knew it was the first step to revealing vulnerability, hence making an opponent believe they still possessed the upper hand in a situation; a mortal mistake in any confrontational front. So, quietly, she eluded the conversation.

"I've got no time for this."

The damage was already done, though.

"You're foolish!"

"I know that already. I do not need your iteration!"

"The gardens? In the daytime? Their highnesses just finished afternoon tea and clean-up is still in order. More aristocrats are bent to show between now and into the evening—you will be caught, no doubt!" Lucrecia slowly stood up and approached the door. "The second prince does not take lightly to servants acting against his orders."

Was that a threat, Lucy thought.

"So, sure you may have secured a carriage... but you just bought yourself an enemy of the worst kind, you mental bitch!"

An enemy? "This little..." She looked up from her work, ready to spare another round of thorough thrashing, but found herself alone. "THAT'S RIGHT! RUN, YOU COWARD!"

She had to say it.

How could anyone not say it?

"YOU FUCKING LEPRECHAUN!"

* * *

Night skies settled over a sunset veneer, accentuating the castle's shine like a beacon in pitch-black darkness. This could only spell one thing; dinner preparations were in full swing. And it wasn't just any kind of banquet, either. Tonight, esteemed guests who bagged themselves first-day letters of arrivals dressed to impress. Every season's event was a chance to find oneself an eligible suitor, of course. But most importantly, every royal wedding's first pre-night would eventually become a historic moment to remember. And who wouldn't love to be present while it happened?

Money would be spent in excess; a first priority to show off the nation's splendorous wealth. Then secondly, to commemorate the next majesties from amongst a lengthy lineage, it was entirely normal to request that royal planners attempt spending more than the previous king and queen's budget in planning one's first pre-night.

Fine dining was a must, prepared, preferably, by foreign chefs. Grandiose balls would follow after the lofty meal where everyone could barvard, dance, search for possible matches; center stage being solely reserved for the new majesties, and how terribly discourteous it would be—dancing astray during the night's procession. It could end any well-bred gentleman's or lady's chance on the marriage mart instantly if they tried hogging the spotlight.

And when (if) one managed to survive that minefield of rules, etiquettes and pleasantries, after-parties in different wings would surpass every other event, lasting till sunrise. Prepared with an assortment of entertainments, they were organized to keep fickle guests enthralled just the same.

Enjoyable to the pleasured? Yes, indeed. But it was a nightmare for the palace servants. And it was just the first night, too. Five more ensued after, bearing different themes for each figurative celebration.

"At least we can thank our lucky stars the surplus of chores happens every once in a blue moon. It's not every day a person gets to partake in royal wedding events like this one while in service."

"Nobody needs ya positivity, Theresa! Neither do we need a wedding, quite frankly!" Matilda ran from one side of the kitchen to another prepping 50 plates of foie gras and instructing her girls on crucial plating etiquettes since the chef was hustling to make some surplus, last-minute jelly desserts... ingredients weren't available when requested or something, she was told.

"Do not judge me!" Theresa glowered at the easy dismissal of her feelings. "I finally get to serve their royal majesties tonight, don't you see!"

"Yea'? Good for ya!"

"How fortunate it, we were short-staffed!"

"Na for-u-nat at all!" This time, a cleaning cloth was gripped between her lips as she handled the gourmet dishes on two shaky palms. "Iz eck-tic!"

"It is what?"

"Te-i-ble!"

"'Tear a bull?'"

"Tor-tu-some!"

"'Turtle dove?' Those are certainly strange proverbials, Matilda—"

"Take this! Take this now and be on ya way!" The sweaty maid shoved the fill trays into Theresa's idle hands—idleness being an expensive, consequential leisure the staff couldn't afford at the moment. "Follow that preppily-dressed 'all boy. 'e'll lead ya to da royal dining 'all! "

"Yes, ma'am!"

"AND WHERE IN TARNATION IS LUCY!"

_ _ _

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