Tales of Arilland by Alethea Kontis

there was no chill for me that day. The angels had heard my prayers. Patience would deliver me my true love’s heart.
    I did not have an appointment, but I did not expect to see the furrier himself. “I am sorry, mademoiselle ,” said the furrier’s very new and very young apprentice. “But if it is for the baron, perhaps the master will not mind if I go to him.”
    Brave child; he looked frightened to death at the prospect of disturbing his master at work. I tried to put him at ease. “What is your name, cherie ?”
    “Jeudon, mademoiselle .”
    “Jeudon,” I smiled. “It is my own fault for arriving unannounced! I do not think we need to bother your master with this. In fact, I think you might be the perfect person for this job.” Angels, hear my prayers.
    It worked. Jeudon’s shoulders relaxed. “Anything at all, mademoiselle . For the baron.”
    “For the baron. Of course! Thank you, Jeudon. But first, I will need to see a sample of your work. I trust your master has started your training on smaller animals, n’est-ce pas ?”
    “ Oui, mademoiselle . Squirrels and rabbits and the like.”
    “I don’t suppose you’ve experimented with skunk? Polecat?”
    Jeudon’s silence at my request answered the question, but I waited him out with a grin.
    “ Mademoiselle , I would never... For the baron...”
    “I insist, dear Jeudon! Take me at my word; the baron will be ever-so-impressed that you have such a unique specimen on hand.” I reached into my apron pocket, removing seven small pennies—my meager life savings—and I sent up another prayer to those mysterious angels. “Please deliver the fur yourself. This is for your trouble.”
    “Me, mademoiselle?”
    “Yes, please, Jeudon. The baron will want to both pay you and thank you in person. I suggest you make haste!”
    The boy did not think twice before rushing into the workroom and scampering out the door with no less than three small pelts in his hand. He left no word for his master, written or otherwise. Just as well. It might be days before anyone discovered he was missing.
    Assuming, of course, that the baron understood my gift to him, but I trusted my beloved implicitly.
    I spent the next few days making ash soap in the stench-ridden bowels of the castle. It didn’t go unnoticed that every room in the castle but the study had lain unused for a month’s time. Cook had taken me to task for idling in hallways and banished me thence. The rough, oversized gloves scratched at my knuckles, raw from the cruel ministrations of her wooden spoon, but as not wearing gloves would have been a worse punishment, I bore the pain. I slowly lowered an egg into the still-warm pot of lye, fresh from the fire.
    “The baron’s called for you.”
    Cook’s announcement from the doorway startled me, and I unceremoniously dropped the egg into the pot, splashing droplets upon my gloves. The egg sank below the surface. I yanked my hand back, pulled the glove off, and fished the egg out with my long-handled spoon. The egg should have bobbed back to the top—this pot would need a bit more time on the fire. But not right now.
    I nodded, curtseyed, and slipped beneath Cook’s hefty bosom that barred the doorway. I forced my feet to slow, but my heart was flying. I wonder if he’d said my name again, out loud, with those perfect lips, or if he’d just sent a message through Poitou for “the girl who cleans the fireplace.” No matter. The baron needed me, far more than he realized.
    A full bin of ashes met me outside the study door, so I fetched the empty bin from an adjacent room before knocking on the door.
    “Enter.”
    Oh, if only you would let me. But I dared not meet his eyes. Did he suspect I’d sent the boy? “I’m here for the ashes, my lord.” I bent my knees, crossed the room to the fireplace, and stopped dead at a sight I’d never thought I’d see: Prelati on his hands and knees with a scrub brush and bucket.
    My hand was too late to hide the smile