Hade's Rose

Chapter Three: Denial and Lies

For the last two months, my routine was the same. I trudged up the stairs to the royal wing each morning and cleaned King Hadrian's quarters. My limp was an easy excuse as to why it perhaps took me a little longer than would typically be expected. Then, I spent the afternoon doing mind numbing, yet non-strenuous jobs in the kitchen. If I could spare the energy, I would read quietly in my room after dinner. Or, sit companionably with Edna or some of the girls I grew up with. I rarely mixed with anyone else, my shy reserve and secret predicament barring me from making new friends. Although, everyone was increasingly complimentary of a new sense of energy they observed in me, and more colour in my skin. Edna assumed it was from a less rigorous work schedule, and repeatedly told me she was pleased that she had reassigned me. I always smiled thinly at such compliments, not knowing how to respond.

In all my time in his quarters, I never saw the King. I was told I would probably never see him, as he was busy with duties and meetings on the other side of the palace or was travelling around his lands. Since the scandal of the Bane Pack, which had been revealed little over a year ago, there were increasing amounts of investigation checks into other fringe packs to check they were obeying the law.

There was less to do when he was away, no laundry or debris to clear up. To ensure I spent enough time amongst his things, I took those opportunities as an excuse to do a deep clean; I would tell the guard I needed to mop and wax the floors, or on one occasion... scrub the walls. I think the guard, who I have since learnt is called Henry, must think I'm incredibly dedicated and meticulous. Perhaps bordering on OCD.

Over the last few months Henry had never given up trying to get to know me. Each day he asked me how I was, or how I was settling in. I always gave as brief an answer as I could, often blushing with embarrassment. He was charming, in a roguish way, which just silenced me even more. I was an only child and never had the confidence or interest to mix with any boys; double the fact that Henry was a Wolfman.

With time, I felt I got to somewhat know the King. When fellow servants told me about how busy the board rooms were with various emissaries and ambassadors, but how cool and collected our King was... I quietly noticed the increased depletion of whisky in his cabinet, scattered or scrunched up papers (perhaps balled in frustration late at night) and half-eaten plates of food. I noticed a certain fondness for sweet treats: hot chocolate, small candies and the occasional pastry, which was rather amusing to me. The thought of my formidable royal mate drinking cocoa with cream somewhat humanised him in my mind.

He never seemed to have company, not as far as I could tell. No extra glasses or crockery had ever been sent for; he was clearly a man who liked his solitude. Unsurprisingly, he was fastidious in nature, everything had a home and never strayed far away from it. His taste in books were intriguing, where possible I tried to copy what he read: classical works, political history, some poetry. Anything written in another language was lost to me, but the rest I enjoyed immensely; forming various opinions as I went, wishing to discuss with someone what I thought, but too scared to say anything in case people grew curious of my source of inspiration.

Despite my disability, I was more fortunate than most growing up. My parents often encouraging me to read whatever they could scrounge: cook books, stories, odd documents. Whatever it was, we would cosy up as a three in their bedroom and read some bedraggled discovery of the week. Often times, if it wasn't something that naturally leant itself to being a story, we would either scavenge it for new vocabulary or used it as the basis for ideas. The dry spiel on how to make a spicy foreign dish became the beginnings of an Arabian plot, or a poster advertising entertainment for the Wolves' town became a whole evening's inspiration for circus tales or homemade ballads.

When I first came to this city, I couldn't believe the freedom in which humans and wolves alike wandered into book shops, public libraries and museums. My energy was much stronger then, on my weekly day off I would peruse them all in rapture. Writing long letters back home of all that I'd read and seen, enclosing copies of things when I could afford too. But, as the months wore on, the forewarned sickness began to creep over me. My day off was quickly used for sleeping, my mind stagnated as my appetite for food and life diminished, and my letters home became shorter and more lifeless. I dread to think how my parents must have worried, for only they knew of my predicament; a carefully avoided secret in all our correspondence.