The Spare To The Throne

Chpater 50: Replacement

Something's burning. The pungent scent reeks through the room, smokey and bitter. Through closed eyes, I inhale sharply. The acrid smell is now stronger than ever. My body lurches up from the bed, eyes wide and panicky.

I choke on a scream at the sight of a middle aged woman standing in the midst of the room. Dark eyes match her ruffled apron as she holds a smokey bundle in the air. Her silver gray hair is pulled back into the tightest bun I've ever seen. Wrinkled eyes stare back at me, unmoved.

"W-who are you?" I almost bark the question.

She circulates the bundle in her hand, the smoke whisking from it dances from the burning end just before disappearing into the air.

"I am miss Priscilla Maisie Fossett Lou- Betty Windhem," her British accent is thicker than the smoke in our midst. "But you can call me Priscilla," her stiff tone resonates.

I open my mouth to say something-anything, but I'm speechless. Until several seconds pass by and she's still standing there. "W-what are you doing here?" I try my best to sound polite to the snobby named woman.

Her pink lips purse. "I am here to assist you and Xavier,"she walks over to my drawers, picking up folded shirts just before tossing them into the hamper. "Though I feel calling him by his first name is inadequate and I prefer to address Sir as His royal-"

"Hey, what are you doing?" I cut her off, pointing to the clothes in her hands.

"Why, I'm going to wash these," she says as if the answer is obvious.

"But they're already clean," I tilt my head, questioning my own sanity now. Am I hallucinating? This can't be real.

"No miss, these were not pre-treated with rose water  nor were they tumble dried with minimal heat," she shakes her head. "I can tell by the springy cotton," she rubs a finger on the the material of my clothes before tsking with disapproval. Her tone screams judgement.

I clench my jaw, stunned. "Okay, what is that smell?" I cough, covering my nose. A forced wheeze leaves my lungs.

She looks to me then to the bundle in her hands. "I'm saging with bitter leaf. Negativity comes in different forms and the aura in here is almost suffocating," she finishes emptying out my drawers, opening a window nearby. "You can leave if you want to. I should be done in thirty minutes,"

Turning away from me, she takes the burning sage into the bathroom. I sit on my bed dumbfounded. Did she just-

Before I could take anymore of this woman's uptight regime, I climb off the bed, speed walking to the prick I know is up to this. I dash across the house, my anger pulsating like blood. When I reach his door, I don't even bother to knock.

"Who the hell is she?" My voice echoes just like he sudden slam of the door against the wall. I come into the room, arms wide with disbelief.

A snazzy looking Xavier turns from his dresser, the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder now switches into his hand.

"Attendez, lasissez-moi vous rappeler (Hold on, let me call you back.)" his voice is smoother than butter. He ends the phone, placing it down.

"Are you crazy?" The question comes out in a heart beat. Raised brows question my outburst.

"No, what's crazy is miss witchcraft over there fogging my room with air pollution itself," I point out the door in the direction of my room.

"Don't ever barge in my room like that again," he shakes his head, my own problem completely disregarded.

I take in his gray plaid vest and matching fitted pants. His moca colored Italian shoes look sleek with its glossy leather. He brings his left arm up to his face, clasping on a silver Patek. A fit perfect for the opulent man himself.