Maid to Order Ch. 01

Your mother strides away, leaving the girl standing there, still stock still, but with tears rolling down her pink cheeks. You stop and quickly take hold of her hand and pat it. The maid gasps softly in surprise, but replies to the smile you give her with a nod and a brave smile of her own.

Your mother is already two feet away from you so you quickly but unobtrusively catch up with her. Soon you reach the end of the line and your mother has a quick word with Pyrrha about being stricter with regards to the staff's uniform. Pyrrha nods respectfully, but when your mother passes she glances at you, but this time, instead of the usual stare of disapproval, she smiles and pats you on the head.

Your mother suddenly turns around and in alarm you hurry after her. But the memory of that warm and surprisingly gentle and unexpected head-pat haunts the rest of your day.

* * *

"Yes," says your father that night at dinner. "I think they shall all work out splendidly." He tucks heartily into the Filet de boeuf rôti en croûte de champignons Chloe has prepared for your evening meal.

Your mother, never one to ever agree with your father on anything, merely dabs her mouth with her napkin, gives the slightest of nods and turns to you. "You've barely touched your food. Is everything alright?"

You know your mother must be in the most excellent of moods given that she seldom asks you anything of the sort. You shake your head. The truth is you've been thinking about what happened with Chloe - the sauce you're eating has obviously used the bouillon you tasted with her - and you can't help but remember Pyrrha's head-pat and the way Maki called you "duckling". But perhaps foremost in your mind is your next French lesson. Lydia has promised to read one of Baudelaire's Pièces condamnées - his poems banned from publication - and the thought is most distracting.

"No doubt worrying about your latest assignment," said your mother, reading your mind with that dangerously accurate penetration she has. "That new tutor does seem to be working out well. You really do need to take your studies more seriously! You well know that it's only two months until the Midsummer dinner, and of course she will be there."

You almost choke on your steak. Oh god. Her. The only 'she' who would be referred to by the bare italicised pronoun by your mother is the crown princess of the Principality of San Monorra, the Prinzessin Annmarie-Franciska Saxe-Holstein-Castell. Your beloved. Your intended. That strange young woman who - well, your mother refers to her as having a 'strong character', but if she wasn't a princess no doubt she would just be called weird. Your parents have always thought of her as your perfect match - similar in age and from an ancient and monied family with a very sound portfolio of investments (your mother's investigators had weighed everything up, including the Swiss Bank accounts, to the very Rubel). They're well aware, of course, of her horse fixation, but they know nothing of her true obsession.

Power.

You once spent an extremely alarming half-hour speaking with her at the inauguration of the French Premier - she had looked you up and down like she was sizing up the purchase of a studhorse, murmuring all the time. She was not unlovely - but how could that make up for her dead, doll-like eyes, her harsh lips and her incessant talk about bloodlines and genealogies.

"You know of course," she told you, her soft but relentless voice somehow easily heard over the sound of the raucous fanfare. "That any son we had would, given a few timely deaths, be legally and by bloodline the rightful heir to the Holy Roman Empire."

Timely deaths. She always speaks like that. Of course, she and your mother get along very well indeed. And you suspect that if the Prinzessin mentioned this plan to give her a future Roman Emperor as a grandchild she would be extremely pleased.

At the moment, however, your mother is less than pleased, and her dinnertime airing of grievances continues: "... and yet your French is still an embarrassment, despite your tutor's excellent attention to discipline, and..." She quickly warms to the subject of your being a general source of disappointment to her and you pray that something, anything, will save you from one of her rants.

And then - a miracle! Your father yawns.

Your mother stops, mid-complaint, and glares at him, ready to level him with similar recriminations - apple not falling far from tree, etc. etc. - but then an even more incredible thing happens.

Your mother herself yawns!

Stunned, you stare at her, as does your father, stifling another yawn of his own.

And then your mother yawns again - again! And she nods her head. Nods!

There's a click of a finger and sudden movement from every corner of the room. You turn to see Pyrrha at the head of the table, and around her the orderly bustle of the wait staff.

"Do hurry up," she murmurs with that soft but authoritative air she has, "Their excellencies are clearly finished with the meal and are ready for bed." A flick of her red hair and a sharp stare and the chambermaids waiting at the side of the dining room hurry forward with nervous energy.

"Yes," murmurs your father. "Yes, I am rather tired."

"Of course you are," your mother mutters, but sleep weighs her words down. "After all of that wine that you... that you drank..."

Pyrrha is suddenly beside you. "No doubt you are ready to retire for the evening yourself, your excellency?" Her hazel eyes fix yours and you're aware of the heat of her body, the clean, unscented soap fragrance of her body.

You gulp and nod. You really hadn't been hungry and any excuse to escape from one of your mother's rants is more than welcome. You stand up, bid goodnight to your bleary-eyed parents, and suddenly there's a waiter pushing in your chair and a chambermaid leading you to your room.

Ah. As you climb the main stairs you think over Lydia's assignment - and Lydia herself. Your mother was not wrong that she's single-handedly rescued you from your appallingly rustic French. You conjugate demeurer over and over in your head, a different person with each step you take. There's enough time before your usual bath in which to finish that assignment off and hopefully coax one of those incredible girlish smiles of praise from her.

The maid opens the door and you step into twilight. Something seems wrong with the lights and you're about to turn and call on the maid when you see Lydia sitting on your bed in the dusky orange light of candles arranged on your study desk.

You don't recognise her at first. Gone are her half-moon glasses and her pencil-skirt. Instead she's wearing a red dress which shimmers like flowing lava under the flickering candlelight, and what the material doesn't cover, which is a large area indeed, her bare skin shines like copper.

"Oh, you're here," she murmurs. She pats the bed beside her. "It seems you have taken my lesson about punctuality to heart. Very good."

You stand there and stare for a moment as the door is closed softly behind you with a click. Heart racing, you awkwardly take a spot beside her, as close as you dare.

"Why so unusually reserved?" she asks. "Are you surprised, perhaps? Did you forget that I promised to read you some Baudelaire if you did well in your last assignment?" She inclines her elegant head towards your desk. "It's sitting there, marked for you to read later at your leisure. An excellent piece of work. And so now..." She leans past you, the expanse of her bared neck and cleavage brushing against your back as she retrieves a small palm-sized book from your side table. "I shall keep my side of the bargain."

She licks a finger and finds her place in the book, parts her glistening lips to speak, but then abruptly stops and closes the book.

"But wait. This is all wrong. One does not read - or appreciate - Baudelaire without a glass of wine." She reaches down beside the bed and retrieves two glasses and a bottle. "Borrowed from your father's excellent cellars." She winks. "Oh, it's not stealing since you're the heir - and you don't mind if we indulge ourselves a little, surely?"

You shake your head. Your parents never let you drink wine, despite you being old enough. Your mother claims you don't have the self-discipline to control yourself if you have too much, always with a sharp glance at your father.

Lydia pops the cork and pours you two glasses. "Well," she says, lifting her glass to yours. "Shall we make a toast, then?"

You take the wine and glance away from Lydia's pale blue eyes which are staring at you rather intently.

"No!" she says, with some force. "You must always look into the eyes of the one with whom you are sharing a toast. Otherwise, you will curse yourself with seven years of bad sex."

Seven years of bad sex? Seven years of sex doesn't sound terrible at all, even bad sex. But you do as Lydia says and, swallowing, keep in contact with her own, pale blue eyes.

"There," she says. "Formidable!" And you clink your glasses together.

Your eyes remain locked as you sample the wine. It's hot and fiery and sweet and delicious and you drink a generous mouthful. Lydia, you notice, touches her lips but lightly to the red liquid. Probably she's a bit weak with wine.

As you take your glass away from your lips she does the same, and at no time does her gaze slip from yours.

"Mmmm," she says. "You have done very well. You drink like a man." She places her own glass on the side-table. "Please, if you wish to have more, do not let me stop you."

You take another drink, 'drinking like a man' as Lydia calls it. You feel a little dizziness after you swallow this equally delicious mouthful, but it quickly passes.

You shyly glance at Lydia and as expected she is still looking at you.

"Perhaps," she asks. "The wine has made you sleepy?"

You shake your head. No, if anything the wine has kindled a fire in your veins. Lydia, her beautiful porcelain features, her graceful white neck and plunging décolletage are as intoxicating as the wine is. Emboldened, you move yourself closer. She invited you here tonight for a reason, of course. You know you should bravely accept her challenge - for that's obviously what all this is. You want to show her that it's not just drinking you do like a man.

But Lydia, despite her earlier flirtatiousness, turns suddenly coy. She quickly takes up the bottle of wine and refreshes your glass.

"Some more, perhaps?"

You shake your head, but Lydia's eyes flash with disappointment and you accept the proffered glass and drain it.

Again a wave of dizziness strikes you and leaves you feeling a bit light headed. Well, this is the most wine you've drunk at once, after all.

Lydia stares at you. "Still you feel nothing?"

Well, you're definitely feeling something. You blush. So she wants you to make the first move. You put your hand on hers and she stares at it. Her skin is warm to the touch and you want to feel more of it.

But suddenly the door to your room flies open. You tear your hand from Lydia's and leap to your feet, expecting one of your mother's pet maids who so often spy on you - or, horror of horrors! - your mother herself. But it's the chef, Chloe!

Hands on her wide hips she stands in the doorway and stares at the two of you. Then she turns to Lydia.

"What's taking so long?" she asks. "Give him the wine. Pyrrha's waiting!"

Lydia's face is distraught. "But he's drunk two glasses already!"

Chloe looks taken aback, but then she grins. "You just haven't given him enough," she says with a sigh. She picks up the bottle, brings it to her mouth and takes a long swig.

It's your turn to be amazed, but Chloe takes the bottle away, grabs your shoulders and plants her wine-slick lips against yours.

Shocked, you open your mouth and Chloe's tongue, sweet and thick with wine, slips into yours - and with it comes a flood of the liquor she's holding in her mouth. You almost choke but you have no other choice than to swallow.

You fall against your bookcase, gasping, and Chloe cocks a hip and grins. "Now that's how you do it!" She glances back at Lydia. "You always were a prude, Lydia. You should have left this up to me."

Lydia is horrified. "But the drug!"

Chloe chuckles. "I'm totally immune. The trick is taking a tiny dose over a long time."

A drug? A horrible realisation strikes you, then. You fight off the rising fog in your head and struggle to your feet.

The smile slides from Chloe's face and she and Lydia exchange anxious looks, but they make no move as you edge away from them, just watch you intently.

"Any moment now," says Chloe.

But whatever they're expecting to happen doesn't and you make it to your desk.

"Oh, la vache!" gasps Lydia. "He must have the constitution of a stallion!"

"A big-hearted stallion," says Chloe with a whistle. "There were enough doses for the whole family in that bottle!"

The cottony feeling in your head has grown thicker now and it takes all your concentration to slide the top drawer out, but you manage it just as the door, still ajar, flies open a second time and Maki sprints into the room.

"Thank f—k!" she swears. "I thought for certain you guys must have got shanked by some guards we missed." She glances at you, then at Chloe and Lydia. "What the hell are you doing? Pyrrha's pissed off!"

"He's drunk enough for three people," says Chloe. "Maybe it's a family immunity?"

"Family immunity nothing," says Maki. "Mom and pop were sacks of potatoes while I was tying them up."

Tying them up?

Maki slips a knife out of her jacket, the same blade she used to kill the hawk-wasp before. "This is taking forever. Look, let's just deal with duckling here the old-school way and get going." She turns the knife absent-mindedly over in her hands. "I'll be careful. I won't scratch up the merchandise much."

You were hesitating before, thinking that this might be some weird prank or a mistake or even some twisted test of your mother's. But now your hand finds the grip of the handgun hidden in the drawer and you draw it out.

All three women look at you at once - Lydia, still on the bed with Chloe standing beside her and Maki who's closest to you. The 'gardener', if that's indeed what she is, watches you as you raise the gun and point it at her.

"Stay back!" you cry, but your voice is muffled by the strange dizziness rapidly filling your mind and body.

Maki chuckles. "Well, looks like the duckling's got himself a handgun. That's a pretty big weapon for such a cute little guy. Here, give it to your big-sister Maki before you hurt yourself." She takes a few steps towards you.

All those hours of training your father insisted on pay off. Even through the murk of the drug pouring through you, you raise the gun and fire.

There's a loud noise but it's muffled and seems far away. Maki stops dead, fear and surprise on her face. The portrait of your great-grandmother, hanging on the wall just beside her, swings once, a bullet hole right in the centre, and then falls to the floor.

Your heart skips a beat. You weren't trying to hit Maki and luckily your hand was steady enough to pull it off.

"Shit," Maki breathes. She quickly composes herself and stretches her hands out, the knife in one palm. "Okay, okay. Let's not do anything rash here, your excellency."

Her dark eyes flick to a spot behind you. You don't turn around. It's the oldest trick in the book. Distracted, she'd be on you in a moment.

And so you're shocked when the gun is kicked from your hand from behind. You swing around to see Pyrrha there, one elegant stockinged leg ending its downswing. Then she's on you before you can blink and she chops one hand down onto where your neck meets your shoulder. You slump straight down, but Pyrrha is there to catch you.

"Sorry," she murmurs. "But we've got to move. Now."

She swings you with surprising strength over her shoulder. Your vision is a blur, now, whether from the drug's effect or from her blow, but you can still make out the other three women snapping to attention. Lydia pulls a rifle from under your bed while Chloe draws a gun from her voluminous cleavage.

"Come on!" shouts Pyrrha. And then you're being quickly carried down the stairs, jogging up and down as she jumps every second step with the others close behind. You look up groggily to see your mother and father along with the other staff tied up in the under the opposite stairs. They're not moving.

You struggle, but Pyrrha slaps your butt. "Stop that," she says. "They're fine, just out cold. Better worry about your own skin."

She's halfway across the hallway when you're enveloped by an explosion of shattering glass. Pyrrha flings you to the floor and you lie there, stunned, as you watch her and Lydia push over the hallway table seconds before the sound of automatic gunfire begins.

"Shit," swears Maki, sliding in beside you and shouting at Pyrrha over the gunfire. "We miss someone?"

Pyrrha shakes her head and the other two women turn to you.

There's no one else. Your security force has never had automatic weapons. Then a terrible realisation grips you.

No. It can't be.

But then an all-too familiar voice removes all doubt.

"Cease fire!" it shouts with imperious feminine command.

No. Nononono.

You squirm forward to look around the edge of the table, needing to see her to really believe it. Even through the haze of the drug there's no mistaking her, standing tall and blonde in a red cocktail dress with a MP5 machine pistol at her side, flanked by half a dozen soldiers in full tactical gear. She gazes contemptuously across the destroyed hall.

"I am the Prinzessin Annmarie-Franciska Saxe-Holstein-Castell and you have my property. Hand him over at once!"

Maki grins at you. "That your girlfriend?"

You don't really know what to say to that.

"Or else what?" Pyrrha shouts back.

The answer is a hail of gunfire which tears through the hall. In a panic you look back at your parents and the others, tied up and still comatose. Shreds of the bannister rain about them.

"Stop!" you cry out.

"Seems the Prinzessin doesn't really care about her future in-laws," murmurs Pyrrha.

You try to crawl out from behind the table even though moving is like trying to push your arms and legs through a universe of molasses, but Maki grabs you by the belt.

"Don't worry duckling," she says. "I've got this. Your girl looks like the monologuing type." Maki raises her head and shouts, her voice loud even over the gunfire. "What's with the fancy get-up, Prinzessin? You usually wear a cocktail dress to a fire fight?"

Annemarie waves her hand and the gunfire stops. "I was otherwise socially engaged when my agents reported your presence to me." She sneers. "Quite an elaborate plan. The rebels must be offering you a lot of money. That's all you mercenaries care for, isn't it?"

The rebels? They're going to hand you over to them? Through your daze you find one final tiny reserve of energy and jerk out of Maki's grip. You're squirming from behind the table when you see the bay windows to the left of Annemarie shatter. Then the wall buckles inwards and explodes in a cloud of mortar, glass and shattered brick. Annemarie and her soldiers vanish in the grey-white billow and you see the headlights of your parent's Rolls-Royce Phantom, now a dented wreck, through the haze.

The driver's door flies open and Chloe is there, gesturing wildly. You feel Pyrrha lift you up onto her back and dash across the shattered remnants of the hallway. You're unceremoniously tossed on the backseat while Chloe is already pulling car away.

Everything which happens next is a blur as you finally succumb to the drug. There's the screech of tires, the shouting of the 'maids', the constant staccato of gunfire, the whipping of helicopter blades and bright lights slipping across your vision until finally total darkness draws its wings over your eyes.