Her Rightful Place

5: The Confrontation

"Mireille! Wake up, sleepyhead!" a cheerful, all-too-familiar female voice entreats the dozing seamstress. Mireille jolts awake, disturbed by the idea that someone has invaded her privacy. Her fears are slightly assuaged by the sight of her best friend standing over her tiny bed, grinning like a maniac.

"Christelle...What are you doing here? I locked all the doors last night...." Mireille groans groggily.

"Maybe so, but you gave me a key to the back door, remember?" the blonde grins, swinging the key on a dirty thread before Mireille's sleep-blurred eyes. "Now, why the high security?"

Mireille groans again and hauls herself out of bed, knowing that no more rest is to be had with the perpetually energetic Christelle present.

"The Queen sent Prince Xavier to take me to the palace to work exclusively as her seamstress. I refused, much to the Prince's chagrin. He kept trying to convince me to go. Agnes's broom attacked him to get him out of the house and then I locked all the doors."

Christelle stares incredulously at her raven-haired friend and follows her as she leaves her bedroom and sets about preparing breakfast. "You defied the Prince and the Queen?! God's wounds, what were you thinking?!"

"Your brazen spirit no doubt possessed me, else I found my own strength to be bold. Anyway, the Prince didn't seem to have too much of a problem with my willfulness, but he did seem very concerned by the idea of what the Queen'll do to me when I refuse her to her face."

"As anyone in their right mind would! Honestly, Mireille, even I have limits."

Mireille tosses her head defiantly, disturbing her tangled black tresses, before taking a bite of her simple meal of bread and tea. "What do I care for limits now? This is a matter of principle, darn it! I will not work for that despicable woman, no matter what the decision costs me. Besides, 'tis about time someone told the spoiled royal tyrant no."

"Haven't you endured enough abuse for one lifetime?" Christelle eyes the multitude of scars on her friend's body that are visible around her nightdress, a mere fraction of the scars that mar her ivory skin. Just the sight of the scars overwhelms Christelle with a mixture of regret, outrage, and pity.

"Yes, but by the same token I've lived long enough working under a tyrant, and I refuse to work under a tyrant ever again. I'm my own master now, and that's all I ask," Mireille refutes with flashing eyes.

"You've told the Prince so?" Christelle questions, eyebrows threatening to fly off her face.

"Yes, actually."

"Has he seen your scars? Does he know your story?"

"No, and he won't, either, not if I have anything to say about it. He's already agreed to stand up to his mother with me. He claims she'll come for me today, since he couldn't get me to the palace last night."

"Bit impatient, isn't she?"

"Quite, but we knew this before. It's a splendid match for all of her other faults."

"I still think you're being a fool. You'll be killed if you go through with this," Christelle insists.

"So be it. She still won't have her seamstress if she kills me. I'll still win," Mireille answers airily.

"Is that all that matters to you?"

Mireille shrugs, swallowing the last of her scanty breakfast and leaving her house in favour of the latrine. Christelle follows and stands outside the tiny outhouse.

"No, but I'd rather die than let her have her way."

"She's still the Queen, whatever else she may be--"