I Am Royal

Where do I go from here?

Willow flew down the staircase, her footsteps pounding loudly on the wooden boards. Down, down, down, and she just barely remembered to stop at the right floor. She didn't hear anything just yet, but sprinted to be safe. Down the hall, veer around the surprised housekeeper, jump over the cord to her vacuum, take the corner way too sharply, and bang through the door into the kitchen- the smaller one, with the nice people who'd served her breakfast.

They looked surprised to see her back so soon, and so distraught. She was dimly aware that she must look awful: all out of breath, pale, panicky and stumbling. But she managed to formulate words, even if they came out as a weakly croaked,

"Where's the back door?"

They were confused, concerned, and not acting quickly enough. Willow straightened her shoulders, calmed her face like her mother had always taught her to do, and tried to catch her breath.

"I need to use the back door. Or whatever door gets me furthest into the gardens, please. It's an emergency."

"Are... are you in some sort of trouble, dear?" one of the plump woman cooks asked, her brow wrinkling in concern.

"Well... Prince Roger isn't very happy," Willow said truthfully, and she felt another sob heaving up in her chest. She couldn't conceal it in time, and they mistook it for a sign of sadness, not fury and heartbreak. Probably the poor little puppy was getting kicked by her master again.

"Is... is my lord looking for you?" the cook asked hesitantly and Willow almost screamed, well duh, that's why I need to get out of here!

But then she realized that his will was above hers. His commands and desires trumped hers any time. So she looked the woman straight in the eye and said, with every amount of coolness and control she could muster,

"Well, you don't know that yet."

The woman hesitated but a tall black man in a chef's hat stepped forward quickly and said cheerfully,

"The back door, Miss Willow? Why, that's this way, though I can't imagine why you'd want it."

Willow had never been more grateful in all her young life. The man strode down a small corridor with lengthened strides. He sensed the crisis and was going out on a limb. He could get fired for this. But he seemed determined, and she jogged to keep up with him as he turned into different hallways and led her through the servant's quarters. There was a small wooden door at the end, and when he opened it, she saw she was at the far end of the east wing, looking out over a patch of lawn and, in the distance, the gardens.

Now she hesitated. The man stood quietly beside her and she pondered her indecision. She hadn't planned this far ahead.

"The stables are right up ahead, Miss Willow," the man said softly. "If you'd like to take a ride, maybe out on one of the back paths. Take one of the slower horses, and you'll be gone awhile. Long enough for ol' Roger to cool down, I think."

Willow felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes and she fought desperately to keep them away. Kindness was rare, she'd learned that a long time ago. Her mother had once told her to treasure every moment of kindness you receive, because you never know how long it would have to last you through hard times.

Her mother. Who really didn't love her.

No! She loved me!

Willow turned and nodded to the man. There was a lump in her throat and she didn't dare speak. He nodded back and turned and left. For a moment she stood still, looking out past the lawn and into the gardens. There was a beautiful little grove of mango trees, just coming into bloom. They were lovely things, all soft green and pink. They reminded her of when she and her mother would seek out trees in the midst of the busy cities. When they found one, they would always name it, and her mother would bless it, calling it strong and resilient to endure the city smoke.