The Forbidden Love

Chapter One: Ana Arrives.

The wind whispers softly, blowing through my hair gently. It's calm, but the situation is chaotic. My mother's voice is trapped in my ears.
"Forgive us, my sweet child... please forgive us."
It repeats over and over, even though she is not near.
I have compassion. Understanding. I don't hate my parents' choice.
Mother, Father, two brothers, four sisters.
One brother was sold for a similar reason. His job, I can't remember now, but the donation lasted us four years. We all cried while eating freshly baked bread and butter, until the moment the sun had set and our candles burned out.
But the idea of a large family surviving in a one-bedroom cabin on a weaving position is unrealistic.
Love doesn't fill empty stomachs.
They allowed her to walk me to the wagon.
I was sold to be a maid for a royal family. They gave my family three pigs and fifty stone for their great donation to serve royal families-me. The fifty stone should last them approximately two years if they use it sparingly. The pigs they can breed, sell their babies, eat them... or both.
My name is Ana Weaver, named after my family's traditional work-weaving clothing for the lowest of low class families.
I take a pause before entering. The guards stand beside me. Gentle. They understand. They let me take a breath and calm my nerves before stepping inside.
"Best of luck," one says quietly.
The teacher enters the room.
She is tall, lanky, old. Her hair is pinned back, grey, but shiny and healthy. A soft peach color is plastered against her lips, not quite complimenting her features. A blush of the same color is smoothed out onto her wrinkled cheekbones.
She wears a midnight blue gown, ruffled at the elbows, smoothing out as it stretches towards her wrists. A peach-colored trim lays past her ankles.
Her eyes scan me like I am not a girl at all, but something that needs to be examined. Measured. Judged.
I stand as still as I can, though my stomach twists and my throat tightens like it's trying to close itself.
"My, oh my," the teacher says, now standing in front of me. Her hand cups my cheek softly.
"You are a very beautiful girl," she adds, turning my face left and right, her hand still resting gently on my cheek.
"Though... you do need meat on your bones. When was the last time you've eaten?"
"Two days, madam," I answer.
Her eyes widen slightly, then relax within a second.
"And what was the meal?"
"Rice and bread," I say.
After the first day, the stomach pain stops. My body is used to the discomfort. You learn to ignore it.
She removes her hand from my cheek, turning and grabbing my shoulders while nodding at the guards.
"Thank you, gentlemen."
They both nod in sync in response and turn to leave, gently shutting the door behind them.
And with that, it is official. I am sold. I am left without my family, now. Forever.
She guides me down the hall, the walls full of decorative items: silver plates, polished spoons, and paintings of scenery-mountains rising against rivers, forests stretching into the distance. The rug beneath our feet is a soft ruby red, covering the long hallway and muffling our steps.
A young man stands at the grand doors.
He wears a black jacket with a matching vest and a white ruffled shirt, paired with fitted pants and shiny black shoes. His brunette hair is slicked back, polished and precise.
He opens the doors as we approach. Inside sits a long table with nine chairs, each place set with gold plates and spoons, a silk white tablecloth stretched beneath them. Several candles stand along the table, their flames flickering across polished tea kettles and small pitchers of cream and sugar, each gleaming with a glossy sheen.
"Sit, my child," the teacher says, pulling out a chair. I sit as I'm told, my hands folded neatly in my lap. She sits across from me, her eyes watching every movement I make.
She sits back and grabs a bell that had been sitting on the table beside her, one I had not even noticed until her hand closed around it.
She lifts it and shakes it, creating a soft but loud rattle that echoes slightly across the long hall.
Soon, a table attendant enters, carrying a thick stone tray. Upon it rests a white ceramic cup, a large, heavy wooden spoon, and a plate of food: meat, cheese, bread, and vegetables.
The attendant sets the tray down carefully, placing the white cup in front of the teacher and laying the thick wooden spoon beside it.
The lady continues to stand there, her hands resting at her sides.
"What is your name, my child?"
"Ana Weaver, Madam," I reply.
"Ah, a Weaver? That trait will come to good use," she says.
"Yes, Madam," I say quietly.
"Now, Ana. All my children will eat here. They will enjoy breakfast, lunch, and dinner." She pauses. "If my children are well-behaved, they may enjoy a sweet meal-fruit and berries, occasionally tart pastries. But those who misbehave do not get these things, and may be disciplined. All of my children, including you, are here to learn etiquette. You cannot have poor behavior when serving royal families. That-" she pauses again, reaching over and grabbing the kettle, "-represents them poorly. And no one wants that."
She looks at the woman, giving her a nod. The woman grabs the plate of food and sets it carefully in front of me.
"This is Elisabeth, my personal servant. Her proper title would be Lady's Servant."
The teacher pours tea into her cup and takes a sip.
"Here, my dear."
She wraps her long, wrinkled fingers around the wooden spoon.
"Eat."
I scan the silverware. My mother had spoken to me about this once, trying to prepare me just a little. I grab the largest fork and the largest knife, my hands trembling slightly-from excitement at the food, and partially because I feel the teacher's eyes boring into me.
I cut into the meat. It had been many years since I'd tasted anything like it. My father had gotten it once-though I never asked how-and there had always been just enough for each of us to take a bite. The meat melted in my mouth, settling the ache that had once been in my stomach until my family's beans were ready. And now, as I stare at this meat, I think of them-wishing they were here to enjoy it with me.
I lean forward, cutting another piece and bringing it to my lips. It's hot-but delicious.
Before I can swallow, the wooden spoon she holds strikes my hand, hard. A burning pain radiates up my arm. I drop my silverware in reflex and clutch my hand as if to comfort myself. My eyes sting and immediately fill with tears.
"Madam... I do not know what you want of me," I whisper, my voice trembling.
"No one must see the food in your mouth. Chew with it closed," her voice still soft but firm.
"Yes, Madam," I reply.
She nods at Elisabeth, and the Lady's Servant leaves through the grand doors.
I grab my fork again, chewing carefully with my mouth closed, swallowing each bite slowly.
"Madam?"
"Yes, Ana?"
"What is your title?"
"I am the Mistress of Etiquette," she says.
"You can call me Madam, my dear." She pauses for a moment.
"Finish your meal. I will have you bathe when you are done, and dress in your assigned clothing."
I nod in response and continue my meal, savoring each bite slowly, letting the flavors linger. She finishes her tea and stands, leaving the cup behind.
I finish my meal. Elisabeth reenters the room, accompanied by another woman. Elisabeth stands quietly near the door, watching, while the other girl approaches the table to collect the dishes. She is young, like me-perhaps fourteen-and moves quickly but carefully, aware of every step.
She looks at me, her blonde hair tied neatly up. She smiles warmly.
"My title would be Kitchen Maid," she says.
After being shown the shown to the bathing room and taking a bath-

Afterwards I am escorted down another hallway. We pass several doors, until we reach my assigned room.
"Your room," Madam tells me, opening it and gesturing inside.
The room is not as beautifully decorated as the rest of the home. It is rather bare-a small bed with a sand-colored blanket and a white pillow, a desk with a single candle in the far corner, and a dresser with four drawers on the opposite side.
"I expect your bed to be made every morning, and a bath to be drawn every day. Whichever time you prefer is fine, as long as it's before breakfast or after dinner. I had you bathe now because, Ana, my dear, you looked-and smelled-of filth. I could not tell whether your hair was brown or stained from dirt. I do not want that in my home."
My cheeks flush with embarrassment.
"I am sorry," I whisper, lowering my head in slight shame.
"Do not be sorry. That is what you are born from. I'm sure others mimicked your appearance in your home and your village. Anyway, there are several outfits for you in the bottom drawer. Undergarments and socks are at the very top; the others are empty."
"Yes, Madam. Thank you."
A pause, then I gather courage. "I do have a question."
"Yes?"
"How did you come by this title?"
Madam leans back slightly, her eyes distant, as if recalling decades of memory.
"I grew up with a mother and a grandmother who practiced the same thing, which created instant connections-and clients. Or... bought clients, I suppose," she says, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"My grandmother was taught by her mother, who was taught by hers, and in turn, I was taught by mine. Unfortunately, the tradition ends with me, as the gods did not see fit for me to become a mother. But, as I've said, you are all my children in your own ways. You know the wooden spoon-that has followed each generation, as have the whips, though I do not use them."
I swallow hard, trying to digest her words. The weight of her history, of the tradition she carries, presses against my chest. Yet, in her gaze, there is a strange warmth-an invitation, though strict, to learn.
"Could the Lady's Servant take your place when the time comes?" I ask, curiosity pushing past my nerves.
"I suppose so," Madam replies, "though she has a lot of training. She is very strict, but I suppose she would do well at this. You have lots of questions, my dear-such childlike curiosity. How old are you, Ana?"
"I turned fifteen a few days ago," I answer softly, lowering my gaze.