The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

through the main hall, coming to get her. Since when did she dream of Ian?
    More to the point, since when did any dream leave her feeling quite so ... breathless?
    She repressed that line of enquiry and opened a single eye. The glimmers of pink light edging through her narrow window told her that it could be no more than an hour since the princess had finally (finally!) pronounced herself pleased enough with the preparations so that Lucy could crawl off to her room - the tiny chamber adjacent to Glory’s own - and catch at least a few short hours of sleep before the guests arrived.
    More stinking royalty.
    If Lucy lived through the week, it would be a miracle. Why couldn’t she be a cook or a scullery maid or even a laundress? Surely slaving away in the hot kitchens or over the clothes boiling away in the pots must be a stroll in the gardens compared to dancing attendance on the spoiled brat of a princess.
    Never mind. It didn’t matter. Sleep. Lovely, blessed sleep. Just a few hours, and then a strong mug or three of hot tea, and—
    “Lucinda! Get in here right this minute, you lazy girl! We forgot the peas!”
    Lucy startled awake with a jerk and slammed her head so hard into the stone wall that she was sure to have a goose egg on her skull in a matter of hours. Not to mention the headache. She gritted her teeth, threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, swaying a little with dizziness from the pain in her head.
    “I. Am. Coming. You. Horrible. Monster,” she gritted out under her breath. Then, louder: “Coming, my lady.”
    She didn’t bother to put a sprightly tone in her voice. Glory wouldn’t have believed it anyway. The last time Lucy had sounded sprightly was the day she’d left a very wet and slimy toad in Glory’s bed. She grinned at the memory but then sighed.
    It was sad to live on the memory of a childish rebellion that had happened nearly eleven years ago.
    Lucy stumbled into Glory’s room, taken aback as always at the virulent pinkness of it. Wall hangings, rugs, bed coverlets, and even Glory herself, were all a vision in nauseating pink. And rose. And red-tinged violet. It was like walking into the inside of a sow’s stomach.
    She rubbed her eyes again, hoping it would go away. It didn’t. It never did.
    “What are you talking about, Glory? What peas?”
    “That’s ‘your Highness’,” Glory snapped. “Or ‘milady’. At least while our guests are here. I can’t have it thought that I allow the serving wenches to address me with such familiarity.”
    “Serving wenches? Serving wenches? Whose shoulder have you cried on more times than either of us can count? Whose bed did you climb into for safety and comfort whenever there was a thunderstorm - and that up until you were fifteen years old?” Lucy asked with what she thought was admirable calm. “Mayhap you should rethink that term, or I’ll find out if Magda can come help you this week.”
    Glory gasped at the idea of the pig keeper as her personal servant. “Magda? She hasn’t bathed in months. You must be joking. Don’t forget that you owe me—”
    “I owe you nothing,” Lucy said flatly. “I’ve spent the past eleven years working far and above the value of my keep, in spite of the promise your mother made to mine. I turn twenty-one in three days and am only staying this week as a favour to the Glory I once loved as a sister.”
    Glory had the grace to look abashed, but only for a span of seconds. “You know you cannot leave me, twenty-one or no. There is no place for you to go.”
    “There is the world, Glory. There is the world. Or do you forget?” Lucy waved her arm and the scattered pillows, clothes and assorted frippery covering every inch of Glory’s floor flew gracefully to their assigned places in trunks and the wardrobe.
    “Now. What peas?”
    “Oh, sure. You had to ask. ‘What peas?’ Addle-pated twit,” Lucy muttered sourly as she slammed the final mattress down onto its gilded wooden frame with a thump. For the past hour and a half, she’d stomped up and down the corridor, crawling under mattresses in the guest chambers to deposit a single pea-sized iron pellet underneath each one. Finally she’d come to the royal chamber, kept free for visiting princes or Fae lords, and deposited the last pea. Now she was done.
    Of course it had to be iron. Her magic didn’t work on iron or the chore would have been done in a matter of moments. That was why she was here in the first place,