Realm was a few months shy of her nineteenth birthday when fortune burst through the front door of Kovač’s Inn. Fate, it seemed, had assumed the form of a highly frazzled individual with sallow skin and threadbare hair. This stranger's eyes were wide and wild, and a fallen coif hung uselessly about her neck.
Both Realm and Gilda (the innkeeper's wife) acknowledged the newcomer, Realm by giving a brief nod and Gilda by greeting the woman in the sing-song voice she used on all patrons: “[Good evening, how may we help you]?”
“UGH!” Their guest let out a hateful huff of breath, eliciting several surprised blinks from Gilda. “ENGLESKI! ENGLESKI!”
Feeling her employer's eyes upon her, Realm offered: “I speak English.”
“Oh, thank god,” The intruder laid its hand upon its heart. “You must tell me where I can purchase quail.”
“Yes, of course!” Realm was delighted to be of service. “Zovko the butcher sells it, his shop is located on—”
The harridan interrupted her. “Just lead me there.”
“Oh, well – I'll ask if I can,” Realm looked at Gilda, “[May I take—]”
“No, no, I don't have time for this.” The stranger shook her head. "Whatever these people are paying you, I can double it – triple it – quadruple it, even!" She produced a bulging coin purse from her pocket and jangled it for effect. “But we need to go now. IT IS URGENT.”
Biting her lip, Realm glanced helplessly at her perplexed employer. Surely Gilda would understand that such an offer could not be refused. “[Can you get Janka to finish?]” She’d asked, leaning her broom against the counter before adding: “[I’m so sorry about this,]” and heading through the door.
And as ashamed as she was of her brusque exit, Realm had made the correct decision; the difficult customer had turned out to be none other than the housekeeper for the prince of Essex.
It was strange, though not unheard of, for the English to visit Opatija. Generations earlier, an island just off the coastal village had been given to the Tudor family. The royals had christened it Cocaigne, and used it as a winter retreat.
As a result, Realm spent the next half-hour advising and assisting the housekeeper (one Adelaide Davies) in her shopping. “I’ve been here nearly a week getting the house ready for His Highness. He arrives to-day,” Mrs. Davies explained when they were done, paying the girl a handsome wage of ten florins – more than Realm might make in a week at the inn. “I could really use an individual such as yourself to accompany the driver inland when supplies are needed.”
“Does no one on your staff speak the language?” Realm asked, surprised.
“Well, they've got two groundskeepers there, and they’re both fairly fluent,” Mrs. Davies admitted before scowling at the wilted vegetation being sold in an adjacent kiosk. “But you can't expect simple men to select good products. So, what do you make of it all?”
“About men getting groceries?”
“No, no, no; about YOU–” Mrs. Davies jabbed her finger between Realm’s clavicles–“doing the shopping for ME, which is to say HIS HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE.”
“Oh, yes, of course I can,” Realm replied. “I’d be happy to help.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Davies began pulling on a pair of gloves. “Officially you’ll be working in the still-room, though aiding the driver will remain your primary responsibility.”
“The still-room?” She echoed. “On the island?”
“Where else?” And so plans were made for Realm and her things to be collected later in the week. After that the women parted ways, with Mrs. Davies headed back to Cocaigne and Realm running home.
Ora was at the table mending clothes when Realm arrived. “You’re finished early,” She commented quietly as she sewed. But when her daughter made no reply, Ora paused to raise her gaze, noting Realm’s flushed face and heaving chest. “What’s happened?!?”
“I have so much to tell you!” Realm said once she’d caught her breath.
And so they spent the evening speaking at length about what her new position might entail. When Pherick came back and heard the news, he offered Realm a courteous smile and felicitations.
But the man was far from happy, which he disclosed to Ora later that night. He worried about Realm – he always had and always would – and what would happen to her without him to intervene on her behalf. Ora simply pet her husband on the arm, kissed his cheek, and told him their daughter would be fine. But Pherick wasn’t so sure.
And as the days slipped away, Realm secretly joined her father in his concern. She found herself lying awake at night, fretting over a future that drew closer with every sunset. Already homesick without having even left, Realm took their cat to bed with her and held him close. The grimalkin purred contentedly as she lay panic-stricken, habitually stroking him until a pile of shed fur sat in a heap upon her straw-stuffed mattress.
Realm had never lived apart from her parents, whom she knew she would miss terribly. And despite its close proximity to her home, she had not set foot on Cocaigne. It was a popular destination for two kinds of folk: alien royals and despondent locals. The former went to ‘Cocaigne’ for vacation, the latter to ‘Otok’ – as it was known to the villagers – for suicide. She’d heard the stories about Pozivni Prazninu, a small pool of water located beneath a steep cliff-side which wretches chose as their final resting place. In fact, the entire island was rumored to be cursed, though few spoke of the anathema or its alleged origins. All she could recall hearing on the subject was that a priest had denounced Otok. This, coupled with the knowledge that the Habsburgs had ultimately offered the land to the English – who frequented the coast on rest-cures – was all she could say of Cocaigne.
In any event, the dreaded day arrived, and so Realm’s bag was packed and tearful embraces were exchanged once one of Cocaigne’s stewards came for her. And before she could quite suppress all of her emotions, Realm was seated in a small cart pulled by a grey gelding. Next to her was a man who introduced himself as Sir Jerald Sykes; one of the groundskeepers. He was a man in his late thirties, tow-headed and ruddy. Realm correctly assessed that his being sent to escort her was a duty he fancied beneath him, as he ignored her for most of the ride, feeling irritation rather than sympathy for her silent tears and occasional sniffling. And so, rather than attempt to engage him in conversation, Realm chose to watch the passing scenery.
As it happened, the sky that day was slate blue and cloudless, its reflection upon the Adriatic enhancing the sea’s water to a brilliant shade of azure. The sandy beige shore was skirted with various fishing vessels, though all gave a wide berth to the sinuous strip of sodden earth – exposed by the low-tide – which comprised the transitory road between Opatija and Otok.
The warm summer air was permeated with the salty scent of the ocean and the squawks of seagulls. A gentle breeze played with Realm’s hair (and what was left of Jerald’s). “There are two estates,” The latter informed her when they had nearly crossed over to Otok. “Scarbrough House sits upon the north-east of the island; Denbigh House on the south-west. I live on – and you will be staying at – Scarbrough House.”
“Are they quite similar?” Realm asked.
“Yes; both have a main house, stable, garage, and lodgings for their groundskeepers. Where they differ is their purpose. Scarbrough’s halls are more spacious, intended for entertainment and opulence, while Denbigh contains more bedchambers to accommodate its prestigious guests. And of course,” he added, nodding ahead. “Scarbrough has the bathhouse.”
Realm was familiar with this structure, it bore the appearance of a castle tower that’d been hacked down by some infuriated giant. She had observed it many times from the other side of the Adriatic – though admittedly, she had mistaken it for a dovecote. The bathhouse had been erected into the limestone cliff-side, and a staircase spiraled around the body of the building, leading directly onto the island's shores (and sometimes waters). “The prince bathes in there?” Realm wondered aloud.
Jerald frowned at her literal interpretation. “No. The upper floor is a viewing gallery, and the bottom holds changing rooms in addition to a large chamber which accesses the beach for wading. But His Highness bathes in the house, like civilized society.”
Realm was sorry she’d asked. “Oh,” She looked away, pulling a flustered face.
Jerald continued speaking sternly, “Between the two villas we have groves in which citrus fruit is grown. Those are precious commodities, with which you have no business.”
“Yes, of cour—” she attempted to reassure him, but he paid her no heed.
“We keep a modest vineyard upon the property as well; you will avoid it unless otherwise instructed... though I don't expect you will be.” He frowned slightly. “I doubt you’ll be of much use here.”
Realm thought to rejoin: Mrs. Davies thinks otherwise! but said nothing; she was quite accustomed to holding her tongue.
When they arrived at Scarborough House, Mrs. Davies rushed out to greet them. The woman's most striking features were her unkempt eyebrows; one of which bore several thin patches as if someone had made a valiant attempt to tame it, but were too overcome by futility to try to make amends with the second.
“There she is, my little angel – our savior!” Mrs. Davies announced dramatically, fluffing Realm's hair. “Come inside, child.”
Realm gripped her bag and followed Mrs. Davies through a terrace to the impressive villa. The housekeeper made a beeline for the butler’s pantry with Realm close behind her. The young maid swiveled her head all around to absorb the new surroundings. There were tapestries, paintings, antlers, and looking glasses that adorned the walls of the great hall, but Realm had little time to appreciate them. All too soon, it seemed, they were inside the pantry, and then passing through the kitchen, scullery, and servant’s kitchen before entering the servant’s hall, where Mrs. Davies made an abrupt stop with Realm nearly tripping upon her.
“Now then, let’s get you acquainted with the others,” Mrs. Davies reached into her pocket, producing a tiny silver bell which she rang vigorously. Instantly Realm heard footsteps coming from all around them, and four women emerged from different doorways. They hurried into the servant’s hall, where they hastily assembled themselves in a straight line. Each one wore a uniform consisting of a white linen cap (tied neatly beneath their chins), a black frock, white apron, and leather shoes with wooden pattens.
“Afternoon, ladies,” Mrs. Davies said, nodding at them, “This is Realm; she will be working in the still-room. Realm, meet Bridgette, our cook.”
Bridgette – a heavyset creature with jowls like a bulldog – scarcely looked at Realm. “Yes, and so we’ve met. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to tonight’s dinner.” It was a statement, not a request, and upon saying this Bridgette left the line-up.
“Yes, of course," Mrs. Davies went, completely unfazed. "And this is our head housemaid, Clara,” A smiling, plump woman, Clara had tiny extremities and bright blue eyes.
“Parlor maid, Juliana,” Like Realm, she was an attractive girl with porcelain skin, though her fair features held no warmth.
“And our scullery maid, Anelia.” This girl was painfully plain aside from possessing freckles and a long nose. Her complexion too was pale, but more like that of a sun-bleached fish carcass than shimmering alabaster.
“Hullo, Realm!" Anelia beamed at her. If she had been of a surly disposition, she would have been quite hideous, but she was so pleasant that Realm took an instant shine to her, and was absolutely delighted when Mrs. Davies instructed the scullion to show Realm the room that the two girls would share.
As they hurried up the servant’s stairs, Anelia glanced back over her shoulder, grinning: “It’s so grand seeing a new face on Cocaigne. It must have been destiny – Mrs. Davies finding you, I mean! I’d never have guessed an English girl would be living this far south!”
It was then that they reached their rather cramped chamber, which held a large chest with small beds on either side of it. A black dress, apron, and cap were laid across one of the mattresses. “That’s for you to wear while you’re with us,” The scullery maid declared cheerfully, dropping down onto the other bed. “It’s my spare, so mind that you take good care of it!”
“Yes, of course,” Realm replied. “Thank you, Anelia.”
She made a face. “You’re welcome, and you can call me Nell. Mrs. Davies insists upon using our Christian names, but I do so hate mine.”
“Oh no,” Realm could sympathize. “My proper name is Rashel, but it hasn’t been uttered in years. I’m glad I never told Mrs. Davies, as I don’t know that I would be able to answer to it, no matter how hard I tried.” She hesitated a moment, then lowered her voice to a whisper: “How is it working for royalty? Is the prince a kind man?”
“Pfft,” Nell waved her off, “As long as the house’s kept tidy and dinner’s on time, you won't hear a peep from His Highness.”
“It’s terrible, but I don't know very much about him,” Realm admitted as she undressed. “You see, we left the Isles when I was an infant...”
“Why'd you leave?" Nell asked before commenting, “I’ve scarcely seen the prince since we arrived here. He’s either shut up in his cabinet or out in the bathhouse. It's a bit like working for a phantom!”