A Talented Maid

Chapter 5

I wish I could be of help to him. There must be something I can do.

Marie pondered, but there was no way a mere scullery maid could help a sculptor with his work. It was impossible. But just then, Marie recalled her dream.

‘I'm looking forward to your next piece, Fiona, Devotee of the Gardens.’

An idea popped up in her head.

Perhaps...?

***

That night, Marie snuck into a shed near the maids' quarters. She needed to confirm her hunch. But she soon had to put down the tools in disappointment.

“It's not working.”

She had tried the hammer and the chisel. She'd tried the gardening shears as well. She picked them up wondering if she had been given the powers of Fiona from her dream, but she had not.

So how did I get the maid's powers? Was that just a coincidence? Marie wondered.

It was absurd to expect abilities in the dreamworld to transfer to the real world.

“But if it did, I'd be able to help Hans...”

She wanted to help him if she could. She wanted to repay him for his warm friendship toward her. But she was just as clueless with a hammer and a chisel as she ever was. She went to sleep, hoping that another dream would give her the powers, but no dream came to her.

In the meantime, Hans grew more and more anxious. It seemed he could not get the statue to work.

“This isn't it. There's something missing.”

Marie felt sorry for him.

It's pretty, she thought as she looked at the statue.

It did resemble the Third Empress, who was known to be a great beauty. But there was, indeed, something missing. If someone like Marie, who knew nothing of sculptures, could sense it, the inadequacy would have been glaring in Hans' eyes. The pressure of the job had blocked his creativity.

“Ugh,” Hans often sighed to himself.

Time passed, and another incident happened that added to Hans's stress. Count Gilbert, Head of Imperial Affairs and the Crown Prince's inner circle, had come by to check on the progress in the Rose Palace Garden.

“All going as planned?”

“Yes, your lordship.” Hans bowed in a panic at Count Gilbert's surprise visit.

The count gave the garden a scan and said, “Yes, good choice on the French style. Emphasize the geometric aspect and make it as graceful and elegant as possible. For the glory of the Crown Prince.”

“Yes, milord.”

“And where's the statue of the Third Empress?”

Count Gilbert then caught sight of it. His face fell.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Milord?”

“You're not telling me that this slab of stone here is the statue of the Third Empress, are you? I don't see a hint of grace or elegance in this!”

Hans turned ashen.

“Have you lost your mind? This is the Third Empress we're talking about! The mother of the Crown Prince! You think this rock here will suffice? Are you a cat with nine lives? Are you asking for a beheading?”

“...”

The outburst silenced Hans and all the gardeners present. The Bloody Prince followed through with his threats!

“Fix this at once or you'll feel the full might of His Imperial Highness' wrath! The festival is just days away. Hurry!”

“Yes, sir.”

A deafening silence fell over the grounds after Count Gilbert stormed off. Hans was the greatest sculptor in service of the imperial house. Who could he possibly turn to for help? Recruiting the help of a famous sculptor was one idea, but there was no time for that.

“Let's get back to work,” someone suggested grimly. Each returned to their areas as Hans looked up at the statue in despair. Marie balled her hands into fists as she watched Hans. She badly wanted to help him.

***

Rain began to pour late that night. Marie returned to the maids' quarters and lay in bed listening to the rain.

I can't sleep.

Whether it was the sound of the rain on the roof or what happened during the day, she could not get to sleep. Marie gave up and got out of bed with a heavy sigh.

Her roommate Jane asked sleepily, “Marie? Where are you going?”

“I forgot something. I'll be right back.”

“Okay. Watch your step. It's dark out there.”

She put on her raincoat and headed toward the Rose Palace Garden. She did not have a plan in mind; she needed some fresh air. As she drew closer to the garden, she heard faint clangs ringing over the sound of rain.

Clang, clang.

No...

Marie peered into the dark. Hans was working with his hammer and chisel through the night despite the rain. He was soaked to the bone without his raincoat on.

Hans...

Marie bit her lip. He must have heard her footsteps, as he turned around in surprise.

“Marie? What are you doing here at this hour?”

“You'll catch a cold. You ought to get inside and rest.”

Hans sighed and said, “Yes, you're right. Let me just finish this part.”

“No, you'll catch your death. Get inside.”

Hans, surprised by the firm tone in Marie's voice, gave in with a nod.

“You're right. Nothing will come of hammering in the rain like this besides a bad cold.” He looked up at the statue and continued, “I just can't help myself every time I think of my daughter back home.”

“Hans.”

“I'm so frustrated I wish someone would drop out of the sky and finish the statue for me.” Hans shook his head apologetically and said, “I really should not burden you with my troubles. I'm sorry. I'll get inside and rest. You should get back to bed before you catch a cold.”

It broke Marie's heart to see Hans walk back to the house in such despair.

If only I could help.

She placed a hand on the statue and prayed, Please help, Lord.

Just then, like curtains falling on a stage, her vision turned completely dark. And through a bit of ambient static, she heard a voice speaking to her:

‘What are you sculpting today, Fiona? The sun, the moon, the world? Or the void?’

“Ah!” Marie was astounded.

She recognized the voice from the recent dream!

‘There is something so holy about the way you sculpt. It's no wonder they call you the greatest garden sculptor in all the land. Don't you agree, Fiona?’

Marie's ardent wish had brought her back to the dream of the garden sculptor Fiona at last.

***

In the meantime, deep within the grand Lion Palace, the Head of Imperial Affairs Count Gilbert was reporting to Rhaël the Bloody Prince.

“Preparations for the festival are going smoothly, your highness.”

At this, his highness gave Count Gilbert a nod: “Nothing special to report?”

He had the beautiful voice of a tenor, which clashed with his appearance—an iron mask that hid half his face.

Count Gilbert gulped nervously as he looked back at that visage. No matter how often he saw it, he could not get used to the mask that never failed to make him feel like prey before a beast. No doubt this impression had much to do with the prince's moniker: Rhaël the Bloody Prince!

“This is the first festival since the end of the civil war. I want this to be perfect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

But then, Count Gilbert suddenly remembered something: “This is a minor matter, but there was a problem in the renovation of the Third Empress's Rose Palace Garden. I gave the workers a firm talking-to.”

“What do you mean?”

“A statue of the Third Empress has been commissioned for the ten-year anniversary of her death, but it failed to capture her regal elegance. I delivered a stern warning that there will be dire consequences if the statue does not come out right, so the sculptor will give it his best if he knows what's good for him,” Count Gilbert said proudly, expecting a compliment for his attention to the minute details of the Crown Prince's internal affairs.

But the prince's reaction surprised him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Sir?”

“When did I order a statue of my mother?”

“...”

Count Gilbert gulped nervously at the chill in the prince's voice. Cold as a deep, frozen lake, the prince’s piercing blue eyes glared through the iron mask.

“I said mow the lawn and prune the overgrowth, not erect a monument. What did you do?”

“I... I...” Count Gilbert stammered. The prince had not, in fact, given any such orders, but the count had planned it all to please him.

“You're not renovating the whole place, are you? A garden no one uses anymore?”

Count Gilbert was at a loss. He was indeed renovating the whole place. And pouring a hefty sum into it.

I thought he would be delighted.

The prince said quietly, “What a waste.”

His tone was dry and devoid of emotion, which scared the count even more. Thinking of the nobles who died at the prince's sword during the civil war, the count threw himself on the ground and begged for mercy.

“F-forgive me, sir!”

“And you threatened the sculptor? What do you take me for?” The prince added in a quiet but firm voice, “Do not forget: the sword of a monarch is for defending his people, not persecuting them.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the count replied, his head nearly touching the floor.

The prince clicked his tongue disapprovingly to himself. He could imagine how frightened the gardeners would be with the count threatening them in the prince's name.

I ought to go thank them in person for their hard work, he thought as he looked out the window toward the Rose Palace Garden.

The prince could have sworn he heard hammering over the sound of rain.