A Talented Maid

Prologue (Chapter 1)

I was a dud. Since I was a child, I had never excelled at anything.

“She's a good kid, but why is she so slow? She isn't good at anything, either.”

This was the prevailing opinion of me. It continued to hold true even after Mother passed away and my father—the king of Cloyan—invited me to come live in the palace as a princess.

“It must be the inferior blood she gets from her mother's side. Why is she such a dud?”

That was how I was viewed at the palace.

My stepmother, the queen, and my two brothers, the princes of Cloyan, all despised me. Nevertheless, I did my best to keep my chin up. I did not have a single person in my corner at the palace; my pluck was the only thing I had to sustain me.

Brave as I was, however, I could not stop being a “dud.” People continued to look down on me, even after Cloyan fell at the hands of the empire and I was dragged away to work as a maid.

“Marie!”

“Yes, miss!”

I ran toward the voice calling me from the other end of the hall. There, I found a woman glowering at me. It was Susan, the head housekeeper.

“What do you call this? Did you actually clean this spot? Do you see this dust?”

When Cloyan had been invaded, I had taken the disguise of a maid to save myself.

No matter how useless I was, there was little chance that the imperial soldiers would let a person of royal blood live. I was able to save myself and wound up a scullery maid working in the palace of the very empire that had invaded my kingdom.

“Don't be so sloppy!”

I bowed and apologized.

“I'm sorry, miss.”

I had gone from a princess to a scullery maid overnight, but not much had changed in my life. I was still a dud, and I could not avoid the scorn of those around me.

I ought to do my best anyway, I told myself, for my one strength was the ability to keep my spirits up through anything.

I recalled what Mother used to tell me:

“Do your best in life with a pure heart, and the lord will bless you.”

“Even me?”

“Of course. The lord loves everyone.”

The lord loved me even though I had nothing to show for it.

Bless me, too, Lord, I would pray.

And perhaps the Lord was listening to my prayer, for an unbelievable thing happened to me one day.

***

It happened one summer day when I was seventeen.

“Looking after a sick prisoner?”

“That's right. Who among us will do it if not you?”

The duties of a scullery maid in the imperial palace covered a wide range, from simple chores like cleaning, dishes, and laundry, to the more physically trying work.

When a prisoner in the imperial prison fell ill, they were left to recover without medical attention, but when his condition became so grave that the prisoner could no longer stay in his cell alone, a nurse was assigned to him.

None of the scullery maids wanted to do it, of course, and like most things that the other maids wished to avoid, the task fell to me.

“What's wrong? Don't want to do it?”

“I-it's not that...”

It goes without saying that I didn't want to do it. Who would want to care for an invalid, and a prisoner at that? But I did not have a choice.

I'll probably just have to feed him. It'll be fine. Chin up, Marie, I thought to myself.

I cheered myself up and headed to the infirmary in the palace prison.

“This way,” said the warden as he showed me into the room. I was overwhelmed by a thick stench.

Ugh, I covered my mouth.

This was a familiar smell—the smell of death I remembered from when Mother was on her deathbed.

“He'll be dead soon anyway. He's no one important, so you don't have to take special care,” said the warden.

He was trying to tell me that I did not have to make sure he was looked after, and that he wouldn't mind if I shirked my responsibilities and never came back.

Perhaps that was what he would prefer, even. Some maids tasked with nursing prisoners lied about getting the job done and came running back as soon as they could.

No one cared if a prisoner was honestly being looked after.

Still, I thought, shaking my head.

I wouldn’t get in trouble if I went back without looking after him, but that would be wrong. Being in the room with him reminded me of Mother on her deathbed, to say nothing of the great sadness in the dying man's eyes.

I don't know what he did to end up in prison, but if I go back now, he'll have to die alone.

I didn't want him to die alone.

“Whatever you do when you grow up, I hope you don't forget to help others,” Mother used to say.

I wasn't good at anything, but there had to be some small thing I could do for this man. So I started to look after him.

“Like I said, he's going to die soon anyway. Don't worry about him. It's a waste of your energy,” the warden said over my shoulder.

I ignored his chiding and took good care of the prisoner. I fed him porridge, cooled his fever with a cold towel, and washed the grime off his body.

The warden clicked his tongue.

“It's no use,” he grumbled.

A few days passed, but the prisoner's condition worsened, as the warden predicted. I could sense that he did not have much time left, as Mother went through a similar process in her last days.

I miss Mother.

I felt tears rising up as I watched the man die.

We were poor, but those were the happiest days of my life. I wished I could go back in time and feel her arms around me again.

I was secretly wiping my tears on the back of my hand when something unimaginable happened.

“Th... thank you.”

My eyes grew wide. I thought I was hearing things, but the dying prisoner was really speaking to me.

“Th-thank you. Truly...”

“I-I've only done what I was asked to—”

“No. You could have left me to die, but you... thank you. I won't be lonely in my last moments on Earth thanks to you.”

The prisoner's energy seemed to build the more he spoke. I realized that he was experiencing a premortem surge—the temporary burst of energy before one's death.

“What is your name?”

“Marie. My name is Marie.”

Seeing that he wanted to talk to someone, I did my best to listen to him and answer his questions.

“I would like to offer up a prayer for you before I die. Is there anything you wish for?”

I gave this some thought. Did I want anything?

“Anything you want. Just name it. I'll pray for you.”

I did not think that his prayer would make much of a difference, but I thought after some hesitation to give him an answer, if only to keep him occupied:

“I'd like to become a talented person.”

“Talented person?”

“Yes. I'm not good at anything. I wish I were more competent. I wish I had talent.”

The dying man smiled through great effort. He must have thought that my wish was childish. But I was serious. I had lived my entire life as a dud and I was ready to become the sort of person people admired.

“Talent in what? One can be talented in many areas. Could you be specific?”

“Hmm...” I replied after some thought, “I'd like to be very good at my job as a scullery maid.”

“Scullery maid?”

The man seemed to think I was wasting a precious prayer on something so trivial.

I explained, “Of course, it would be nice if I could be talented in many areas. Like art, music, crafts, cooking, and so on.”

“Really? And what else?”

Encouraged, I thought of all the things I would like to do well. I'd been admonished all my life for being unexceptional that there were so many things I wished I could do well.

I continued excitedly, “I wish I were good with a bow and arrow, I wish I could dance, play cards, cure sick people like physicians do, catch criminals, and—”

I stopped myself.

“Too much?”

“Yes, you are rather greedy.”

I blushed at the man's words.

“It’s j-just a wishlist. Anyone can wish for things.”

“You're right.”

The man nodded and looked straight into my eyes.

“Let's suppose... suppose...”

“...?”

“Suppose you were given all the abilities you wanted. What would you do with your talent?”

I fell silent for a moment. I rattled off a list of things since he'd asked, but I never imagined any one person could have all those things—least of all me. But the man's question was so sincere that I told him what I always thought I'd like to do with my life if I could:

“I'd like to live a meaningful life.”

“Meaningful life?”

“Yes.”

“What would that be?”

“Well...” I pondered on this question.

"Meaningful" meant something different to everyone. Some valued success, others money, fame, inner peace. Ask a hundred people and you'd get a hundred different answers. For me, a life with meaning was...

“Bringing happiness to others through my life. That is my wish.”

The man was silent for a moment.

“You are a kindhearted child.”

“Nah, not really. It's just a thought...”

I blushed at the genuine compliment.

“What is your name?”

“I told you just now. It's Marie.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I am asking what your real name is. Your true name.”

“!”

I swallowed hard.

My real name?

"Marie" was not my real name. I had another name that no one knew about, that I'd nearly forgotten myself.

He doesn't know my real identity, does he?

I looked into the man's eyes. His blue eyes were clear and deep, so much so that I could not believe he was a criminal condemned to meet his end in prison.

No one knows who I am. It must be a coincidence. Should I—

“I want to offer your wish to God," the man said. "Tell me your true name.”

I debated for a long time whether to tell him. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone under any circumstances, but there was a power in this man's voice that I could not refuse.

“Maurina de Brande la Cloyan.”

Maurina. The exalted blood of Cloyan. That was my true name.

I watched for the man's reaction. If he revealed my identity to the warden, I would be arrested on the spot. But the man fortunately showed no intention of turning me in.

“Maurina. That's a pretty name,” was all he said.

When he placed his hand on my head like a priest giving a blessing, I was taken aback. But I didn’t move away. I had a feeling that I shouldn’t refuse him.

The man offered a very short prayer:

“Dear Lord, please hear your humble servant's prayer. Grant this girl her wish. I offer up my most sincere prayer to you. Let it be so.”

The man fell asleep soon after his prayer, with the peaceful expression of a man who had done all he needed to do. I gazed silently into his face for a moment, then pulled the covers up to his chin.

I knew I would never see him again.

“Rest now.”

I stepped out of the room to find the warden waiting outside.

“You did well. You won't have to come by from now on.”

The warden, who'd chided me for wasting my time, warmed to me when he noticed my steadfast dedication to looking after the sick man.

“It was nothing. Good night.”

I returned to the maids' quarters and went to bed. But memories of my last moments with the man kept coming back to me as I tried to sleep.

Go to sleep, Marie. You have to get up early and work tomorrow.

Now that my nursing duties were over, I had to return to the palace and clean all day, starting from the crack of dawn.

I'll be picked on all day tomorrow, too, I sighed. The physical labor was not as tough as the criticisms I endured all day for getting things wrong.

If only I could be great at my job like I wished for with the man today, I thought as I drifted off to sleep at last.

My preoccupation with being a great maid must have followed me to my dreamworld. I had a strange dream that I was a scullery maid in a great mansion in a foreign country.

In the dream, I was a different person. I wasn't my incompetent self, picked on by everyone, but the best maid who was great at her job and admired by everyone.

The dream was so real that it felt like I had been transformed.