dickiebird-weatherstaff:
“Of course, of course.” There was an eagerness to assure her that yes, he considered her the Queen of her domain, but not so much that he hadn’t caught the playfulness in the jab. “Lord help anyone who tries to intervene with you and your stove.”
Weatherstaff considered her question solemnly. Though the dream was small, it was made all the more valuable by just how out of reach it was. He did not think it was silly, so long for something like a lie in. Eventually, he shook his head. “If I’d been born to it, I would have done the best I could. But I think the duties of a King can keep you up far later and wake you up far earlier if you mind them as seriously as you should.” He heard some of the young ones harp on and on about the luxurious lives they’d live ‘as soon as they’d made their fortune, or gotten their lucky break. He wouldn’t stomp those dreams out, but he could not possess them himself. He had accepted his lot a long time ago. “To sleep in might be nice from time to time, but I think I’d miss the sunrises.”
He allowed a little chuckle, a certain pride, at correctly guessing the flavours in the tea, then he ducked his head bashfully. “Ah yes, blueberry too, I can pick it out now you’ve said it.” He took another sip to properly find it. He couldn’t help but nod fondly at the memory she unearthed. “They were sticky all summer long. I spoiled them really.” He quite missed having a gaggle of children at his heels, it had been too long since someone had breathed new life into these houses.
Weatherstaff sat with the observation, digesting it. Yes, you protected things that had been damaged, you made them hard and hid them away. “You have a lot of experience with broken hearts, Mrs Meddley?” He asked, also busying himself with the food and not meeting her eye.
“Off with their heads,” Rose nodded sagely. She took a bite off a pickle.
“I suppose you’re right, Mr Weatherstaff.” A King should work harder than a laundry girl, and yet... The hierarchy in a house was good example of that. You worked your fingers and feet off when you were young, all for a few pence, then you rose to maid or cook assistant, or footman and earn a little more. And eventually, if you played your cards right, you could be housekeeper or butler and almost earn yourself the occasional holiday. As housekeeper and butler you physically worked less hard, but the responsibility was great, the stress of needing the whole house to function lay heavily on you, at least when you were a good housekeeper. Rose supposed that was how Kings felt. It was an easy life, but only if you did not truly care. The comment about the sunrise had her look up from her plate and thoughts, and her gaze rested on the old gardener for a long while. It was quite a romantic notion, what he had just said there. She felt warm thinking about it. But what she said was: “The sunrise would not miss you, though.” Cynical, almost, because that was what the life of a not-King made you.
“It certainly did not build character,” she agreed, chuckling into her potato-bite. As she chewed, the smile disappeared and she sighed. “Ah, how they’ve all grown. It really is quite true what they say, isn’t it, Mr Weatherstaff? It’s only through children growing up, that one notices oneself growing old.”
“Oh, you,” she waved the question off, a little indignant (though not really), “we’re too old and too earnest for those sort of things.” But she could not brush the thought off right away, and eventually it settled and grew, and she thought of her past. “I suppose there was a man once. He promised me a ring but-... Ah. That was so long ago now.” The happy fat of her belly that had grown over the years even hid the scar sometimes.















