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For six days after the ceremony it rained without letup - frothing, white sheets of water that pounded against the glass windows of Theryn Fedd. The seals of the old castle were reinforced twice but it was to no avail. Streams flowed across the wide sills and dripped onto the marble floors where they pooled dangerously, creating hazardous obstacles for pedestrians. There hadn't been so much rain in over fifty years. In the end the caretakers were forced to surrender aesthetics for practicality; they placed thick woven mats beneath each window to absorb the steady downpour.
On the seventh day it stilled to a dull pounding. The servants and staff took advantage of the letup, plunging into the gardens to gather as much harvest as they could carry before the soil was washed away. Basket after basket was filled and carried into the vast storehouses, where the fresh produce joined the racks of dried meat, the vats of pickled winter vegetables.
For all the hustle and bustle, the great home of the Sovereign of Baraboo retained it's calm and stately air. The surface was never to be disturbed, all knew that. From the time of entering service in the household each and ever member was taught how to blend seamlessly into the background. There were never any mistakes.
Deep in the bowels of the East wing, the Nildur Archduchess stared unseeingly out of a bay window; her chambers were set far back and did not get much light but she refused to allow the artificial lamps to be lit during the day, preferring instead to linger by her lone glassed opening.
Despite the late hour Decelia Andonel had yet to dress for court, remaining swathed in a deep green robe patterned in gold filigree; the colours of her tribe. Uncombed hair that was black as pitch hung lankly about her face. There were deep hollows beneath her eyes, stained a purple-black, and above them the pale moss of her irises seemed to glow in contrast.
At the creaking of the chamber door, Decelia turned away from the torrents outside. An Pehr, her nursemaid, bustled in carrying a tray laden with food; wheatmeal with fresh cream, pink slices of carraba fruit sprinkled with sugar, eggs and crispy strips of fried bantha, more toast than a starving man could manage, two glasses - from a glance the Archduchess could tell one was filled with namana juice, the other milk - and a steaming cup of caf.
The smells were overwhelming - heavy and sodden, tangy and sweet - and Decelia's stomach lurched at the thought of consuming even a single bite. She turned away with an irritated huff. It didn't matter how many times she instructed An Pehr to bring only caf, the woman always turned up with enough food to feed an army. It was as though she thought it would somehow entice her appetite - if not the quality, then the sheer volume.
With a determined rattle, An Pehr settled the silver tray upon a gateleg table, swinging one of the eaves up and ferrying a chair over to the empty space. She was a broad-shouldered woman of generous proportions, but her face was delicate and beautiful.
"Now Lady Dee," Unlike her voice, which was a deep and gravelled rasp. An Pehr arranged the silverware intently before looking craftily at Decelia. "Look what a lovely meal has been sent up for you. Come now, before it grows cold."
"I'm not hungry."
An Pehr dutifully rolled her eyes. "And I'm a springbok. Come on."
Decelia twisted to look over her shoulder. She arched a slender eyebrow. "An Pehr, I said I wasn't hungry. I do not jest."
"No, neither do I, Lady." Came the quick reply. The two women stared at each other in silent contest before An Pehr sighed and lifted the cup of caf from the tray. She shuffled over to the window and pressed it into Decelia's hands; it was warm and she welcomed it against her icy skin. Thanking her nurse with a grateful smile, Decelia took a small sip. The bitter liquid swirled hotly around her mouth and scalded the back or her throat. She found crooked relief in the sensation.
The sudden warmth of the drink made her realize just how cold she actually was. Shivering, Decelia returned to her bed and burrowed underneath the thick duvet. It was Dramassian silk and very soft, shining a luminous rich gold. With the weather as cold and dreary as it was the young Nildur suddenly longed to never leave her bed.
As if reading her mind, An Pehr pointed a crooked finger at her. "Don't get too comfortable. You have an audience with Sovereign Dresden in a little over an hour."
Decelia clenched her jaw. "I don't suppose I can pretend to be taken ill."
It was not a question. There was simply no alternative; it was unthinkable on her part, the future ruler, to decline audience with the current.
And yet it was unthinkable on his part to demand it.
The cup of caf gradually cooled in her hands as An Pehr busied herself laying out clothes for Decelia. Another maid swept in. She bowed her head slightly but did not extend further ceremony; the young Andonel preferred to forego such customs, as had her parents.
"A bath has been drawn, Lady." The girl announced. An Pehr uncerimoniously yanked the covers from Decelia's legs. She winced against the sudden cold upon her exposed legs but nodded and abandoned her cup to the bedside table.
"Thank you. I will be there momentarily." Decelia murmured, nodding to the girl who returned the gesture before whisking out. With one more longing glance at the safe and isolated haven of her bed, the Archduchess rose and began the arduous process of readying herself.
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