Take a bath

"I suppose I can stay awake for a quick bath," you say, stifling a yawn. "Will it take long for the water to heat up?"

"This is the royal palace," Krandt says, bustling past you into the bathroom. "The water is always hot. Allow me to start filling the tub and I will help you out of your clothes, Sir.”

“Oh, I know how to get undressed,” you say.

Krandt gives you a disapproving look. “It is a handmaid’s duty to see to the needs of the individual she serves. It is a source of pride and a great responsibility. To serve the Vessel is the highest honor a handmaid can hope to receive. Will you deny me that honor?”

“No, of course not. Sorry, Krandt,” you say. “This is all very strange to me. I’m just a poor farmer.”

“Not anymore, Sir,” Krandt says, arching an eyebrow. “Now, you are the future of the kingdom.”

She leaves you to let that sink in. The future of the kingdom. You can almost feel the weight upon your shoulders. You don’t know much about being the Vessel—it is a responsibility you never thought you’d have—but you do know one thing: if you cannot produce a male heir, the kingdom will be torn apart by war.

You watch as she turns a shiny brass knob and steaming water begins to pour from the spigot into the large, porcelain bathtub. Back home, on the rare occasion when a bath was needed, it meant buckets of cold water pumped up from the well by hand, and carried to the wooden washtub where Mama also did the laundry. If you were lucky, a pot of hot water heated over the fire was added to take away the chill, but most of the time you had blue lips and chattering teeth by the time you were done.

Krandt selects one of the bottles of bath oil from the tray and pours a few drops into the steaming water, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon and citrus, then she grabs a wash cloth off the shelf. She glances at you, her gaze raking you from head to toe, then she grabs a second cloth and a scrub brush. You feel your face heat up as you glance down at your ragged, dirty clothes.

"Sorry, they didn't give me time to change," you say.

"No need to apologize, Your Majesty," she says, setting the basin on the dressing table. "My father was a farmer. It is a respectable profession." She steps toward you, her breasts straining against the stiff material of her uniform as she reaches out and takes the hem of your shirt in her hands.