Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind [199]
Princess Violet’s pudgy fingers reached up, pulling the gold, jewel-encrusted box off its honored resting place.
“Princess Violet!” Rachel blurted out before she had a chance to think. “Your mother said you mustn’t touch that.”
The Princess turned with an innocent expression, then tossed her the box. Rachel gasped, catching the box, horrified it might crash against the wall. Terrified that she had it in her hands, she immediately set it down on the floor as if it were a hot coal. She backed away, fearful of getting whipped just for being caught near the Queen’s precious box.
“What’s the big deal?” Princess Violet snapped. “Magic keeps it from being taken from this room. It’s not like anyone’s going to steal it or anything.”
Rachel didn’t know anything about any magic, but she knew she didn’t want to be caught touching the Queen’s box.
“I’m going down to the diningroom,” the Princess said, lifting her nose, “to watch the guests arrive, and wait for dinner. Clean up this dreadful mess, then go to the kitchen and tell the cooks I don’t want my roast cooked like leather, like the last time, or I’ll tell my mother to have them beaten.”
“Of course, Princess Violet.” Rachel curtsied.
The Princess held her big nose up. “And?”
“And… thank you, Princess Violet, for bringing me, and letting me see how pretty you look in the jewelry.”
“Well, it’s the least I can do; you must get tired of looking at your ugly face in the mirror. My mother says we must do kind things for the less fortunate.” She reached in a pocket and brought out something. “Here. Take the key and lock the door when you’re finished putting everything back.”
Rachel curtsied again. “Yes, Princess Violet.”
While the key was dropping into Rachel’s outstretched hand, the Princess’s other hand came out of nowhere, slapping Rachel’s face unexpectedly, and unexpectedly hard. She stood stunned as Princess Violet walked out of the room, laughing a high, squeaky, snorting laugh. Princess Violet’s laugh hurt almost as much as the slap.
Tears fell from her face as she crawled around on the floor on her hands and knees, picking up fingerfuls of rings from the carpets. She stopped and sat back a moment, carefully touching her fingertips to the place where she had been slapped. It hurt like anything.
Rachel deliberately worked around the Queen’s box, giving it sidelong glances, afraid to touch it, yet knowing she would have to, because she had to put it back. She worked slowly, meticulously laying the jewelry in its place, carefully pushing the drawers closed, hoping somehow she wouldn’t finish, so she wouldn’t have to pick up the box, the Queen’s favorite thing in the whole world.
The Queen wouldn’t be happy at all if she knew that some nobody had touched it. Rachel knew the Queen was always having somebody’s head chopped off. Sometimes, the Princess made Rachel go with her to watch, but Rachel always closed her eyes. The Princess didn’t.
When all the jewelry was put away, the last drawer closed, she looked out of the corner of her eye, down at the box sitting on the floor. She felt as if it were looking back, as if it might somehow tell the Queen. Finally, squatting down, eyes wide, she picked it up. Holding it at arm’s length, she carefully shuffled her feet over the edges of carpets, terrified she might drop it. She set the box in its place as slowly as she could, carefully, gingerly, fearing a jewel might fall out or something. She quickly drew her fingers away, relieved.
Turning back, she caught sight of the hem of a silver robe that touched the floor. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t heard footsteps. Her head slowly, almost involuntarily, rose up the line of the robe, to the hands stuck in the opposite sleeves, to the long, pointed, white beard, to the bony face, the hooked nose, the bald head, and the dark eyes looking down at her startled face.
The wizard.
“Wizard Giller,” she whined, fully expecting to be struck