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CORA’S father worked for King Sebastien, in the kitchens. It was a menial job, to be sure, but it gave them quite enough to eat at night, as her father would bring home batches of what he had cooked in the kitchens. He would even share with the neighbors when he was able to take more than he and Cora needed, which was not often. The king was a stingy man with opinions on whether the villagers needed rich food for free. He did not relish giving his servants more than he thought should be their share.
Sometimes Cora’s father would give his own portion to the old widow in the house across from them. Cora would watch him with sadness, and then she would leave a bit of food in her bowl so that he could have something to eat, too. She watched him grow thinner and thinner, and she grew to hate the king more and more every day. Her father would die of starvation before he let his daughter starve. And there he was, in the castle kitchen, surrounded by food every day that he could not eat. It was unjust. Cruel. Maddening.
What kind of king does not care for his people?
One day, when she was a girl of seven, Cora followed her father to the castle. He did not know that she followed, of course, for she braved a daylight shape shifting for once and wore her feathers and trailed him at a safe distance. She watched him walk across the bridge where the mermaids beneath it called out insults about his bones and his skeletal eyes. So already Cora was riled up, for she did not like those who said unkind words to or about her father. She alighted on a window where she knew the kitchens to be. It was open. She watched the door and waited for her father to enter.
When he did, she saw that his eyes were sad. The kitchen was piled high with the best vegetables from the castle gardens and sacks of grain delivered regularly to the castle. He began cutting tomatoes and onions and carrots, probably for some rich stew, for King Sebastien loved soup more than anything else. Her father had told her that his job was fairly simple, for he rotated the same meals every few days. The king was not keen on trying new dishes. So he kept the same ones in an ever-revolving menu. Roast leg of lamb, glazed ham, and stew. That was about all King Sebastien desired.
When her father had finished the chopping and moved on to a hunk of meat that a boy brought in for him, another servant appeared in the doorway.
“The king requires your presence,” the man said. He did not use her father’s name, Amos. Cora watched her father hunch his shoulders and drop his head. He was so weary. Cora did not like to see her father so weary. He turned to the servant and said, “Yes. Of course. Right away.”
And he followed the servant out the door. Cora flew to the other side of the castle, where she knew the throne room to be. This window was open, too, and she perched where those inside could not see her. She waited once more for her father to enter.
When he did, the king clapped his hands. “Cook,” he said. He did not use her father’s name, either. Did no one call the help by their given names?
“Yes, sire,” her father said when he had finally crossed the endless red carpet spread before him and dropped nearly to his knees in a bow.
One day they would be bowing to her like that, even if she were merely a princess. She would show them what power lies in kindness, and the kingdom would love her.
“It is not happy news I bring, alas,” the king said. “It is with great sorrow that I tell you we must lock down the possessions of the castle.” The king, a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes and dark skin, leaned forward in his throne. He narrowed his eyes. “We have had reports of stealing.”
Her father tilted his head to the side.
“And because there is stealing, we must reduce our risk,” King Sebastien said. “So nothing will be carried outside the castle walls.”
The king did not seem sorry at all about this news. A smile played across his lips.
Cora watched her father straighten. She could see the muscle in his jaw, turned toward her, twitch. It was the only way she could tell he was angry. Her father was a patient man, mostly agreeable, but he could have a fierce streak now and again. And she could see it coming right at this very moment. “But sire,” her father said. “I do not understand.”
“The food,” the king said. “There will be no more food. A servant has informed us that you take more than your share. That you feed the villagers.” The king paused for a moment, as if to let this news, this betrayal, settle in. “The kingdom food is not intended to feed peasants.”
Who might have told? Cora knew no one in the castle, but who would betray an old man trying to do the greatest good?
“But sire,” her father said. “My daughter.”
“Your daughter.” The king’s face had become a sneer. Perhaps he had forgotten that this man’s daughter was promised to the king’s son. “Your daughter is nothing.”
Cora felt the words dagger her heart, in the places no one could see, and there began a hate so black and so deep and so powerful that she could not rid herself of it. She hated King Sebastien. She hated his son. She hated everything about this castle.
“But—” her father said.
“Silence!” the king roared. “If you value your service here, you will say not another word.”
So her father dipped his head once more. And what would he be working for? Enough money to pay for the occasional mending of clothes or shoes that his wife could no longer see to, now that she was dead? What did the king expect of her father? He could not stay at the castle. He could not continue working for a king such as this one.
And yet he did. When the king said, “Do we have an agreement?” her father said, “Yes, sire,” and was dismissed. He returned to the kitchen. Cora flew, once more, to the window that opened on it and watched him enter. His eyes streamed with so many tears she had to turn away, for she had only seen her father cry once, the day her mother died.
The hate in her heart grew thicker.