Fiona finds the stairs
and begins her careful ascent, not entirely trusting the balance of
the heavily laden tray. After only a few steps she can hear raucous
shrieking and cackling, the volume increasing as she gets closer.
She knocks loudly when she arrives, but unsure if she'll be heard,
decides to let herself in anyway. Opening the door, she finds two of
the fattest, ugliest women she has ever seen, sat in front of a
roaring fire, hideous mirth stretched across their powdered faces.
“What took you so
long?” one demands coldly, any sense of humour evaporating.
“It took a few
moments to prepare,” Fiona replies, setting the tray on a table
between them.
“You really are the
laziest of scrubbers,” the other accuses. “We should have you
whipped. Can't you see you're serving ladies of the court. I danced
with the prince tonight, for a minute or two.”
“Really?” asks
Fiona. “I danced with him for an hour.”
