A Little Slave Girl by Lucky 97 (black female authors txt) 📕

a horrible thing. I needed to go back to the serving room, and await the consequence the king would mercilessly inflict on me when he heard Prince Lucas's report. Or maybe he would drag me there right then, humiliation consuming me. Endless tortures flashed through my mind, horrible places they could send me...

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you," Prince Lucas put a hand on my shoulder, sending sparks throughout my body. I shuddered from his touch, the feeling of pure excitement rushing through my veins. What was he doing? I kept my eyes downwards, the tears still flooding down my face and onto my dress. I knew what was coming. He would soon come to his senses and realize I was a slave. Then his eyes would grow wide, and his lips would part, his musical voice saying dooming words that would send me to living hell.

But the words I thought would erupt from his beautiful mouth didn't come. Instead, a hand reached out and touched my face, lifting it up. Wonder crossed my features as I once again met the gaze of this handsome man, this man of infinitely higher social status.

"What is your name?"

A direct question. I couldn't avoid answering it. "Evangeline," I said softly. I was named after my grandmother, who died last fall with my parents.

"Beautiful," he commented, and my heart jumped. I didn't know if he was talking about my voice or my face, but either way it was very flattering.

His gaze skimmed over my face, my ugly face, the face I wasn't allowed to show anyone... then he focused in on my tears. A frown appeared on his face.

"What happened?" he asked gently, softly.

I looked away, pulling away from his touch. "Prince, you don't have to bother with a slave," I choked out, saying the proper words, "I was not supposed to be here, and I should be severely punished." A guilt consumed me as I brought about my own doom. He surely knew I was a slave now, with the way I so bluntly said it. But there was no way around it.

Prince Lucas laughed genially, "You think I'm one of those cranky old people who like to ruin people's life for no reason? Ha! Nothing could be further from the truth."

What!?

"Sir," I backed away, my expression of terror, "you don't know what you're saying! You shouldn't be talking to me, Prince..." I curtsied hurriedly as I opened the door to run inside, my straight, stick-like hair waving in the breeze. I would never do this again. I learned my lesson.

"Stop!" I heard his voice but kept moving, snaking through the hallways, blood pounding in my ears. I had done a terrible deed. I would surely be beheaded the minute the king hears about it. At least I wouldn't be a slave anymore.

At least I would be free.

I rushed down the long, rickety flight of steps that led down to the slaves quarters. A horrible stench greeted me, as always, as I entered the dungeon like hallway. I found the door to my room, and swung it open, immediately repelled by the disastrous odor and the overall grossness of the place. We spent all our time cleaning the upstairs, so we never got to clean our own rooms.

Barely larger than a queen sized bed, it better resembled a prison cell than a bedroom, the brick walls marred with writing of the slaves that lived here before me, their blood staining the walls from when they bled from the arduous scrubbing. My bed consisted of a mat made of hay, hay the horses refused to eat, of course. It was funny how the extremes on both sides of the spectrum of wealth was here at the castle. Only the best for the King, only the worst for the slaves.

I laid my head on my straw mat, the tears rushing even harder now that I was truly alone.

What had I done?


"Evangeline," Poe said loudly, his voice reaching my ears immediately. My eyes flew upon, and I sat up, my hair still perfectly straight from the night before. Poe frowned at my probably disgusting appearance. "Go get washed," he held his nose, "then go see the King. He summoned you."

"Yes sir," I dully replied, though inside I was shaking with fear. Prince Lucas HAD told on me. Or maybe a noble had seen me sitting on that ledge. Either way, I was doomed.

Did I hear him right? I actually was going to get washed instead of washing myself?

I quickly headed to the washing room, a confused look adorning my face.

"We have been waiting for you," an old lady appeared at the doorway of the washing room, one of the forbidden rooms for a slave. She whisked me inside, where a tub of frothy water was waiting, smoke rising from it in little spirals, the heat radiating from it.

Pure paradise.

The woman watched my open-mouthed admiration with a smile on her face, "This must be a dream come true for you, right, dear?" she asked softly.

I just nodded, awed.

"Go ahead and get in," she pushed me towards it. Heart throbbing, I undressed, awkwardly fumbling with the buttons, then placed one toe in the sizzling hot water. It was the perfect temperature, not incredibly hot, but not cold at all. I slipped in the water, tons of bubbles popping as I broke the surface.

"Do you know why you were called by the king?" she asked curiously as she began to wash my hair with soap, getting out the tangles. I could tell she was a lady that liked to gossip, a trusting person, and even if I told her I was going to be their adopted princess she would probably believe me.

I just shrugged in response, just as confused as she was. If the king was going to punish me, why would he order me to be washed and presentable?

This had never happened before to a lowly slave.

"Maybe you did something," she murmured to herself, then looked at me suspiciously, "You didn't steal anything, did you?"

"No ma'am!" I said, alarmed. I would never dream of stealing anything from my king's castle.

Another cleaning lady entered the room. She had short, blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, but they were too small for you to truly look into them. Her nose was huge, dominating her face. Overall, she looked like a mouse.

She looked at me, carefully measuring me, "She's a tiny little thing, don't you think?"

"Yes," the woman washing me said, "very slim and delicate, like the Princess Marilyn."

"But her hideously tanned skin!" The mousey lady commented, "and her dreadfully straight hair! Princess Marilyn and this slave look nothing alike," She paused, skimming over my face, my body. "You know, she seems rather exotic. Like an Egyptian girl."

My mother was born in Egypt. My heart tingled with pleasure at the thought that I looked like her.

"Yes, she does," the older woman agreed. Not once did the mousey woman ever ask me a question, or even speak to me. I was just a slave, an object people could throw away or mistreat badly at will. I had no choices, or voice.

The thought almost brought a fresh wave of tears, but I managed to hold my emotions back.

When the lady finished washing me, the most pleasurable ten minutes in my whole life over, she gave me a plush towel to dry myself off. I did so, wondering where my clothes were. The lady had disappeared with them earlier.

She reappeared before me, suddenly, with an odd looking bundle in her frail hands. "Wear this," she placed it in my hands.

I cautiously unfolded it, amazement etched in my features. "Is this what I think it is?" I asked breathlessly, examining it, then hugging it close to my chest with joy.

"Yes. A floor-length, respectable dress, much better than those rags you wore."

I wondered what I did to make God smile on me like this.

"Thank you," I curtsied, tears in my eyes, happiness filling me. Then, I raised the dress over my head, and slipped into it. The softness of the dress astounded me, its magnificent feel a delight to my skin. It was light brown, the color of oat, with a small, dark brown sash wrapped around it so I could tighten the dress around my waist, giving it a somewhat hourglass shape. It wasn't as loose as the other dress, bunched up a little in the chest area, and stretched across my hips.

The old lady's eyes widened, and I wondered briefly why. Did it look good on me?

The mousey girl frowned a little at the dress, "She doesn't look like a slave." She seemed to be displeased by my appearance, probably too servant-like for her tastes. I was a slave, after all.

"Go on," the older woman gestured to the door, "Go to the king."

I walked out of the washing room, scared to death of what would happen next.


I looked, anxiety surging through me, at the huge double doors before me. They led to the throne room, a place I never wished to go. Usually, if a slave went in this room, he was beheaded. Executed. Exterminated.

I shuddered to think of the last slave that was killed last week. He had stolen Princess Marilyn's tiara... a terrible offense that even a thousand deaths wouldn't forgive. The same brutal death awaited me, but I was not yet ready to embrace it. I didn't want it, no matter how much better life after death was supposed to be.

The doors swung open, slowly, intimidatingly. Two men, clothed like knights, stood against each door, as if holding it open just for me.

Then I heard a rambunctious voice say, "Come," and I was frightened.

As I took meager steps towards the King, the king who I never expected to meet, I shook with terror, thinking of the horrible punishment I deserved, the punishment he was sure to give. King Henry VI was very merciless, and enjoyed watching his slaves tremble with fear before the executor brings the sharpened axes down on their scrawny necks. He probably dressed me well to make fun of me. I HAD gone into a forbidden garden, and talked with the prince of France, just like a noble would've, so he probably just wanted to dress me in this clothing so I could feel like a noble when I died. He liked entertainment, and a slave dressed as a noble definitely would be.

The long walk took ages, the whole room gigantic. The ceiling was very tall, a vault, decorated with marvelous masterpieces, beautiful murals that seemed to nearly dance off it's canvas. Old heirlooms stood at various places in the throne room, vases, tea cups, and statues placed on pedestals. I was walking on a red carpet, a beautiful one, to my doom.

I kept my head down, watching the carpet before me as my feet edged closer to the king. I didn't want to reach my destination.

I stopped at the end of my trek, and curtsied, all the while keeping my gaze on the floor.

"Your Majesty," I said softly.

"Look up," Not a suggestion, but a command. I obliged, meeting the gaze of the King as he studied me. His eyes skimmed over my face, my clear complexion, and