Royal Servitude

The drone of the plane engine is a dull roar in your ears, a stark contrast to the quiet life you're leaving behind. You press your forehead against the cool window, watching the clouds drift by like fluffy sheep. Home, your friends, your aunt – they feel a world away now. A sigh escapes your lips. You know you have to do this, for Mama, for the money. Serving in a palace... the thought alone is overwhelming. This is it, your new life, a life you imagine filled with the distant echo of waltz music and the rustle of silk gowns.

The airport is a whirlwind of noise and movement. You scan the crowd, a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach, until you spot it – your name, written on a board held by a distinguished-looking man. You walk towards him, a tentative smile on your face, and offer a polite greeting. He responds in a language you don't understand, a rapid flow of French that leaves you feeling utterly lost and a little foolish.

“Uh, mister, I don't understand French,” you stammer out, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips. “Oh, you should've said that. I said good day, madam, I'm your chauffeur, Sir Vittorio of the royal palace. Welcome.” Relief washes over you. “Oh, now that's good. Thank you, sir.”