I thought about him every night for a week.

I thought about his cloud of red hair and the little sprinkling of freckles over his nose. I thought about how he said my name. Good day to you, Mr Murray.

I thought about how my mother would squeal and jump up and down if I told her, Mama, I spoke to the Prince himself. No, the King. He was King now.

Of course, I knew it was wrong to idolize him. Geoff would hate me for it, and rightly so. There was nothing to like about this boy, nothing admirable or worthy of respect.

But I couldn't help it.

In the mornings, I waited for the trumpets to sound and the new King to come out and address his people. He never did.

I glanced over Geoff's shoulder when he read the newspaper to see if any executions were being held. There were none.

I laid in my cot and wondered what the King did all day. Did he have meetings and important business to attend to? Did he sit on his throne and count stacks of coins? Did he make beggars stand before him and throw rotten vegetables at them for his own amusement?

After a few days I came to a solid decision.

I would go to the castle gardens, where the King and his companions often took the air and socialized.

If I saw him, I would watch him from afar and hope the sight of him sated my curiosity. If I didn't see him, I would take it as a sign from God and never return again.

Foolproof plan.

It was raining hard that morning. Under the dark sky, the courtyard was slick with mud, the hens hiding in their coop. Rain pattered against the open doorway as I searched for Geoff in the kitchen.

He always stood alone at breakfast. Most days he stared at the wall as he ate, his eyes dancing around and his expression changing like he was playing out some scene in his head.

I took a bowl from the counter and crept up to him. We hadn't spoken since the day we met the King, save for a few good morning's and pass the sponge, if you please.

His knife was no longer concealed in a cloth sack. He'd fastened a leather sheath for it along his belt, the handle protruding proudly. I looked both ways before I spoke.

"I need your coat."

"Coat?" he asked casually, watching the other men shovel down their food.

"You know. Your coat." I kept my eyes on my bowl. I didn't want it to seem like we were too deep in a conversation. Breakfast today was a thick slop of bread mashed into water. Small pieces of cabbage were buried among the soggy bread chunks.

He spooned a bite of it into his mouth with dirty fingers. "It wouldn't fit you. You're too thin."

"I'll bring it back, if that's what you think."

"I believe you."

"Then-"

"Where will you wear it?" he interrupted. I grimaced and threw a glance across the kitchen. "It's my coat, I've a right to know where it goes, do I not?"

It's not yours, I wanted to say. I had a feeling he'd killed whatever nobleman he took it from. But the last thing I needed was a lunatic like Geoff angry with me. "I hate the food here," I said. "I want to go upstairs and enjoy a roast duck with figs and honey-"

The words had scarcely left my mouth when he laughed. The sound was rough and abrupt. Mr Coopers, who was leading the group in an obnoxious new round of jokes - today aimed at Roggar's wife - looked up and called, "Oi! Glory day, the old lad's got a sense of humor after all!"

Geoff smiled stiffly at them and shifted closer to me. "Be honest and I'll give it to you," he said, voice low and calculated.

I took a breath. I would need to come up with something better.

I studied him, the way his dark eyes met mine with complete ease, as if he knew the answer already. I was familiar with that soul-penetrating look of his by now, and every time I saw it the angry flame inside me grew hotter.

"I suppose... I just wished to feel important for a moment," I whispered, softly like I was ashamed, like I was laying bare my pathetic desires before him.

"Your idea of feeling important is walking among the same men that hold us below them! Oh, the irony. The irony, Auden, really, it's beyond your scope of understanding."

He was scolding me. I ground my teeth down to contain my rage.

"Yes." I knew how to make my voice wobble like I was a heartbeat from tears. Sometimes the men outside the tavern liked that. "You're right, I'm so stupid, Geoff."

His hand moved to my shoulder and rubbed. I knew he meant to comfort me but my entire body stiffened in terror. "Alright," he sighed. "It's locked in a chest at the slaughterhouse. I'll take you when we clear out for work."

I stared down at my bowl of slop until Missus Mack clanged her metal ladle against a cooking pot.

The men abandoned their bowls and shuffled outside in a line, grumbling about the rainy weather and the holes in their boots.

Geoff led the way, with me trudging behind through the mud. My hair was slick against my forehead by the time we reached the slaughterhouse, my clothes soaked through. I remembered my mother placing the bronze ring inside my vest and a pang of guilt pricked my heart.

In less than a month, I'd lost the one thing she'd given me.

No. No, that was wrong.

I'd lost much more than that.

"Follow me," Geoff said as he pushed open the rusty wooden doors. "Don't speak to anyone."

The scent of warm blood hit me like a wave, so sudden and so pungent I gagged. Bloody meat was piled high in metal bins along a rectangular table, tiny insects buzzing overhead. The place was filthy - dirt tracked everywhere, dried blood splattered on the walls. I locked eyes with half a pig's head resting at the table's edge.

"This side is nothing," he said. "This is where the meat gets cut up. The racks are the worst bit."

I held my breath as we made our way through the room to a door in back. "What are the racks?"

"Where the beasts bleed out. They hang for a while, bucket under 'em. Then you take 'em down and gut 'em. Whole place stinks like the underbelly of hell."

A man stood between the bins, slicing up parts of a skinned carcass. His sleeves were rolled up to his biceps, the edges stained red. His arms were tanned and hairy, his brow tightened and sweating despite the cold outside.

A bull of a man.

He raised his cleaver high and brought it down with a dull thud. "Who's this little thing?" he chuckled. I felt I was being inspected like one of the pigs he butchered on the daily.

Ironically, sticking close to Geoff was probably my safest option.

"Come on." His arm fit tightly around my shoulders. "Never mind him."

I glanced behind me once before the man disappeared from view. His eyes remained on me, a knowing smirk fixed on his fleshy lips. "Don't be too loud back there."

Geoff slammed the door. Outside, I could hear the man's hearty laugh. "Dunno what he's on about," Geoff mumbled, his hands twisting over each other like he was cold. It was the first time I'd seen him nervous.

I said nothing.

"Well," he said briskly, his back turned to me. "Best find you that old coat, aye?"

I stood back and watched, unable to keep a smile off my face. I decided I rather liked him being uncomfortable.

The back room was small, Geoff's own private space. A wooden chair with one arm was pushed under the window and stacked high with newspapers. Words were underlined and circled on the top page, unintelligible notes scrawled in the margins.

I shrugged off my vest while he unlocked the chest and gave his coat a quick shake. It was a dull mauve color, with wide pockets sewn on the inside and round buttons that bobbled back and forth. I pulled it tight round my body to hide my dirty undershirt and ruffled my hair.

"How do I look?" I asked.

"Terrible. Oh, bloody hell. You'd have better luck growing a third hand overnight than passing as a noble."

My heart sank.

Doomed. It was all doomed.

"Perhaps we could find you-"

I tuned his words out, deep in thought. The coat was unnecessary, I decided. In fact, I would likely stand out more wearing it; at least in my own garments I looked like any other servant in the midst of some menial task.

And the King already knew I was just a servant.

What he didn't know was what kind.

"Forget it, Geoff," I said suddenly. "It was foolish of me to try. I shan't need this."

"What?" he scoffed. "Just like that?"

"You should be proud." I gave him a dry smile. "I realized the irony and came to my senses."

He frowned deeply as I tugged off the coat and left him alone in the room. I hated him for a reason I didn't fully understand, but as much as one part of me wanted to see him dead, another part figured he might still be of some use in the future.

Behind the counter, the butcher was ogling me, cleaver in hand.

Keep walking.

I paused.

Keep walking, what the hell are you thinking?

I turned and faced him, letting my eyes sink into a sleepy invitation. "What's your name?" I kept my voice light. Slow. I leaned on the counter and stared up at him like he was the most fascinating thing in the world.

His breath came out strangled.

I could tell he hadn't expected me to speak to him. I hadn't expected to either. But something was different about me now. Different and dark and frightening.

I smiled softly at him with big eyes, waiting.

"What you want a name for?" he grunted out.

His eyes. They were hungry. So hungry.

I almost pitied him.

"Because..." I parted my lips and let my eyes trail lazily from his broad chest to the growing outline in his trousers, then to the gleaming blade of his cleaver.

That beautiful blade.

"Because I want to know who to ask for when I come back tonight."

He swallowed. I watched the muscles of his throat contract. "Don't need a name," he said finally. "Come round the back when it's dark. No one will see."

I bit my lip and sank back, eyes landing once again on the rotting pig's head. It was vile, disgusting, and yet something about it excited me.

I looked from the pig to the butcher, the butcher to his knife.

"See you tonight," I murmured.