This complex part of my life might've started before, but I don't count that time because I was only twelve and it seems more like a dream than a memory. A wonderful confusing dream...
My name is Ana Maylin, and I am the daughter of some dead man of who's life I have no idea of, same with my mother. You may have heard this kind of story before, an infant left at the doorstep of the palace in some hopes that the penniless child will gain favor in the eyes of the king and become royalty. The parents would then, when their kid is rich and famous, pop up and say, oh, yeah, I bore that kid, can you let me live in the palace? And of course the confused kid is obliged to do just that.
I was one of those kids, but my parents haven't popped up yet, probably because they are dead, and because I am not rich and famous.
The king didn't like me.
Or my crying.
Besides he already had young son and his wife was expecting another.
But instead of being sent to the local orphanage, I was claimed by one of the cooks. Sally was not the head cook, but she might as well have been. She was bossier than the spoiled royal children, and twice as loud. She had hardly raised a storm before the king let her take me home.
He didn't care.
And neither did I.
A few months later the woman who had supposedly delivered me came and told Sally that my name was Ana Maylin and that my mother had died penniless at my child birth. My father was unknown, which means he could have been a duke or a robber. I liked to think that he was a knight and was off fighting in that endless war we were having with Evif. Someday perhaps he would rescue me from the terrors of the kitchen and we would start a new life.
But these daydreams stopped when I was twelve.
When Sally heard the news she didn't know whether to rejoice or curse. She liked me and all, what with me being a cute adorable baby, but she couldn't stand my screaming and crying. I suppose she didn't like the thought that some tiny creature with no brains or reason could make louder noise than her and still get her own way. I got my diaper, my bottle, and Sally's constant love and care. Still, she swore every time I cried, which is why I know so many bad words and why Sally died deaf.
The death of Sally happened when I was six, and was a terrible confusing blow. I was still just a kid, more like a brat. The only knowledge I had was of cleaning, bars, bad language, and cooking. It was the cooking that saved me.
Or should I say, the Royal Head Chef of His Royal Majesty's Royal Kitchens... to prepare the Royal food...J/k.
I hate capitalizing royal...
Mr. Pumphrey was a right jolly middle age fellow. He was round like cooks should be (although Sally was a stick) and had a tall white hat. When Sally took me on visits to the Royal Kitchen, Mr. Pumphrey let me wear the hat as I stirred some soup or pudding. He didn't even get mad when I accidentally dropped it into the beet soup, and it came out purple and ruined. He got a new one, but he never let me wear it.
He had pity on me, the 'skinny mouse', and took me home where he cleaned up my mind, language and 'fattened' me up and turned me into the girl I am now, at the age of the magical sweet sixteen. Not. Which is where my story begins.