The shoes weren’t hers.
They had never been hers. The right one was cracked at the sole and sucked up water like a sponge; the left pinched her toes so tight that by the end of every shift she swore she could feel the bones grinding.
The basket on her arm was heavier than it looked. Scraps from the castle kitchens weren’t meant to feed a family, just insult them into being grateful. A few ends of bread, some bruised apples, a rind of cheese with more wax than anything edible. She’d managed to save a small pot of jam from the royal breakfast—what was left after the nobles had their fill—and tucked it aside for Sera. She carried it carefully, because the mistake of dropping even one crust was the sort of mistake you didn’t live down at home.
And the home was squatted between two larger buildings, smoke curled lazily from the chimney, though it smelled more of damp kindling than meat.
The door groaned when she pushed it open. Inside, the hearth smoldered, giving the single-room home its stubborn pocket of warmth. The walls were patched in places with boards that didn’t match, and the roof sagged low enough that Thessa had to duck with her basket. She was tall, nearly as tall as a soldier’s spear, and the ceiling had never forgiven her for it.
“Thessa,” her mother said, turning from the table where she was kneading the last of the dough into something bread-shaped. Her hands were dusted white, her sleeves rolled high,her blond hair was as always in a long braid. Lines of fatigue etched her face, but her smile was ready. “How was your day, dear?”
“Long,” Thessa mumbled, slipping the basket onto the bench and pulling off her pinching shoes. “Hot ovens, cold nobles, same as always.”
Her brother barked a laugh, leaning back in his chair. Joren was sixteen, tall in the way that still looked unfinished, like his limbs hadn’t quite decided where to stop. His hair was dark, curling stubbornly over his brow, and his grin came quick and crooked. His eyes, unmistakably, were the same green as hers.
“Didn’t burn the soup this time, then?”
Aerenne shook her head but her lips twitched. “That’s enough from both of you. Let your sister breathe.”
Thessa moved to help automatically, rolling up her sleeves and noticed Sera peeking from the blanket. She beamed at Thessa, then looked down. Nine years old, too pale, freckles scattered like stars across her skin, and blond curls always ruffled. Too clever for her own good, but lately too quiet.
“She had a poor day,” her mother said gently, taking the knife to slice the stale loaf into thinner pieces, stretching it as far as possible.
Thessa hesitated, then remarked, as lightly as she could, “I saw the princess today.”
Joren snorted, pushing past the cloth that served as the pantry door. “In the kitchens? Helping peel turnips, was she?”
“No,” Thessa responded, swatting him with cloth. “In the courtyard. I passed near enough.”
She didn’t miss how Sera’s head lifted from the bed. Her green eyes were wide now.
“Really?” Sera whispered.
“Really,” Thessa quipped, turning toward her. “She looked like someone who belonged to the stories.” She winked. “Like the one mom is telling you before you go to sleep.”
That coaxed a small smile from her sister, and it was enough.
Their mother dusted her hands on her apron and sighed. “I stopped by Neralie’s today,” she remarked, changing the subject gently. “The baby’s strong. Still red as a beet, but he grips a finger like he means to win a war.”
Thessa’s lips curved. “That’s good. Neralie deserves a fighter.”
“She deserves rest,” Aerenne corrected, though her eyes softened. “And a sister—when will you visit her?”
Thessa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The truth was, she’d been meaning to go—had promised twice, in fact—but between sleepless nights, shrinking bread, and work, she hadn’t found the strength.
Her mother had been a midwife known for helping bring half the quarter into the world. Thessa had even assisted a few times, though the thought still made her queasy.
“Soon,” she said at last, a little too quickly. “I’ll bring her something sweet. If I can find anything sweet.”
Her mother hummed. “You used to be there every week. She misses you. And she worries.”
Outside, someone shouted in the street. Then laughter. Then silence again.
“I know,” Thessa declared finally, voice low. “I’ll try tomorrow.”
Her mother didn’t press. She only nodded, slowly, and turned back to the hearth, where the kettle was starting to hiss.
Dinner that night was thin bread, tougher than it looked, and a pot of broth with more water than flavor along with leftovers from the castle kitchens. Sera sat carefully on the bench, lifting her bowl with both hands and sipping the broth as if each swallow demanded effort.
