His tone leaves no room for argument. His Grace turns on his heel and walks out, Commander Nael and the guards quickly following. I’m left in the atrium alone, a question still lingering on the tip of my tongue:how much did Mother really do here?
The rest of the day stretches endlessly. I’m paraded around by court nobles who treat me like an exotic pet, fascinating for about five minutes before they lose interest. My self-guided tour of the lower gardens is quickly interrupted by Lady Maren, a woman dripping in large rubies, who introduces me to her circle as “the little healer girl” with a patronizing smile. The words land lightly, almost playful on the surface, but her gaze strips me down to the mud on my boots and the knot in my hair.
By contrast, Lady Maren is the epitome of timeless elegance. Her dark hair is piled high in an elaborate style threaded with ruby pins, and her gown is deep burgundy silk that probably costs more than our cottage. Her skin is pale and powdered, her lips painted crimson to match the jewels at her throat.
Her followers cluster around her like lesser moons. One is a younger woman with auburn curls and too much rouge on her cheeks, her laugh high and grating. Another is older, with iron-grey hair pulled back so tightly it seems to stretch her skin, a thick pair of glasses pressing down on a button nose. A third looks to be middle-age, with long flowing brown hair and emerald green robes, who every now and then nervously glances at Lady Maren as if seeking approval for every expression.
“Miss Cyra,sucha pleasure. Your mother was … quitedevotedto her work here,” Lady Maren begins, her jeweled fingers playing with her wine glass.
“Devoted?” I ask carefully.
“Oh yes, always in the strategy rooms, always asking about the outer planets,” Lady Maren’s eyes glitter like the rubies she wears. “Suchunusualcuriosity for a healer. She was always so determined to understand the bigger picture.”
“What kind of bigger picture?” I ask.
Lady Maren exchanges glances with her followers, a silent conversation passing between them.
“Political alliances,” she says finally. “Your mother was particularly interested in which Houses might support whom if … certainsituationsarose.”
“Such as?”
Lady Maren’s smile becomes brittle. “No matter, it’s ancient history dear. Though your motherdidseem to think it might not remain history for much longer...”
“Such simple hair!” the auburn-haired follower suddenly exclaims, reaching out to touch my blonde head with fingers heavy with rings. I shoot them a look, taken aback.
“Well, what can you expect from the slums...” Lady Maren replies with false sweetness, her painted lips curving.
Before I can correct her or say anything else, they drift away in a rustle of silk and clicking heels, but I catch fragments of their whispered conversation: “ …too many questions…” “...just like her mother...” “...could invest in a better comb...”
I decide to continue to tour the halls, the withdrawal gnawing at meconstantly. My skin feels too tight, and I have to concentrate to keep my hands from shaking. Every few minutes, a wave of nausea rolls through me, making me grip doorframes a little too tightly. The craving sits beneath my ribs, demanding in nature. I’m surrounded by people, by conversation, by the polite performance of court life, but all I can think about is how desperately I need to heal.
The library walkthrough is a welcome distraction, a massive hall with spiraling towers of books that stretch toward stained glass ceilings. At one point during my meandering between bookshelves, a young servant boy approaches me. He can’t be more than twelve, with sandy hair that sticks up at odd angles and wide, earnest eyes that dart nervously down the hall before settling on me.
“Miss,” he whispers urgently. “Your mother, she helped my family. Gave us medicines when my sister was sick, never asked for payment.”
My heart skips a beat, eager to hear more. “That sounds like something she would do.” I shake my head, desperate for more information. “Do you have any idea what happened to her?”
The young boy looks down, dejected. “No, Miss, but … she was different the last few weeks. Scared. She kept asking about old records, and about the outer rim.” The boy’s eyes widen even more. “She was collecting favours, making friends – she said if anything happened to her, someone would?—”
Before he can finish, footsteps echo towards us and he scurries away.
Outer rim attacks … power shifting between Houses … the Cardinals losing grip...
Mother knows something is coming.
As the sun begins to slowly fade beyond the horizon, I make my way back to the atrium. The massive windows spill fading sunlight across the marble floor, lighting the wild greenery from a different angle than earlier. The shadows of the plants stretch long and soft, curling over the walls like reaching hands. Everything here feels alive, lush and untamed in a way the rest of the palace isn’t.
I pause just inside the entrance, taking in the sheer scale of the space now that it’s quiet and deserted. The high ceiling disappears into darkness above the greenery, and all around various fountains murmur softly, a sound that should be soothing but only makes me more aware of how alone I am.
How exposed.
The withdrawal prickles beneath my skin, making every sensation sharper – the cooling air against my neck, the faint scent of night-blooming flowers beginning to open. And something else – something that raises the fine hairs on my arms.
I’m being watched.
I hold my breath and turn slowly, scanning the deep shadows gathered beneath the upper gallery. Nothing moves. No sound except the fountains and the distant hum of the palace settling into evening. But the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. One shadow near a far column seems darker than it should be, denser somehow, as though it’s absorbing light rather than simply existing in its absence.
I blink, and it’s just a shadow again. Just architecture and fading daylight playing tricks on exhausted eyes.
