Satisfied, Lucy wiped her hands on a vinegar-soaked cloth to neutralize the oils, then skipped out of the room, the echo of her footsteps bouncing down the hall like a gleeful little war drum.
She changed quickly in the women’s quarters. The scent of lavender soap and old cedar drifted from the wardrobes, slipping into practical travel clothes—not too different from her maid uniform, just without the apron or extra pockets.
Her bag sat ready: neatly folded clothes, toiletries, her beloved mascara, and a tiny vial of concentrated tears-of-onion for emergency dramatics. She was proud of being early. Punctuality was practically her religion.
But she was prouder of being Esther’s best friend. Princess or maid meant nothing to her. Esther was her sister. Lucy would walk through hell barefoot to protect her. She might even burn the castle down if it came to that. Not that she wanted to. Cleaning was her specialty, not espionage—but she would absolutely do it.
She stopped in the kitchen on her way out, the air warm and buttery from fresh rolls.
“Good afternoon,” she called.
“Good afternoon, Lucy,” Greta, the head cook, replied without looking up. That was the full extent of their relationship.
The other servants avoided her eyes as she passed, not out of fear, but out of caution. Caring too loudly about a princess who cried at night was a good way to lose your position. Or worse, be transferred somewhere quiet and forgotten.
Lucy didn’t blame them.
She just refused to be them.
Lucy grabbed six small, round, steaming rolls.
Esther never ate enough when she was anxious. Lucy had compensated quietly for years—extra bread, sugared fruit, honey stirred into tea. Small rebellions were still rebellions if they kept someone alive.
The scent of yeast and toasted crust clung to her fingers as she left. She rarely interacted with staff unless necessary. Theytalked behind her back. They resented how quickly Esther had taken to her. They muttered words like “pet” and “undeserving.”
Lucy had memorized who said which words. Who sneered. Who stayed silent. People thought maids were invisible. Lucy collected faces like receipts.
They didn’t realize the most significant difference between her and the other staff:courage. She hadn’t used tricks to become Esther’s personal maid; she simply treated her as a living, breathing person.
The palace didn’t need chains to keep people in line. It ran on softer cruelties—whispers, favors withheld, doors that stopped opening when you approached. Servants learned quickly which halls to avoid and which nobles liked their tea just wrong enough to justify a punishment.
Lucy had survived by being useful. Esther had survived by being obedient.
Neither of those things was safe.
She brushed past two guards in the hall. They straightened, puffing up like peacocks.
“Afternoon, Lucy,” one said with a wink.
She smiled sweetly, then stabbed him directly in the ego:
“Not interested. Try again when you grow a spine.”
Insults were another deterrent. Men hated being dismissed more than they hated being refused. Lucy wielded that knowledge like a blade.
He sputtered as she wheeled her luggage toward the gates. The worn wheels clacked over uneven stone, jerking with each crack.
Basil was already waiting. Lucy’s jaw dropped.
He leaned casually against the carriage, puffing a cigar that smelled warm and woodsy, smoke curling around him like he’d stepped out of a portrait of a dignified rake. The scent suited him disgustingly well.
Basil wore authority like a borrowed coat—heavy, uncomfortable, and clearly not his. To the court, he was dependable. Predictable. Safe.
Lucy knew better.
Men like Basil didn’t stay loyal to crowns. They stayed faithful to people. Basil had the look of a man who knew precisely how wrong things were and had chosen to proceed anyway. Lucy trusted people like that because she was the same breed.
“You’re early,” she accused, affronted.
