I never imagined I would set foot in the palace again—at least, not as anything more than a memory. But desperation has its own way of bending pride.
The coins are gone. Mira’s fever rises and falls like the tides, and each potion Ysabet brews drains what little we have left. When the summons came for a new seamstress within the royal halls, I did not hesitate. I told Ysabet I would take the post. She looked at me for a long moment, eyes dark and wise, and said only, “Then make it worth the risk.”
Now, standing before the gates, I feel as if the air itself remembers me.
The stones glimmer with dew, the same color as the night I first slipped through them years ago—young, foolish, in love. I carry Mira’s small bundle in one arm and our few belongings in the other. Ysabet walks beside me, her step slow, her arms around my sleeping child.
Two guards open the doors. Light spills through, sharp as a blade. The hall stretches endlessly—gold, marble, banners embroidered with the sigil I once found in the prince’s chamber. The same sigil that hangs now from the ring in my pocket.
Prince Aldric waits near the dais, taller than I expected, posture straight as the scepter at his side. The fire from the wall sconces paints his hair with glints of bronze, though it’s dark as midnight. He wears a calmness that feels forged rather than natural, and his eyes—cold as wet stone—betray nothing at all.
Beside him stands Lady Seraphine. The sight of her twists my stomach. She looks untouched by time, her beauty sharpened into something perilous. The same serpent grace, the same cold mirth. My fingers tighten around Mira’s blanket.
“Welcome,” the prince says. It sounds less like greeting and more like command.
“Welcome,” Lady Seraphine echoes, her tone sweet as poison. Her hand rests on his chest possessively. “We trust you will serve the crown with… devotion.”
Her eyes flick to me—just once, but long enough for the corner of her mouth to lift in recognition. The same smile she wore before she struck. I bow quickly, my pulse drumming in my ears.
“Your Majesties,” I murmur, forcing steadiness. “It is the highest honor to serve the royal household.”
Aldric’s gaze slides over me briefly, unreadable. “You’ll find the work demanding,” he says. “The palace runs on precision, not praise.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He nods once and turns away, his cloak trailing like shadow behind him. Seraphine lingers, her eyes darting to Mira in Ysabet’s arms.
“What a fragile little thing,” she says softly. “Do not let the palace air sicken her further.”
Ysabet’s jaw tightens, but she bows. “I’ll see to her health as long as breath remains in me.”
Seraphine smiles wider. “I expect nothing less.”
When they’re gone, the hall exhales. I look to Ysabet; she meets my gaze with silent understanding. “Breathe,” she whispers. “And keep your head down.”
***
Our quarters are small, tucked beneath the east wing, walls damp with chill and smelling faintly of soap. But it is a roof, and that’s enough. I lay Mira in the cot and wrap her in the warmest blanket I own. She hardly stirs anymore, her sleep deep and fevered. I brush a curl from her brow and whisper, “I’ll find a way, my love.”
Ysabet leaves herbs steaming on the table, the air thick with their bitter perfume. “She is stable,” she murmurs. “But not for long. The curse sleeps, not dies.”
Her words make my heart tremble. I sit beside Mira through most of the night, holding her hand. The candle burns low; the moon slides over the window like a watchful eye.
By dawn, exhaustion weighs me down, but I rise anyway. Work will not wait, and neither will time.
***
The hall of seamstresses lies deep within the west wing, past corridors so wide they seem to echo with ghosts. I find it by the faint smell of dye and the gleam of needles lined in perfect rows.
My uniform—a gray dress too tight at the waist and too long at the sleeves—feels foreign against my skin. Still, I smooth it and sit at the worktable, unspooling a roll of silk the color of snow. I breathe once, twice, then begin stitching.
The quiet is a comfort. Needle through fabric, pull, knot, repeat. For a moment, the world narrows to the rhythm of work. Mira’s face flashes in my mind—soft, sleeping, waiting. I work faster.
Footsteps break the silence. Heavy, deliberate. I assume it’s another seamstress and keep my eyes low.
“Working early today, seamstress?”
The voice freezes me. Deep. Commanding. Familiar only from a distance.
I rise halfway, startled. “Your Majesty,” I breathe, bowing at once. Prince Aldric stands at the edge of the hall, one hand behind his back, watching.
He walks closer, the soft click of his boots loud in the emptiness. “You begin before sunrise?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I manage, my hands trembling slightly as I pick up the fabric again. “I am devoted to my work.”
“I’ve heard much about your talent,” he says. His tone carries neither warmth nor mockery—just fact, like cold steel.
“It is an honor,” I whisper. “I do my best to please people.”
He stops directly beside me. I can feel the weight of his gaze though I don’t dare lift mine.
“Don’t,” he says.
I glance up, startled. “Your Majesty?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Don’t do your best to please people.” He folds his hands behind his back, eyes distant. “Do your best for its own sake. Or for your child.”
My breath catches. The words strike deeper than he could know. “You… know of her?”
He looks down at me then—dark eyes meeting mine, unreadable but not cruel. “I know of every life within these walls.” He pauses. “Ysabet’s name carries weight. And yours, Lara of Durden’s Hand, now stands beside hers.”
The sound of my father’s shop name in his mouth almost undoes me. I lower my gaze quickly. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Gratitude is unnecessary,” he says, turning toward the door. “Just work. And keep your courage quiet.”
Before I can form a reply, he leaves. His footsteps fade into the echoing corridors, leaving behind only the rustle of fabric and my racing heart.
I sit back down, hands trembling around the needle. For a long moment, I cannot move. The morning light spills through the tall windows, gilding the thread in my hands like spun gold.
“Do it for yourself,” he said. “Or your child.”
I whisper the words to the air, testing their sound. They taste strange—half warning, half mercy.
Then I bend my head again and begin to sew. Each stitch is steadier than the last, the thread bright and taut between my fingers.
If I must work beneath the roof of serpents and kings to save Mira, then so be it. I will stitch until my hands bleed. And somewhere within these walls, among the tapestries and secrets, I will find the man whose ring still gleams against my skin.