Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The palace was surprisingly empty, the morning light spilling in through the windows like an accusation. The marble floors were warm under my bare feet, silent except for the movement of my own body down the long hallway, the light breeze brushing against my face as I opened the back door.

I shifted my legs, taking a few slow steps into the garden as the smell of roses wafted through the air, glimmering with the weight of the pink and orange sunrise. The August heat was already pressing in, the rustling of servants from another room preparing the dining hall for morning meals.

According to Mom, I was to be on my best behavior. In her words, the suitors weren’t here to see just any princess — they were here to see me, to watch me flinch under their hard stares and see nothing but a prize to be won. To see not a girl, but something to control, something to give them the power they so desperately craved.

I wriggled my toes, feeling the chopped grass against my heels as I reached my finger inside the rose bush. The thorns pricked against my skin, a droplet of blood seeping down my palm as I pulled the stem from the bush, turning it over in my hands as if to inspect it for imperfections.

The door gently opened behind me, my entire body freezing for just a moment until I regained my composure. “Suitors aren’t allowed in the private gardens,” I said automatically, placing the rose in my waistband as if that would do anything to hide it.

“It’s just me,” Callie said softly, closing the door behind her as if that would stop anyone else from walking in. “What are you doing up?”

“I’m always awake this early,” I said, licking the blood from my fingertip as if that would stop it from flowing. “This is just my first time leaving my bedroom.”

She was still dressed in her nightgown, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders as she wiped the sleep away from her eyes. It almost looked like she’d just woken up from a dream — her gaze foggy, stumbling just slightly as she fought to stay awake.

Callie walked deeper into the garden, picking a handful of basil from the corner in between the lavender and marigolds, turning to glance at me as I wiped a strand of hair from my face.

“Are you aware of the blood on your hands?” she asked, her voice hushed as if someone could hear us from inside.

“Very,” I said honestly, a hint of a smile on my face as I wiped my palm against my dress, smearing the crimson on the fabric. “Are you aware of the dirt on your gown?”

“It’s easier to wash out dirt than it is blood,” she said in that familiar motherly tone, her voice mimicking Mom’s when she scolded me for nothing in particular.

She paused for a moment, plucking the rose from my waistband and tossing it carelessly back into the bush, lost amongst the other flowers. “People are going to come looking for you soon.”

“Let them look,” I said dismissively, trying my best not to glare as she passed me with perfect posture, gentle fingertips grazing my shoulder. “I deserve a moment to myself.”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” she said gently, brushing the dirt away with her fingers, “But you have new servants to choose from.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, the weight of duty pressing against my shoulders like rocks. Callie made it sound like a privilege — a princess who got to pick her own servants like a real woman — but it was nothing more than a test. One of judgement, a performance that determined who would shadow me and carry my secrets.

“Wonderful,” I mumbled, crossing my arms over my waist, wrinkling the fabric under my fingertips. “New servants.”

The words felt unfamiliar on my tongue, like taking a sip of spoiled milk and holding it without swallowing. Another set of eyes, another reminder that nothing I did would ever simply be my own.

Callie said nothing else — she simply stepped into the sunlit palace, headed in the direction of her own room to clean up before breakfast. She walked with her head pointed straight ahead as if she were balancing a stack of books, her footsteps light against the marble.

I looked up at the clouds, watching the blue sky overpower the beautiful salmons I had seen just minutes before. The rustling of bodies inside was louder now, clumsy grown men coming out of their rooms with power-hungry looks in their eyes and servants running around to clean up after them.

I stepped into the palace, the chatter of voices growing louder with every step towards my dressing chambers. I longed for the gardens as soon as I left, the cool marble swallowing the warmth of the sunlit dirt as I was met with the sight of two maids waiting quietly.

I twisted through adults who didn’t recognize me with my head down, eyes staring straight ahead as they tried to look like men while acting like boys. Their voices bellowed through the now busy hallways, shouting at servants for doing their jobs and bragging about the riches they’d attained over the years.

“Your highness,” one of the servants greeted me, her voice soft and gentle as she touched my arm, her fingertips brushing against my skin. “Come with me to your dressing chambers.”

I nodded noiselessly at her, allowing her to place a hand on my back and guide me through a home I could navigate with my eyes closed. The warmth of her hand lingered against my skin, every step bringing me further from the peace of the gardens.

The dresses inside were deep, rich colors decorated with white and gold embroidery, paired with matching veils and gleaming tiaras covered in white diamonds. Shoes with small buckles and ribbons laid beside the vanity, the options nearly overwhelming in the tiny, closet-like room.

“Purple— the darker one,” I said as servants rushed into action, moving dresses aside to make room for the one I’d chosen. “Lay it out by the mirror, please. Could you hand me the white shoes?”

The women did as they were asked, whirring past me in a blur — soft, steady hands, caressing the silky fabrics as they obliged. Their faces were tired, but they moved as if they had been awake for hours, waiting like sitting ducks until a voice more powerful than theirs commanded them to do something.

“I can get dressed by myself, thank you,” I said, trying to soften my voice as they paraded one at a time out the door, their shoes tapping gently against the floors.

The dress I’d picked was a deep, royal purple that slid over my body without much difficulty, the silk soft against my skin. The sleeves were loose, the fabric falling in gentle folds against my wrists as I adjusted the dress to my liking.

The servants flooded in when I was finished, one placing my shoes on my feet as if I were a child and another threading her cold fingers through my hair. She separated the curls into three sections for a French braid, bobby pins pressed into my scalp to secure a hairstyle that would last no longer than a few hours.
The tiara and veil were pressed deeply into my hair, secured with industrial strength and prayers. The process was incredibly uncomfortable to sit through, a process I was forced into until Mom made up her mind about a suitable husband for me.

“You’re done, Princess,” one of the women said, pulling her hands away from me as if any contact would burn her skin. “Would you like to be escorted to the dining hall?”

“No, thank you,” I said, my voice sharper than I’d intended it to be. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

I moved with careful, unsteady steps, pressing my hand against the wall as I battled with gravity in the heavy dress, the fabric falling just above my feet and threatening to drag against the palace floors.

Mom waited at the end of the hallway, looking as pretty as she always had — streaks of grey just barely hidden in her blonde hair, curls soft against skin three shades lighter than mine. It surprised me sometimes how little Callie and I had taken after her - Norie had gotten Mom's genes and left us both with tanned, olive skin and limbs coated in deep freckles that were nearly the spitting image of what had once been Dad's. 

He felt like a distant memory as I looked at Mom, watching the tiredness melt into her eyes — something from a dream, something that had escaped when nobody else was watching and had silently returned one day, settled into the depths of my brain. His face was cloudy, muddled in fog as I tried to conjure the image of him in my head, but, if I looked in the mirror long enough, I could almost recognize my eyes as his own, recognize that familiar look of something I could never quite place.

“Audrey,” she said, her voice gentle, almost as if she were talking to a child half my age, “You know you’re not to walk the palace alone.”

As much as her weariness bothered me, I understood her — the suitors would get handsy with anyone if left alone too long, desperate for attention they thought they were worthy of. At this point, I thought, They should be the ones getting escorted instead.

I lowered my gaze, the stubbornness dying on my tongue as I saw the worried expression on her face. “I know,” I whispered quietly — not an apology, but the closest thing I could muster up to tell her I understood.

She squeezed my hand, her long fingernails digging into my skin. “It’ll be quick,” she said softly.

She turned and walked into the dining hall, her eyes straight ahead as if she expected me to follow after her without a second thought. I knew I had to, but part of me wanted to run away and jump off my balcony instead of refusing people who brought gifts for me specifically.

Eventually, I did as I was supposed to — I followed her with short, careful steps, my face pointed straight ahead as I tried to avoid the dozens of faces that were watching my every move.

The throne was placed at the front of the dining hall, a white velvet cushion decorated in gold accents. It sat like a harsh reminder of what I had to do — reject the ones I deemed unworthy, accept the ones with meaningless gifts of wealth and false promises of loyalty.

“My daughter,” Mom said, her voice loud enough to hush the entire room, “Audrey of Naples, will be choosing you based on the gifts you provide and the questions she deems you must answer. If you are not chosen, you are to be escorted by our steward.”

The servants cowered under her power, their postures crooked and concerned. A few started to turn their gifts over in their hands, observing for imperfections, faces twisted into unreadable expressions.

~
~

The gifts were all the same — wine made of expensive fruits, different arrays of herbs and flowers that I could already find in the palace garden, shreds of silk in every color. None of it was personalized — it served as an offering of their riches.

After the next servant was escorted out of the palace doors, thrashing as they tried to reason with the steward, another stepped up to the podium.

He looked like a boy pretending to be a man — small, human, a purple bruise fading against the corner of his eye. “Princess,” he greeted, his bow unpracticed.

The corner of my mouth flickered with a smile, fading away before he could even bring his head up to look at me. He didn’t look half bad for a servant — around my age with messy, dirty blonde hair that fell over his eyes and eyes blue enough to contrast the colors of the palace.

“Present your item,” Mom said, her voice a mixture of something in between sharp and kind.

“I don’t have anything for you,” he said, but his eyes stared directly into my soul. His face glimmered with the smallest hint of a smile, the corner of his mouth twitching as his eyes flickered towards Mom.

She didn’t like his answer — she turned towards me with a hard expression on her face, one that said, Don’t do anything stupid.

But I considered his words, then leaned forwards slightly and asked, “Why is that?”

He finally allowed himself to smile, taking one step closer to me despite the fact that Mom’s face tightened. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said, and the whole room seemed to shift.

Whispers rippled through the crowd — shock, amusement, giggles that slipped out without meaning to — but it didn’t matter. All I saw was his eyes fixed on mine as if I was the only person in the entire room.

I studied him carefully, my fingers caressing the armchair, then said, “Tell me what you would bring if you knew the answer then.”

His smile faltered for just a moment, pondering my test — there was no real answer to it, but it would determine the type of person I wanted him to be.

“Whatever you asked for,” he finally said.

The air around us shifted into something softer, less powerful as I considered his words. He didn’t come with intentions of showing off — he came with the hope that his words could persuade me and his wits would amuse the people around us. And it worked.

“Bold answer,” I said, “You’re either brave or foolish.”

“I prefer the term clever.”

Mom’s expression soured, snapping her fingers as if that would make him disappear on the spot. “Next,” she said, her voice disappointed.

“No,” I interrupted, my voice stronger than I’d ever allowed it to be. I looked at the blonde haired boy in front of me, his face filled with determination. “I’ve made my choice.”

“Audrey, please be reasonable here—”

“I’ll take him,” I said, the smallest hint of a smile on my face as I refused to glance in Mom's direction. “Tell me your name.”

He took another step towards me, coming close enough for Mom to lean back as if she were disgusted by his presence. “Mason.”

Mom’s silence was heavier than any protest. I could feel her disappointment as she stared at me, hard and unwavering — but, for once, it wasn’t enough to sway me. I simply held his gaze as if daring someone to stop me, studying the way he carried himself and his mannerisms.

“Where are you from?” she asked, sounding mildly disgusted.

“Durham, Your Highness.”

Her eyes were squinted when she looked at him, staring daggers at his rags and lopsided smile. “Mason of Durham,” she repeated quietly, drumming her fingernails against her knee like she was trying to pick him apart piece by piece. “Tell me now, what are your intentions with my daughter?”

“I plan to serve her,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong and confident, “However she needs to be served.”

She was quiet for a moment — once again, he hadn’t fallen for a trick of words with no true answer.

“Fine,” she scoffed, waving her arm towards the guards standing quietly by the corner. “Bring him to the chambers.”

I caught the almost unnoticeable flicker in his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. He didn’t seem surprised that he’d been chosen — it was almost as if he knew his wits would secure him a place in the palace.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said to Mom, her expression shifting just slightly into something softer. After a moment of hesitation, he turned towards me and bowed, still making eye contact. “Princess,” he added, his voice smooth.

The hall erupted in whispers — confused, intrigued, some angry, their voices loud enough for me to hear. Some looked at me, expecting me to crack a smile and send him back home to Durham, but I held my chin up high — proud, standing tall.

“I’ve made my choice,” I said, my voice loud enough to shut up the servants. “You are all dismissed.”

The crowd dispersed in uneasy silence, their expressions colored in all sorts of different emotions. Their items were clutched close to their chests, wrinkled with finger indents and disappointment.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” Mom said, unmoving. “I just hope you’re smart enough to figure out why.”

“I am not a pawn in this game,” I said, speaking through my teeth as I looked straight ahead, my eyes dancing around the windows opposite the dining hall. “I will not be swayed by wine and herbs I can find myself.”

She stood — not angry, not disappointed, but something unbearable in between. “Come with me,” she finally said, her voice sharp and clipped. “You have duties to fulfill.”

Just like that, the ceremony was over with essentially the snap of her fingers — swallowed by the rhythm of routine.

But, as I stepped away from the dining hall, my thoughts of the servant boy came with me — his hair, that charming smile, those eyes that seemed to undress my soul.

My thoughts were of the servant boy who had so easily weaseled his way into my life.

~

~

“Nothing?” Callie asked, sipping ice water from a wine chalice. “All those gifts, and you picked the one who brought nothing?”

I finally allowed myself to smile, placing my elbows on the table as I propped up my face with my hands. “He was quick-witted. Smart. Clever.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Those are nothing but excuses.”

I rolled my eyes, taking a small sip of the diluted red wine I’d allowed to sit for half of morning meals — sweet, something fruity that I couldn't quite place. “He didn’t hesitate. Spoke with clear confidence. He smiled like he knew he was going to be accepted as soon as he walked in.”

“Sounds cocky.”

“Sounds shrewd.”

“Well, regardless,” she began, her mouth full of bread and olive oil, “He’s your problem now.”

“He is not a problem,” I retorted, angrier than I’d expected myself to be. “I liked him.”

She put up her hands in false surrender, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She paused for just a moment, then opened her mouth to speak when all the servants were out of earshot. “You know,” she started, her voice coated with fake sweetness and something mocking, “Mom is seething.”

“Good.”

Her expression shifted into something more knowing. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Partially,” I said, unable to resist the grin that had started to fall over my face. “But I . . . I actually did like him. I do.”

“Don’t start practicing your vows with the servant boy now.”

“Please,” I scoffed, enunciating the word as if it were the funniest thing she could’ve ever said. “As if Mom would ever let me even think about it.”

She leaned back in her chair, earning a glance from a few of the older servants, who rushed almost immediately to fill her chalice with more water. “God, I wish I could’ve been there,” she said.

“You would’ve enjoyed the show.”

“Don’t tease me, sister.”

“Not teasing,” I said defensively, but I couldn’t hide the smile that had started to curl over my lips. “Never teasing. Just honest.”

“Well, clearly, so is he,” Callie said, rolling her eyes. Under her breath, she mumbled, “Coming empty handed to the palace and still being picked as a servant.”

“I liked him,” I said again, my face just burning slightly.

“Careful with that,” she warned, taking a slow sip from my drink, licking the wine off her lips. “Don’t start falling in love already.”

I wanted to say, I would never — but the words died on my tongue when I opened my mouth. Truthfully, the idea of it didn’t seem too bad — not only would it send Mom spiraling, but he thought the same way I did, spoke the way I’d always wanted to be spoken to.

I liked it —  I felt it, that unfamiliar churn in my stomach that had pooled into something ugly while he was in the room. I liked the idea of him, the idea of conversing with a man not purely for my hand in marriage or drunken mistakes that left the whole palace drowning in controversy. 

I liked the idea that, for once in my life, I could have someone decent to spend my time with — a friend. 

Chapter Text

The room was already occupied when I walked in.

There was a boy sprawled across a thin, feathery mattress — his ginger hair was messy, almost as if he’d wrestled a tornado before I walked in, arms twig-like yet somehow a little muscular. He barely noticed when I walked in, his eyes flickering towards me for just a moment before he returned to watching the birds outside the windows.

“Hi,” I said — such a simple greeting, but the words felt strange on my tongue. “I’m Mason.”

The corner of his mouth quivered upwards just slightly, his gaze flashing towards me. “Of Durham,” he said softly.

“So you’ve heard,” I said in fake exasperation, unable to resist the smug grin that curled over my lips.

The redhead shrugged, his eyes sparkling against the light coming from the overhead windows — an exquisite sapphire, ones that matched the queen’s so perfectly that I wondered if, deep down, there was some royal blood coursing through his veins. “The walls are thin,” he said. “People talk.”

“My reputation precedes me,” I said, and that earned me a genuine smile — it lasted for only a second, but his face was glowing with amusement. “I never caught your name.”

“Liam.”

“Of?” I asked, and his eyes dulled just slightly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, flopping against the mattress, his back slamming against the bedframe so hard that even I winced. “I’ll be working here until I drop dead.”

He said it sarcastically, but there was no sarcasm behind it — permission had to be granted in order to leave, and the Queen hardly ever dismissed even the most mistreated servants. In their eyes, there was no worse betrayal than leaving the royals with one less servant, one less man to pamper the princesses and handle the simplest of tasks.

“Are you assigned to a specific royal?” he asked, twirling a strand of hair in between his calloused fingers. “Or are you just another one they pass around when needed?”

“The first one,” I said, and his expression shifted into something more curious. “Princess Audrey.”

“Ah,” he breathed, crossing his arms and tucking them under his head. “She’s a tough one.”

“She seemed nice when we spoke.”

He glanced up at me. “Audrey’s tough because she fights back. If she wants privacy, she demands it. If she wants silence, everyone shuts up. Whatever she wants, she gets — I think the servants are terrified of her.”

I tried to hide my smile, but the side of my mouth crooked upward. “Terrified?” I asked.

“I once saw her aim a crossbow at a steward because he asked her to come inside after dark.”

This time, I couldn’t hide my expression — I laughed, really laughed at the idea of the prim and proper woman sitting tall on the throne with dirt on her knees and a bow in her hands. “Does the Queen know about that?”

“She warned her personal servants of her perfect aim if they said anything,” he said, unable to contain his own amusement. “You should really see it. She’s better than half the suitors in the palace competing for her.”

“What about you?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested — though I was incredibly interested in her.

Because I knew Audrey.

Before he died, my father had worked in the palace as a chef. He served meals to royalty and nobles with nothing so much as a thank you, but he was too obedient to ask for the praise he deserved.

Audrey was the only one who acknowledged him — she thanked him for serving her meals, smiled something small and kind when she passed him down the long hallways, glared discreetly at her mother whenever she was disrespectful towards him. When he was sent home to pass in peace, he had nothing bad to say about the blonde haired woman who treated him like he was a person and not a kitchen slave.

“Whichever princess needs me first,” he said, relaxing as if he’d never had to work a day in his life.

There was no humor in his tone, nor was there anything with even the slightest undertones of playfulness. He spoke with certainty, a man who had given up and accepted the cage he was forced into for God knows how long.

“Sounds flexible,” I said sarcastically, hoping that it would lighten the mood.

It did — only the smallest bit, but it worked enough for him to say, “Sounds pathetic. But it gives me some pretty good stories.”

“Liam,” a voice said through the door — sharp, demanding, something that made me flinch so obviously that he looked over and smiled. “Your presence is required by Princess Eleanora.”

His eyes flashed towards me, a look in them that said “See?”

“I suppose that’s my cue,” he said, pulling his leather turnshoes over his feet. He stood up, and I realized he was much taller than me — if he had told me he was seven feet tall, I would have believed him. “I’ll see you later, Durham.”

I smiled just slightly. “Farewell to you as well, Liam.”

He followed the higher ranked servant down the hallway in silence, Liam walking with his head high like he was a royal himself — if it weren’t for the worn down tunic, covered in holes the size of my thumb, he would have looked just like a prince.

As I peeked my head out the door, I caught a glimpse of a head of brown curls, headed out into the garden with a dagger the size of her arm resting in her waistband. Audrey, I recognized, watching her walk with the stealth of a spy, dressed in something that looked opposite of what a princess should wear.

It amazed me just how close I had been to her barely an hour before — one or two additional steps and I would’ve been able to touch her face, reach my hand up and run my fingers through her shiny hair.

I would have, I thought to myself, staring as if she was the only thing my eyes could see, If the Queen weren’t trying to poison me with her gaze.

My feet were moving before I could stop them, each step closer to where she was hidden behind an olive tree. She barely lifted her head as I slid the door open, uncovering the steel scabbard of the sword as she gripped the sword in her right hand.

“Suitors aren’t allowed in the private gardens,” she said immediately, almost as if she were programmed into commanding privacy. “Get out.”

“Good,” I said before I could stop myself, the words coming out of my mouth like bile, “I’d make a terrible suitor.”

Her head whipped around to look at me, eyes filled with something familiar — not hatred, not kindness, but hard recognition as she recounted her actions from just an hour before.

“Is there a reason you’re standing here right now?” she asked, her fingers tight around the hilt.

She was dressed in a brown tunic, covered in grass and dirt stains, the length of it falling just above her knees. Her hose was fitted tight on her legs, the ankles covered by leather boots that she had possibly sewn herself — she looked so much like a servant that it surprised me that I still thought she looked like an angel.

“Harsh, Princess,” I said, making no effort to hide the tease in my voice. “I thought we were getting along.”

She swung the blade in the air with fierce intensity, her eyes locked straight ahead of her as if she were a trained knight. But, despite herself, I saw the corner of her mouth curl upwards just slightly, that familiar, barely-there smile she’d given me while she was sitting tall on the throne.

“I was told your weapon of choice was a crossbow,” I said, my expression smug.

That got her attention. She lifted her head, strands of hair falling loose from her braid as she turned her entire body to look at me. The sword tightened in her hand almost as if she were going to swing it at me, her knuckles white against the pressure. “I dabble in other weapons from time to time,” she said, her voice tight.

Before I could get another word out, she pivoted in the other direction and swung the blade into the air, slicing it into a perfect arc. “Are you here to watch?” she asked, her breath steady, “Or are you just waiting for me to slip up?”

The vibration of her movements rippled through the ground and up my legs, my breath catching in my throat as I admired her. Logically, I knew it would be best if I left — turn away and pretend I hadn’t seen anything, leave her behind to train by herself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but stare at her, at the way her hair cascaded down her back and the daggers that were shimmering in her eyes as she wielded the sword, the way she gripped the hilt as if it were an extension of her own arm.

“Here to watch,” I breathed, my face filled with bewilderment.

She smiled — actually smiled, one that reached not just her mouth but her eyes as well. “Then I suppose I was right,” she said, her voice softer than it was before. “You’re foolish.”

Her gaze weighed heavy against me, pinning me in place as I tried to steady my breathing. Her smile slipped into something colder as she adjusted her stance, placing her left foot ahead to keep her balance in check while swinging a weapon around.

She moved like a trained knight — precise, skilled, careful like she had done this a hundred times before. If she had told me that the sword was her weapon of choice instead of the crossbow, I would have believed her in a heartbeat.

After I’d stood watching her for far too long, she turned her head and looked at me — forehead dripping with sweat, a fire in her deep brown eyes.

“Smettila di fissarmi,” she mumbled under her breath, her cheeks flushed from the heat. “Non riesco a concentrarmi se mi fissi.”

My breath caught in my throat, eyes widened slightly as she spoke to me in a language that had never once sounded so beautiful — although, in my opinion, everything that came out of her mouth was beautiful.

“Pardon?”

She stepped forward — one step, then two, then enough so that her face was inches away from mine. “I said,” she started, her voice low and intimidating, “Stop staring at me. It’s distracting.”

I opened my mouth to say something smart, but the words died on my tongue as her eyes pierced me with an intensity I hadn’t seen from anyone before — narrow, glimmering, pupils dilated so much that only a sliver of brown could be seen.

“You make it impossible not to, Princess,” I said, painfully aware of the fact that I was stumbling over my words.

She paused, her fingers tensing against the sword as she tried not to obviously flinch at the word Princess. “Fine,” she said, brushing imaginary dirt away from her tunic.

She placed the scabbard over the blade, chucking it to the ground as she brushed past me, her warm, vanilla scent buried under the smell of grass clippings. The clatter of metal against the dirt reverberated through my chest, echoing like a loud noise in a silent cave.

I turned my head towards her, watching as she adjusted her posture into something more ladylike without the weight of a sword half her size dragging behind her. The ghost of her warmth clung to me as I grazed my fingertips over the muscles on my arm, the same place where she’d brushed against me just moments before.

“Sbrigati,” she said sharply, her voice heavy with an accent I didn’t even realize she had — rough, gravelly, almost sensual as she walked with her head held high. “Let’s go.”

I followed without a second thought.

~
~

She frequented the weapons room often — walls lined with swords larger than me, crossbows threatening in a dark corner, daggers shining through the sliver of light that shined through the crack in the door.

Audrey stood with perfect posture, fingertips caressing the string of a carefully crafted, wooden bow that looked as if it were made with her in mind. At her side laid a linen satchel, a dozen arrows spilling from the top.

“Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked, standing on her tippy-toes to lift the weapon off its peg.

It had been over an hour since I’d spotted her in the garden, but, despite what I thought before, her walls hadn’t fallen down — they hadn’t even faltered. They stood loud and proud, a mockery of my foolish attempts to make her smile or say something smart in response to my teases.

“If you’ll allow it, Princess,” I said, and her entire body tensed like I’d slapped her in the face.

“Audrey,” she corrected, spinning towards me with the crossbow resting in her arms. She picked up the satchel, slinging it over her shoulders as her eyes burned with a fire hot enough to scorch me. “I hate being called that.”

I took a step back, the bolt’s tip dangerously close to my chest as I threw my hands up in surrender. “Noted,” I said, and her eyes softened just a little. I opened my mouth to apologize, but the expression on her face stopped the words as she threatened to spill.

She huffed out a breath, clearly aggravated — though I couldn’t tell if the root of her aggression was me or herself. “Non so perché tu sia così interessato a me.”

I smiled at her — crooked, somewhat lopsided. “Surely you must know I’ve got no idea what you’re saying.”

“I don’t get why you’re so interested in what I’m doing,” she clarified, turning on her heels with the bow wrapped around her fingertips like an anchor.

I followed her without a second word, tugging the satchel off her shoulder whilst she was distracted by the feeling of wind against her skin. “Do you always spend this much time outside?”

She nodded, but I already knew the answer — Audrey was tanned, her body covered in sun-freckles that danced across her limbs like constellations. Her cheeks were warm and pink, a tiny mole peeking out just below the corner of her left eye.

She walked with the confidence of a woman who’d walked this path a thousand times, zigzagging through olive trees and grazing her fingertips over the bark as if it spoke to her, giving her directions in the passing winds. She led us to the edge of the gardens, the walls tall and ivy-covered as she stretched the string of the bow backwards, left foot forwards and one eye closed as she lined up the shot towards a thick oak tree.

“Be quiet,” she said, her voice a gentle warning as her breathing slowed into something calmer, focused with the crossbow sinking into her fingers. She grazed her fingertips over the thread as if the weapon spoke to her, promising her a perfect shot if she concentrated hard enough.

She pulled the arrow back, and I watched it soar through the air like a streak of lightning splitting the world in two, the tip of the dart piercing through the bark of the oak tree. A proud smile hovered over her lips, the corner of her mouth upturned slightly as she stepped forwards to observe.

I clasped my hands together, the urge to applaud her hanging in the air — but the moment between us was soft, gentle, almost fragile as if any loud noise would shatter it. It was something sacred between her and the weapon.

Audrey glanced at me, the edge of a smile coating her lips. “Impressed?” she asked, her voice both teasing and genuine.

“Very,” I told her honestly, taking another bold step in her direction to see if she’d flinch. When she remained still, standing tall, I gave her a lopsided smirk that softened her eyes and walked towards her until we were so close I could feel the heat radiating off her body.

“You’re standing awfully close to a woman with a crossbow,” she said, her voice cracking with both teasing and something softer. “One wrong move, and you’re done for.”

There was a moment of silence between us, something in the air shifting before I stupidly said, “You’re beautiful.”

She smiled something real — a smile that made her look ethereal, something prettier than a goddess, prettier than anything I’d laid my eyes on before. The crossbow lowered at her side, forgotten, her confidence faltering for just a moment as her lips parted with the promise of a witty response.

“Careful with that,” she said gently, slinging the bow over her shoulder. “You’re very. . . close.”

I took two steps backwards, but she shifted with me, closing the space between us even though she was the one who’d asked for it in the first place, the air warm with the heat of her body close enough to touch.

There was a moment where neither of us knew what to say — my eyes drifted across her face without meaning to, glancing at the way her lips parted and her lashes fluttered when she blinked. When she spoke, it was soft, gentle, almost as if she were scared of what she was saying.

“I think I’ll like you,” she said, but something in her eyes told me that she already did. “Do me a favor and try not to fall in love with me by tomorrow.”

There was another moment of silence between us, my entire body stiffening as I absorbed her words. I tried not to let my surprise be too obvious, but my eyes were slightly wide as I asked, “What?”

She smirked, huffing a breath that could’ve been a laugh if she made a little more noise. “You’ve got that look in your eye,” she told me, and I blinked twice as if that would make it go away. “The look boys get right before they do something stupid.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it with no response.

She took advantage of my silence as her arm brushed mine, stepping towards the palace and adding, “Like follow a princess around all day.”

And with that, she began walking away, her head held high, leaving me in stunned, unbearable silence. For the first time in a long time, I felt unsteady — not from danger, or fear, but a mixture of the two as I grappled with the fact that I liked her more than I’d expected to.

She tossed her head over her shoulder, those dark, hazel eyes burning into my soul as if she knew the power she held over me. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked, that sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her lips.

I stared at her — long, hard, something deep that softened her expression. “As you wish.”

Chapter Text

I tore the leather shoes from my feet, the cold marble softening the ache in my heels that came from walking around in the sun all day. My cheeks were sore with fresh burns and dark freckles forming across my face, the kind that would linger for days on end without fading away.

The palace halls stretched endlessly, unwelcoming and humid as torchlights flickered in their sconces, long strips of shadows separating them. Every step echoed too loud, my brain humming with certainty that anybody awake could hear me sneaking back and report to Mom that I was too irresponsible to be an heir to the throne.

When I opened my bedroom door, I’d expected it to be open — Callie was sitting in my rocking chair, legs crossed as she hummed a lullaby and threaded a needle through dark blue yarn. Sprawled across my bed was Norie, snoring quietly with a drop of drool pooling down her cheek as she slept soundly.

“How was your outing in the garden?” Callie asked, not even looking up to recognize what I was wearing. Her voice was hushed, almost as if speaking too loud would wake Norie from her dead sleep, and added, “You look. . . Nice.”

“Thank you,” I said sarcastically, but I couldn’t hide the smile that had started to curl over my lips. The hinges clicked as I closed the door behind me, the sound swallowed quickly by my own voice as I forced myself to ask, “What’re you doing here?”

Callie’s eyes narrowed as she looked up at me, the disgust obvious in her face as I stood awkwardly in my borrowed servants clothes, dirt covering my bare feet and elbows. “You’re home late,” she said, her voice accusatory as she placed the yarn in her lap.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, taking slow, careful steps towards my dresser as I fumbled with the strings wrapped around my tunic. I mumbled something almost unintelligible, my exhausted voice spitting out something along the lines of, “I lost track of time.”

Callie tilted her head at me, dark strands of hair falling over her eyes as she watched me rummage through my dresser to find a nightgown. She looked as if she were dissecting me — watching the curve of my throat as I spoke, the pulse of my veins drumming against my skin as she opened and closed her mouth finding something to respond with.

“Lost track of time?” she repeated slowly, clearly unconvinced. “You weren’t alone, were you?”

“Of course not,” I snapped, pulling my tunic over my head as Callie dropped her head down so as not to disturb my changing. “I had a servant with me.”

Her interest piqued — she lifted her gaze the moment my nightgown was over my head, the thin fabric falling just below my knees as I tore my hose away. “A servant?” she asked as if it was unusual.

We were always meant to have someone with us — not a single moment was just mine, not even my own bedroom during the late hours of the night since Mom worried that men would try sneaking in after dark. Guards stood outside our bed chambers, their arms crossed and eyes awake as they waited for something that would never come.

“Of course,” I told her, hoping it would reassure the ideas that she’d conjured in her mind, but, when I looked up at her, her face had contorted into a teasing smile.

“What?” I asked, my voice slightly pitched with confusion.

“A servant,” she repeated again, but it wasn’t a question — it was Callie’s way of piecing everything together, her eyes narrowing slightly. There was a small pause, an involuntary laugh coming out of her mouth before she asked, “Your servant? The Durham boy?”

For once, I was grateful that my cheeks were already sunburnt — I felt the familiar tingle of blush explode across my face, my lips parting slightly as words jumbled in my mouth before I could even say them out loud. My hands froze in my hair for just a moment as I undid my braid, calloused fingers threading through blonde, frizzy curls that had tangled in the humidity.

“Don’t say it like that,” I snapped, my voice shakier than I’d hoped it would be — I had been exhausted just a moment before, but it felt as if something in my brain had been jolted awake with her words. As I shoved Norie aside, her body stirring with grogginess, I added, “He’s my servant, not my servant.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Absolutely.”

Callie gave me a sly smile as Norie wiped drool from her face, her eyes flickering open as she faded into consciousness and blinked the sleep from her eyes. “You have to tell me everything,” she said, the thread between her fingers slipping to the floor.

“There’s nothing to tell!” I hissed, even though it felt as if there were hundreds of things to walk through.

He hadn’t just followed me around all day — he talked to me like I was a woman and not a princess, stood just slightly too close for it to feel dangerous, talked with a voice that felt a little too sugary to be casual conversation. If I thought I was interested in him, he was even more interested in me — and it was terrifying. It was beautiful, exhilarating, and terrifying all at the same time — a princess and, no matter how charming he could be, a servant, enjoying each other’s company in a way that felt far too personal.

“What’s going on?” Norie asked, her voice soft with mock exhaustion as she pretended not to understand in hopes that she’d lure more information out of me. “Did something happen?”

“Nora, hush,” Callie said, her fingers intertwined as she glared at me expectantly. Norie mumbled something foul under her breath — too foul for her to know at such a young age — as Callie added, her voice sickeningly sweet, “Audrey, don’t hide things from your dear sisters.”

“You aren’t feeling particularly dear to me right now,” I teased, and both of them made a near identical expression that feigned heartbreak. I crawled into bed, only a few feet from Norie as I sprawled my limbs across the mattress like I was the only one taking up space and said, “There’s nothing to tell. Nothing happened — we just talked.”

“Talked,” Norie sneered, scrunching her nose as if she were disgusted by the idea of sharing my own bed. Her face was dangerously close to the arm I’d brushed against his just a few hours before, an innocent touch that burned through my skin.

Her eyes lit up just slightly as she processed the things I was saying, and loudly asked, “Oh my God, did you kiss him?”

“Norie!” I practically screamed, shoving my hand over my mouth as I prayed I hadn’t woken anyone up. After a deep breath and a moment of silence, I continued, “No! You don’t even know who we’re talking about!”

“He doesn’t look half bad for a servant,” Callie said, and my mind suddenly flashed back to the glimmer in his eyes when he’d told me I was beautiful — it dawned on me, once again, that he thought I was beautiful.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been complimented on my looks — in the royal family, it was just about the only compliment the suitors could come up with on the spot. Beautiful was the default for most men competing for my hand, but hearing it from Mason’s mouth, in the sunlit garden covered in dirt and wielding a weapon carried an entirely different weight.

“A servant?” Norie asked as if it were the worst thing in the world — I couldn’t help but wonder what would possibly be so bad about liking him that would warrant the way they talked down to him. “Oh, I am so telling Mom.”

“Eleanora, don’t you dare,” I threatened, and her expression shifted from sisterly teasing to something that almost seemed frightened. “I don’t understand what’s so bad about it. We spent the day talking — that’s it. We didn’t—” I forced a sour expression onto my face, even though the idea didn’t seem half bad, “— kiss, or touch, or anything you two should be concerned about.”

Callie put up her hands in mock surrender, but the smug expression on her face remained with her pride as I huffed and rolled over, facing away from both of them. “Audrey, you must understand,” she cooed, her voice soft and low as if her explanation could coax more information out of me. “You’ve never been interested in anyone before.”

“I am not interested in him!”

“Intrigued,” Callie clarified, and, if I hadn’t known what she was already implying, it would’ve been believable.

I grabbed a fistful of my bedsheets, palms clenched as I buried my reddened face further into the sheets so as not to give them the satisfaction of my embarrassment. Norie let out a giggle, something mischievous and sisterly, but Callie’s eyes lingered on me, watching.

“We’re only teasing, Audrey,” she said softly, and, though Norie’s laughter slowly died with her words, I could feel the warmth of her smile burning through my back.

As the heat in my cheeks faded away, the room seemed to soften, that unfamiliar swirling in my stomach that made me feel sick and exhilarated at the same time. Norie’s stifled giggles cut through the air like a knife, her small body pressing into my back as if she were a tiny anchor.

Callie made a small noise, one that was a mix between a laugh and a yawn, something that she typically kept to herself. With an exaggerated sigh, she said, “Come along, Nora, it’s about time we go to sleep.”

Norie whined in response, throwing her arms around my torso as if she could avoid her own bedtime by being affectionate. To my dismay, it nearly worked on me — but Callie scooped her up in her arms like a baby as Norie squealed between belly laughs, legs flailing as she mocked terror.

“Say, We love you, Audrey,” Callie whispered into her ear, her voice motherly as if she were cooing at her own daughter — at this point, Norie might as well have been.

“We love you, Audrey,” Norie repeated, lolling her head into Callie’s shoulder as sleep threatened to consume her once more.

~
~

My hair was matted when I awoke, curls tangled in knots from both sleep and the lack thereof.

Embarrassingly, I’d dreamt of Mason — nothing particularly bad, but I remembered his eyes looking into mine with that same, unfamiliar look of something in between interest and infatuation. I woke up too warm, cheeks flushed as if the dream had left its fingerprints all over my skin — I tried to forget it, to tell myself it was nothing, but it stuck there, hard and bitter.

Light flooded the room, but, based on the position of the sun, it was no wonder I hadn’t personally been woken up — it was early. Far too early to be thinking of the servant boy that had somehow, someway gotten under my skin.

I tossed the sheets away, sliding my legs out of the covers as the cold, dewy morning air seeped through the windows. With my feet pressed against the hardwood floor, goosebumps dusting my legs, I draped a blanket across my shoulders and started down the hallway.

The palace was usually quiet in the early mornings, especially on Saturdays — servants were allowed to sleep in an extra hour, allowing them the much needed rest that they weren’t used to receiving.

But not today — Mom had planned something extravagant, something that resembled a banquet and a ball in order for me to spend time with the suitors. Servants were scrambling, carrying decorations in their hands, dragging wheelbarrows behind them that held trinkets and freshly picked foods for the cooks to create dishes of. Noblewomen were already preparing their dresses, putting their hair in updos, practicing their posture in the mirrors.

I was moving towards the servants quarters before I could even stop myself — it was selfish of me, selfish to wake someone up because I wished to have a decent conversation, but I’d grown desperate over the years. Despite the selfishness, it felt right to find him in the crowd of bodies. Despite the selfishness, part of me hoped he’d want to wake up to me.

That familiar gnawing feeling pressed on, buried deep under the malice and arrogance — hunger. A different kind of suffering that settled in my bones, eating me from the inside out, slow and insistent. It was hunger for something real, something that wasn’t judging, something that wasn’t wrapped in gold and duty.

Through the crowded halls, I caught a tuft of blonde hair lingering in the doorway of a chamber to the left, Mason’s mouth moving quietly enough that I could only decipher the small, quick laughs he let out as a response to whoever he was speaking to. It seemed to me like he was everywhere I wanted him to be — lingering nearby like a warm, sticky shadow that hovered close, too close for my own comfort.

I tightened the blanket around my shoulders, the soft wool a barrier covering the walls I’d put in place that threatened to fall when he was around. The way his eyes were soft with sleep, smile lopsided, arms exposed in the linen tank top that most servants wore to combat the heat made something strange puddle in my stomach.

When his gaze finally met mine, something in his face softened — I couldn’t tell if it was recognition or interest, but, whatever it was, it made my cheeks flush despite myself, my breath catching in my throat as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and gravely like he’d just woken up from a dream. After a moment, he bowed — something quick, unpracticed, unfamiliar as he mumbled the words, “Princess,” into the air.

I smiled a little, allowing my guard to drop just slightly as he advanced towards me. My head dipped towards my shoulders, curls falling over my eyes that part of me wanted him to touch, to run his fingers through, to untangle as if he were my own personal hairbrush.

“You look. . .” he started to say, but his voice trailed off as my eyes narrowed in accusation.

“Tired?” I asked him, that same, strange smile falling over my face before I could stop myself. “Unladylike?”

“Human,” he clarified, and, although he didn’t specify his words, I recognized it as a compliment.

I paused for a moment, my gaze sliding down to his lips as he spoke — just for a second, a split second, but it was enough to make my heart pound in my chest.
“Come with me,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t waver as much as it sounded like it did.

He smiled just a little, his footsteps tailing mine as he moved to catch up to me, that familiar tease present in his voice as he asked, “Do you always wake up servants when you’re bored?”

“You weren’t asleep.”

“If I had been, would you have still asked for me?”

I paused for just a moment, selfish embarrassment warming my cheeks so much that I was grateful he couldn’t see my face. “You’re here to serve me.”

“What am I serving right now?”

Another pause, my words jumbling inside my head as I tried to come up with a coherent response. “My boredom,” I settled on, spinning my head to look at him until he rushed to walk by my side, our footsteps almost perfectly in sync.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

He smiled — something teasing, something amused as he turned his head to look at me. “Only when a princess is taking me on a surprise journey,” he said, and something in my expression softened.

“The garden,” I told him, but something in his eyes told me he already knew.

The air felt different this morning — colder, harsher, almost as if it had a bite to it. Goosebumps exploded over my exposed skin, the warmth of the blanket wrapping around my body doing very little to suppress the icy wind.

Mason crossed his arms, flexing unintentionally as he leaned back against the trunk of an olive tree, the bark jutting out in odd angles that pressed into his back. “If boredom is all I’m meant to serve,” he started, that endearing, obnoxious smile falling over his face, “Then I think I deserve a raise.”

My eyes narrowed when I glanced over at him, my mind still slightly dazed with sleep and exhilaration that came with standing so close to him. “Servants don’t get raises,” I said, widening the gap between us.

“You could be a little nicer,” he mumbled under his breath. When I picked my head up to glare at him, eyes piercing through his, he held his arms up in mock surrender and added, “I mean— you did drag me out of bed.”

“You were already awake.”

“What if I hadn’t been?”

I tilted my head at him, feigning innocence as I said, “For the record, I didn’t drag you. You came willingly.”

“So you wanted me here.”

“I wanted anyone here. It’s lonely up by the royal chambers in the morning — Callie isn’t even up yet.”

He smiled just slightly, a dimple flashing next to his cheek for just a second before it disappeared. “You came to my room.”

My cheeks flushed, that now familiar red tainting my face as I squeezed the blanket tighter, pretending it was from the cold. “You’re being ridiculous,” I said, but the faintest hint of a smile hovered over my lips.

“Clever, Princess,” he said, and, for once, the word sounded endearing coming out of his mouth — soft, warm, something in between loving and teasing. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

“Is it?”

Before he could smile — that cunning, attractive grin that softened my face completely — the glass door slid open, quiet footsteps padding into the garden. Automatically, I opened my mouth to say something, but I made some sort of choked noise when Mason finished the sentence for me.

“Suitors aren’t allowed in the private gardens,” he said, his voice low as he slowly turned his head towards me and gave me a private smile.

“Hi, Mason,” Callie’s voice said, and I spun around to see her standing there with a knowing expression on her face. Her eyes flickered between us until they settled on me, lips moving to say, “People are looking for you. You have to get ready.”

I nodded, my feet begrudgingly moving towards her even though I didn’t want to leave him behind. I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, glancing back at him to see if he would follow — but his eyes remained locked on my back, watching me leave with a grin on his face.

Callie noticed when my face flushed — she glanced up, her eyes narrowing when she saw the blush explode over my cheeks. “Oh, Audrey,” she mumbled, then, a little louder, she said, “You like him.”

“I do not,” I snapped, but both of us heard the waver in my voice when I tried to sound strong. “We were just talking.”

She rolled her eyes, but the edge of her mouth twitched upwards when she looked at me. “Talking,” she muttered under her breath, but her head tilted upwards as she walked, her posture clean. “Go on and get dressed.”

I slapped her arm, something sisterly that probably hurt my palm more than it hurt Callie, but she simply put her arm around me and guided me down the hallway as if I couldn’t get there myself.

~
~

The ballgown was heavy against my skin — a deep, crimson red, covered in golden accents and decorated with velvet ruffles. My hair was tied up into a braided bun, curls spilling out by my face that I kept tucking behind my ears to keep from tickling my cheeks.

Despite the fact that it was my event, I felt far too dressed up — out of place, an unusual object in the room covered in gold. I didn’t feel particularly beautiful — I didn’t feel like me, like Audrey. I felt like a princess, in the worst way possible, in a way that felt violating and disgusting even though it wasn’t meant to.

“Audrey, smile,” Mom mumbled beside me, her lips nearly grazing my ear as her warm breath tickled the skin. “You look miserable.”

“I am miserable,” I whispered back to her, accidentally kicking Callie’s leg under the table hard enough for her to drop her fig in surprise. When I shot her an apologetic look, her face softened the smallest bit as she took a sip of her wine and pursed her lips at the sourness. “This is miserable.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, the jewels that dangled by my collarbone digging into my flesh. Mom pinched my leg when I winced, forcing me to sit up straighter and pretend to listen to the story she was telling — something fake, pretend, unnecessary.

There were so many strangers staring at me — men of all shapes and sizes, some with hungry eyes, practically drooling at the slight amount of cleavage showing under my dress, some with blank, unreadable expressions on their faces. I shivered under the weight of their gazes, skin crawling as I placed my elbows on the table and interlinked my fingers to cover my chest in order to ward off some of the stares. It worked for a moment until their eyes found other things to look at, other things to objectify.

It dawned on me then that one of these men would become my husband. One of these men would kiss me in front of everyone, take my virginity, whisk me away from the comforts of home and take me back to their country. My face turned white with the thought, my stomach twisting as I realized that my mother did this, my sister did this — Norie would, one day, have to feel the same way I did.

“Excuse me,” I said, standing before Mom could protest. “I need to use the garderobe.”

“Be quick,” she said with a smile, but her voice was tight as if I were embarrassing her. “Don’t keep your guests waiting.”

“Don’t keep your guests waiting,” I mocked quietly under my breath, my head dipping to the floor as I headed towards the restroom, desperate for a room to hide in.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, my body warm with nausea as I tried not to make another mess for the servants to clean. I couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought — my baby sister, my beautiful, sweet, innocent Norie would have to do this one day, would have to be raped by male gazes and greedy hands that gripped her flesh. My poor, lovely Norie who would never feel peace again once she reached my age, who would be too old to feign innocence when she was asked lewd questions.

I collapsed to the floor of my bathroom, my face colored green as I pressed my knees against my chest and squeezed my eyes until I saw stars. I grabbed a fistful of curls, praying it would ground me, not caring at the knots forming under my sweaty palms. All I saw — all I felt — was a cold, hard, sickening realization that every discomfort, every hungry gaze, every grabbing, needy hand was all part of the process.

The slightest hint of a knock came from outside the door. It was quiet, almost as if whoever was on the other side didn’t want to be heard.

It wasn’t until a voice asked, “Audrey?” that I realized who it was, the concern present even with the lack of seeing his face.

I stood from the floor, nearly tripping over my dress as I gulped the nausea down with a deep breath, exhaling a single, “Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

I paused, my hands shaking, face still pale green when I looked into the mirror. “You shouldn’t.”

“I know,” he said, and something in the air shifted — softer, calmer.

Despite myself, I opened the door a crack to reveal Mason, arms crossed, standing in my bedroom as if he knew the palace like the back of his hand. I wanted to open my mouth, to ask him why he followed me, to ask him if he knew how suspicious it looked that he was in my bedroom, but I said nothing — the noise flooded in from down the hall, the sound of chalices clinking and noblewomen pretending to laugh to be polite, and I felt sick again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a little higher than usual, slightly more awkward in an endearing way. He paused for just a second, voice wavering as he added, “I didn’t mean to follow you. I mean— I did, but. . .”

His voice trailed off when I started to smile the smallest, tiniest bit — barely a flicker of something in my eyes, a twitch of my lips, but his face softened regardless.
I had once prided myself on hiding things — secrets, night walks, private conversations with my sisters, especially emotions — but something felt different when I looked into Mason’s eyes. I felt like crying — real, ugly tears, ones that left cheeks puffy and eyes red and veiny.

“I hate this,” I whispered, widening the door so he could see all of me. Slowly, he took a step towards me, his hands interlocked behind his back as if he were worried about them roaming. “I hate those men. I hate the way they look at me— I hate the way they already look at my sister. I hate that. . .” My voice trailed off for a moment, terrified to say the words aloud. “I hate that Norie will have to do this one day.”

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked. When I nodded, my arms crossing over my chest with the fear that Mason, even he, would look down with that same, familiar expression all men seemed to wear, he gently grazed his fingertips over my hand. Softly, almost commanding, he said, “Sit.”

I took his warm, calloused hand, his firm grip reducing some of the shaking that made my arms weak and legs feel wobbly. I allowed him to walk me to my bed, allowed him to sit me down by gently touching my shoulders, allowed him to sit beside me with our fingers still intertwined.

“I could stand next to you and look scary so they leave you alone,” he offered, and, when I looked him up and down, shrunk just slightly under my gaze. “What?”

“You aren’t scary.”

“I could be.”

I looked down at our hands, his thumb softly rubbing against the skin between my wrist and the back of my hand. He looked so sweet — kind, gentle, caring, his eyes looking nowhere but mine as if he could feel the worry radiating off my body.

I unlaced my fingers from his, but the warmth between our palms remained as I made no effort to move my hand away from his. It was enough to feel his hand on mine — it was almost as if it was grounding me, anchoring me to the bed, to the room, to the palace in its entirety.

It was too much, too little, too fast and too slow, but it was enough having his body next to mine.

It was enough.