Later that day I was seated in my room enjoying the company of the sweet sweet silence just like the ones back in the days when I used to be bedridden in the hospital back on Earth.
I'm from a mile away I could hear food steps coming this way.
I knew she was coming before the door even creaked.
Rustling fabric. Leather soles. The slow, practiced steps of someone who has never once tripped over her own skirts, unlike some of us.
"Good morning, little mouse."
Ugh. There it was again. The nickname that refused to die.
Selina swept in like the human embodiment of well-folded linens. Scroll in one hand. Shawl in the other. Hair pinned so precisely it offended me on a spiritual level, even though a few treasonous strands had escaped to frame her face in that soft, artfully-messy way that only someone with control issues can pull off.
"You keep calling me that," I muttered from my perch on the window sill, which was not exactly comfortable but at least gave the illusion of rebellion. "I'm not that small anymore."
"You say that now," she said, smirking like someone who knew too many secrets about me, which, to be fair, she did. "But once you hit a growth spurt, you'll miss being carried like a sack of potatoes."
"I—You never carried me like that."
(I would remember. Obviously.)
"Oh, I wanted to."
Gross. But also... flattering? I laughed anyway, slipping down from the sill like a melodramatic ghost.
She held out the shawl like an offering. I waved it off like it was cursed.
"Too warm. And too much lace. I refuse to look like a Victorian cake topper before breakfast."
"Everything here has too much lace," Selina sighed, defeated. Same war. Different battlefield. "Ready for your daily tortures?"
"Destroy me."
She unrolled the scroll like a theatrical villain. "Morning studies: statecraft—"
Ugh.
"—followed by etiquette review with Lady Mirelda."
Double ugh. Lady Mirelda smelled like powder and despair.
"You have embroidery before midday—"
"Why."
"—then an hour of rest," she continued, ignoring me, "which is really posture training with a fancy name. Then music. Then tailoring for your upcoming portrait."
"That dress looks like if mourning and cake had a deeply cursed baby."
"You said that last time."
"Because it was true."
She chuckled. Real, actual amusement. I lived to drag these moments from her. "And before dinner," she added, all breezy and nonchalant, "your mother wants to see you."
I blinked. "She... asked for me?"
"Courtyard. Tea. Told me to send you once you're 'ready.'"
Oh no.
Oh no.
When the Duchess requested your presence, it was never casual. It was... cinematic. It was ominous. It was—"Escort me through the battlefield, General Selina."
She bowed dramatically. "Right this way, little mouse."
We walked. Long halls. Too much sun. Stained glass like a Pinterest cathedral threw up all over the marble.
I copied Selina's posture because pretending to be composed is easier than explaining why your spine is made of unresolved anxiety and bitter caffeine.
We passed knights sparring on the terrace. I paused, stared too long. I always stared too long.
Blades. Flash. Noise.
Too sharp, too fast, too alive.
Selina didn't comment. Of course not. She knew.
By the time we reached the western wing, the air smelled expensive. Flowers and honey and politics.
Selina stopped. "She's just ahead. You'll be fine."
"If I don't come back, assume statue."
"I'll bring a hammer."
God, I loved her.
I walked in alone.
My mother was an oil painting pretending to be alive. Sitting beneath a trellis like some tragic garden goddess. Table perfectly set. Fruit untouched. Tea untouched. Maids everywhere but fading fast—she dismissed them with one lazy "Leave us" and poof, gone.