The princess—who is, in truth, now a mere scullery maid—has but one thing standing between her and Prince Siegfried, and that is one extraordinarily rude knight.

"I told you," she says, "that I'm supposed to bring the tea to Prince Siegfried, so you have to let me in."

Almost plaintively, she holds up the small tray. It is carefully stacked with a little white teapot and teacups that have delicate yellow flowers painted along their rims. The knight looks down at her, profoundly unimpressed.

"You work in the scullery," he says. "They wouldn't send you up with here with a tray full of china."

"They did," she insists.

"The prince doesn't drink tea," he says.

"I'm not going to leave until you let me in," she snaps.

They stand glaring at each other in the middle of the hallway. She would just push past him, if she wasn't carrying the tray. But she is, and the knight is not moving at all. He takes a step closer to her, and gives her the fiercest glare she has ever seen.

"Leave, or you will regret this."

The scullery maid who used to be a princess has seen more than a few threats in her lifetime. So when the knight says this, she does not cower. But her hands do tremble slightly, making the teacups clink against each other, and she knows that she has been defeated. She sticks her tongue out at the knight in a most unprincesslike fashion, and then she turns away, taking slow, measured steps all the way back to the scullery.

The knight is right about one thing—they would never send her up to the prince's room, and certainly not while carrying a tray full of fragile things. The knowledge that the knight is doing his job well, however, is not a terrifically comforting thing.


This is not their first meeting.

The first time they meet is when Tutu stumbles into Siegfried's capital city, numb and tired and half-starved. There is nothing left of her kingdom, not a single hamlet or village, and all she can think to do is seek out help from her prince. Even if he no longer loves her, he is a just man. He would help her.

The streets of this city are flooded with refugees—some who survived from her homeland, and some who were from more distant kingdoms. Here she is just one gaunt face among many; none of them recognize her, or can spare a moment to hear her story.

This is when she meets the surly knight. When she approaches him, it is with a swell of hope in her heart. The people of the city might not recognize her, but she has oft visited the king's castle, and she believes that surely her face will be recognized by one of his knights.

But when he looks upon her, it is with polite disdain. Before she has even opened her mouth, he is dismissing her.

"I can't grant you an audience with the king," he tells her, with the wearied voice of someone who has said these same words many times already, "but there is work in the scullery, if you go to the castle gates and ask for Ebine."

The princess draws herself up as straight as she can. "I'm not looking for work," she begins to explain.

"Then you will starve," the knight interrupts, before she can speak again. He brushes past her without another word, leaving her open-mouthed and staring as he departs.

She does end up taking the work in the scullery—how else is she to approach her prince?—but she still thinks the knight is a jerk.


The knight was not always this unkind. He reflects on this fact as he stands at the edge of the lake south of the castle, glowering at nothing in particular.

It has been many years since he came to this country, and in some ways, he thinks he has recovered. The fear that used to live so sharp inside of him has faded to a dull ache; he still fears the Raven King, yes, but it is a tolerable thing.

Every year there comes news of another kingdom or province that he has destroyed, and a stream of refugees pours into the city. It used to devastate him, to hear these new tales of ruin, sending him into dark spirals of despair. But every year, it becomes just a little bit easier to hear. Every year, he thinks that he has come just a little bit closer to coping with his past.

He wonders what price he has had to pay, for this small measure of comfort.

Usually he is the only person at the lake. Prince Siegfried used to join him, in earlier times, but he has become something of a recluse since the disappearance of his princess love two years prior. Now Fakir has become quite used to standing here alone, baking in his armor beneath the hot summer sun.

On every third afternoon, however, he is joined by a most unwelcome presence. The lying, scheming scullery maid with fiery hair also comes out to the lakeside, walking along its shores, doing her very best to ignore him.

The first few days that he sees her at the lake, they do not speak. If she ever wanders to close to him as she walks, she holds her head high and does not so much as turn her gaze in his direction. He, likewise, fixes his own eyes on the waves over the water.

After two weeks of this, he finally speaks.

"Who are you?" he asks her, when she walks past. She stumbles when he speaks, and turns to face him, visibly startled.

"Oh, now you care," she says bitterly. He waits patiently for a few moments, then realizes that she does not intend to give him a proper answer.

"I always cared," the knight says. She glares at him, and he is startled by how guilty that makes him feel. "It's a dangerous time, right now. I can't let just anyone get near the prince."

"If I told you who I was," she says, "would you let me see him?"

The knight scoffs. The scullery maid makes an angry noise in her throat, a cross between a growl and a screech, and leaves without another word. He wonders if he should follow after her. He decides to stay where he is, and watches as she makes her way back to the castle.

Three days later, precisely on cue, they meet again. This time he asks, "Do you have a name?"

"Yes," she answers.

"Will you tell it to me?" he asks.

"No."

He grimaces. "Then what should I call you?"

She tilts her head ever so slightly, frowning just a little. "Pick something," she says.

He looks over at the lake, and the waterfowl floating atop it. He does not know many girl names. A few come to mind, but none of them suits her. He eventually decides that he has thought too hard on this. "Duck," he names her, after the first thing that he sees.

"That's not a name," she says. But she doesn't look that angry about it.

"Tell me your real name, Duck," the knight says, "and I will call you by that instead."

"If I told you my real name," she says, "would let me talk to the Prince?"

"Not a chance."

Her face falls. And again, he feels inexplicably guilty about it. There's no reason for it—thinly veiled threats from the Raven King and the prince's upcoming nuptials have made it a very dangerous time, and he will not allow a foreign scullery maid to get close enough to talk to him, no matter how much her lip wobbles. And it is wobbling.

"Maybe after the wedding," the knight says, sighing heavily.

Her lip wobbles more, which is not exactly what he expected. "Wedding?" she asks, her voice soft and sad.

"You must be the only one in the kingdom that doesn't know. He's marrying Princess Kraehe because he's afraid the Raven King will attack us next."

The wobble vanishes, which is something of a relief to the knight. He is not entirely clear on how to deal with crying women. Now the scullery maid is deathly serious—angry even.

"The Raven King?"

"You really don't keep up with current events, do you?"

She glowers at him. The knight sighs. "Two years ago, the prince was engaged to be married to a princess from another kingdom. But the Raven King wanted his daughter to be married to the prince instead, and so he set out to destroy anything and anyone who could stand in his way."

"I see," the scullery maid says. Then: "I need to go."

She turns to leave. The knight is surprised by how much her sudden departure is bothering him. He wonders how she has gone so long without hearing about the Raven King, and why she insists on seeing the prince, and what has upset her. He wonders whether he can trust her.

"Will I see you again?" the knight asks. It wasn't the question he meant to ask, but somehow it slipped out regardless.

She glances at him over one shoulder. Duck opens her mouth as if she is about to answer him, but while she isn't looking at where she is stepping, she manages to trip over her own skirts and fall into the lake.

He hopes that means yes.