The Island

by Moonchild707

A girl leaves home for the great unknown. A king readies his people for war. A plane crashes in a storm over the mid-Pacific, and a body is found on a beach, not quite alive, but not yet dead. When a girl falls from the sky in a cloud of fire and steel, she must build a new home and make her new life in this land amongst strangers, known only to her as The Island. AH, AU.

46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Elia had never before been allowed in her father's private rooms.

Back in her father's house on the very grandest street in the city's west end, Elia stood perplexed in her father's study, staring down at the glossy hardwood floor that she'd never been allowed to touch. She was all of twelve now— nearly a woman grown in her own right— but even so, Elia knew that to be here, in her father's private space, was both a terror and a privilege. He had never asked her here before— not even once, in all her years beneath his roof— and as she breathed in the air with its smell of teak and firewood she dared only to look around, taking in that room which she had only ever seen from the doorway.

It was a long room with high, stuccoed walls painted white with a wainscot of dark, grainy wood. At one end there was a window— one of the tall, glass-paned ones that looked out onto the street and cast rainbows on the floor when the sunlight hit it just right. Beside this there were chairs— two large, plush things with a table in between and her father's grand library, compiled over several generations of their family. The books were like treasures, bound in red and green leather, and on each, neat spine Elia could see a line of embossed golden letters that flashed whenever she turned her head. Elia longed to sit here— to take in the sunshine and the smell of those old, well-loved books, but when she glanced instead to the other end of the room, she knew she couldn't dare.

At the farthest end from her, imposing and strong, was a blazing hearth that was in direct competition with the heat of the sun outside. It was summer now and the fire was hardly needed, but ever since Elia could remember, her father had kept this particular hearth lit. Her mother had told her it was to keep away the damp— even now, in the heat of summer, the air was too humid, and her father would rather swelter than allow anything to ruin his papers and his books. Before that hearth, almost shadowed in the fire's glow, was her father's desk, behind which he was sitting, silent and still. Elia, no matter how she steeled her nerves, could not bring herself to look directly at him and so she lingered, uncomfortable, just inside the door.

To avoid that scrutinizing, critical eye that was so fixed on her she looked instead at the portraits that lined the upper walls, some of which were almost as old as the Island itself.

Staring down at her she saw the faces of her ancestors— dozens of men, depicted in fading oil paints, glaring down at her from frames far out of her reach. They had been here since before Elia was born— before, she knew, even her own grandfather had been born, though he now sat among them on a wall near the window. She felt curiously small under these old and stoic gazes, all of which seemed to be looking right at her, and when she rocked forward onto the balls of her feet to ease her nervous energy her father slammed his hand onto his desk, making her jump.

"Quit fidgeting."

She stilled at once.

Her father— or Papa, as she was wont to call him— was staring at her just like the portraits were, but Elia did not dare protest. Though felt the heat of that gaze she did not utter a word of complaint. Papa had never watched her so before— had never stared, so cold and cruel, and without so much as a word of acknowledgement— and Elia felt the prick of tears, though she did not let it show.

"When are you expected back?"

"Tomorrow," she said at once. "It's my one day off."

"What of the other seven?" he demanded. "You've been away eight weeks."

But Elia, red faced, said nothing. She dared not tell him the truth— not now, when he seemed so cross. She did not dare tell him that she'd squandered them away, that she'd spent them, alone, in the streets beyond the castle walls, far out of reach of the King, the Queen, or even him, though he did not know it. She did not tell him that she went out alone because she had not made any friends. She did not tell him that she'd wasted her pay on ribbons and silk. She did not tell him, though she suspected that he already knew, that she would not be missed in the Queen's rooms, for neither the Queen nor any of her little ladies seemed to have much use for Elia at all.

"I've only got one," was what she said. "Just today, and then…"

Her father glared at her.

"Nevermind, then," he snapped. "Come here. I want to look at you."

And so Elia, feeling distinctly looked at already, stepped forward into the sweltering firelight from her father's hearth to let him inspect her. His eyes roved over everything from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, lingering on the hem of her skirt, which her mother had taken down just before she'd set off, and at her shoes, which were scuffed with dirt. Her sash— a pretty, new piece given to her by the Queen from her own drawers— did not warrant anything but a frown and she was careful to hide her fingernails from him, lest he see the edges that she'd bitten ragged. Father had slapped her for that before, and Elia knew that he would not hesitate to do it again.

"Your clothing fits?" he demanded. She nodded quickly. "Your shoes?"

"Yes, Papa."

He grunted.

"Sit."

Elia stared at him, perplexed.

"I said sit, child, and don't make me say it again." Across from him, on the other side of the desk, there was a chair and he kicked the leg, pushing it towards her. Elia sat gingerly on the edge of the cushion. "There now. Was that so hard?"

"No."

Papa continued to watch her.

It was unnerving, Elia thought, to sit so still and quiet before her equally silent Papa. Papa had never invited her into his rooms before— indeed, before she'd been sent away to join the Queen's retinue, she had been almost certain that Papa didn't even remember that she existed. She'd never been asked to sit with him, had never been called to these rooms to be drilled about her lessons as her brothers had. He had not spent time with her in these rooms, finding a husband as he had for Maren. He was not here interviewing men to be her suitors, as he did for Pippa. All her life, even when she had been very small, her Papa had hardly offered her a passing glance. When she'd packed her things to go and join the palace staff, he had hardly said a word of congratulations, and when they'd eaten together at the high table during her farewell feast, the whole production had been more for his tenants than for her. Papa didn't care that Elia did not like venison, because the people he'd invited to his table most certainly did. He did not care that her shoes were too big— only that they were expensive and new— and although he had danced with her and paraded her around the room like a prized show horse, none of it had been for her.

As Elia pondered the curious turn of events that had brought her here at all, Papa tapped an impatient rhythm on the tabletop. His fingers blotted the gloss and sheen of that well-waxed desk, making splotches that the maid would have to buff out once he'd gone to bed. The silence was thick and uneasy and though Elia was sure that her father must feel it too, neither of them said a thing to ease it.

That silence continued for a seemingly endless ten minutes, during which Elia, trying her best not to fidget, fixed her gaze upon the flickering flames instead. Papa perused his papers, shuffling letters into his drawer, taking out receipts from a box in the corner. He wrote a little too, his pen scratching noisily in the hush, and though Elia longed to peek and see what he was writing, she knew better than to snoop. Papa would have her hide if he even suspected that she was prying into business that did not concern her, and so she stared so intently at that fire that she began to see shapes in the smoke.

When the silence was broken, it was with a squeak and a bang as the door flew open, making Elia jump. She heard her father's irritated sigh as he glanced towards it, watching as her brother, Eran, came inside, and though Eran was already a man grown, he seemed to falter when he saw his father's steely annoyance.

"Father," he said, giving their Papa a quick bow. "And Elia. You look lovely."

Papa cleared his throat and gestured with an impatient hand for Eran to close the door. Eran obeyed, hovering near the window, and only when Papa stared at him, expectant, did he speak again.

"He won't come," said Eran. "He told me to tell you to that he won't. Not until we know something more."

Papa, his face darkening, grunted and sat back in his seat.

"Have you asked her?" said Eran.

"Not yet."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Be silent, Eran," snapped Papa. "Just… be silent."

Eran, not one to disobey a direct order, did as he was bid, though Elia could see a cool calculation on his face as her brother surveyed the room. Elia liked Eran— arguably more than she did any of her other siblings— but there was a strangeness about him, a kind of quiet, untouchable ferocity that always put her on edge. He had always been kind to her, it was true, but she'd often seen how easily he could become unkind to others, and as she waited in the tense silence for one or the other to speak again, she dared not say a word. Papa wasn't looking at her anymore— he wasn't looking at anyone at all, in truth— but even though she longed to leave, she did not dare budge until she was dismissed.

"You sit too, Eran," said Papa finally, gesturing to the stool that was always reserved for Papa's servant boy. "We need to talk."

At once, though Elia knew that the stool was a disgraceful place to sit, Eran did so without complaint.

"Not much we can do if he won't comply," said Eran slowly. "Really, this is all his doing anyways."

"Don't speak ill of your uncle."

"I'm not speaking ill," Eran countered. "I'm speaking the truth. We're not disgraced. Certainly not with her in the palace."

He jerked his chin at Elia, who sat up a little straighter. Papa, too, seemed to stiffen and when he looked at her again, Elia could almost taste his disdain.

"...but we will be," finished Eran, "if this business gets out."

"It won't."

"There are always spies, listening," Eran returned. "Even here, in your own house."

"My staff is loyal…"

"Until someone comes along to pay them more than you do," said Eran, and as if on cue their maid, Milli, arrived, carrying a flagon of wine and three golden goblets. "They're loyal while you pay them, father, and not a minute longer."

Papa laughed.

"I pay them well enough," he said. "More than enough to keep their mouths shut."

But until Milli had gone, bowing her way back through the servant's door, he was careful and guarded.

"It's not a secret who we are," said Papa. "The King knows all."

"Does he know who she is?" asked Eran. He pointed a finger at Elia again. "Does he know that she is in his wife's service?"

"I'm sure he does."

"I'm not."

Papa sighed, pouring wine into a cup.

"It matters not," said Papa, surprising Elia when he handed the goblet to her. Elia took it with trembling fingers. "She's the Queen's girl, not his."

"By all accounts, they are one and the same these days," said Eran dryly. "One can't take so much as a shit without the other there to wipe."

Elia flushed, the dirty word making her face grow hot, and their father kicked Eran on the shin.

"You watch your mouth around a lady," said Papa and though Eran had the good grace to look ashamed, he didn't apologize. "Talk however you want to your tavern sluts, but you'll mind your tongue around the women of my house."

This word, too, so crass and unforgiving, made her bury her face in her cup of wine.

"And don't you get drunk," snapped Papa, tapping her foot with the edge of his boot. "Don't make me regret giving you something so strong. You say you're a lady now, so prove it. Don't be greedy."

She lowered the cup at once.

"Papa, I…"

"You what?"

Elia steeled herself, swallowing thickly.

"May I go?" she asked. Her father didn't move. "I haven't greeted mother yet and Maren has the baby upstairs…"

"Your mother and Maren can wait," said Papa. "We've got business to attend, Elia. Haven't you been listening?"

Elia, frowning, nodded her head.

"Yes, but…"

"The little simpleton has no idea," laughed Eran and Elia, flashing with sudden anger, very nearly upended her goblet of wine onto her father's ruby rug when she turned to glare at him. "Look at her… she's got no clue why we're here."

"If someone would explain…"

But Papa, cutting her off with barely a look, turned instead to Eran.

"What reason did he give, for not coming?" he demanded. "If he's asking this of us…"

"He wants results before he commits."

Papa barked a laugh.

"That's rich, given what he's become."

"They took the warehouses yesterday."

"I know."

"They've already moved the urchins in."

Papa's face soured, as if he'd bitten into a lemon. The vein in his temple was throbbing— a telltale sign that his temper was quickly running short— and on instinct Elia shifted away, sitting further back in her chair.

"If that absolute fool of a councilor would do as he's bid…"

But at this, it was Eran who laughed.

"If my dear uncle hadn't been such a headstrong, bitter fool himself, we'd have no need of the unbiddable councillor," he said. "The gods know I love him, but why in all hell Uncle had to go and cause so much trouble is beyond me."

"He was provoked…"

"Uncle is always provoked," said Eran crossly. "He was born provoked."

"Be respectful."

"I'm being honest," Eran replied. "I'm not going to mollycoddle him, Father. Not anymore."

"He's still a powerful man…"

"And growing weaker by the hour," said Eran cruelly. "He insults the king, loses his place on Council, runs his mouth in the market, and assaults the Queen… what could he expect, really? A warm welcome?"

"He's your Uncle and your elder," snapped Papa, "not to mention my brother. Mind your tongue, Eran. You may be grown, but I'll whip you yet."

"You'd have to catch me first," Eran shot back and Papa, looking almost irritated enough to do it, reached towards the switch that sat by the fireplace. Elia shivered at the thought of it— how often had she, herself, felt the bite of that stick for far less than what her brother had just said? Papa only ever hit once— one sharp, biting barb on a leg or hand— but that one strike was more than enough to leave its mark.

Upstairs, in the room she shared with Maren, Elia heard the sudden wail of her new nephew. Eran and Papa both looked up before Papa sighed, setting his goblet down on the table rather harshly.

"I suppose we move forward without him, then," he said. "Though even the Gods know he'll find some fault with the plan…"

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"My brother is always a chooser," said Papa. "But no matter."

"If he doesn't like it, he can…"

"I said no matter, Eran. Let me deal with Mihaelo."

Eran, more than happy to obey that particular order, sat back in silence. Elia wondered at his cheek, at his boldness to sass Papa, even when he was so riled, but she had no time to think on it before her father spoke again, and this time, to her.

"You were there, were you not? The day of the riot?"

At once, Elia felt her body stiffen.

She had been there, as had all the other ladies of the Queen's retinue, on the day her Uncle had sprinted through the streets, hollering like a mad goose. It had been so long since she had seen him that Elia had not immediately recognized her Uncle— he had grown fat in his idleness, and he was as unkempt as Elia had ever known him to be, but he had not even spared her a moment's notice as he'd chased the urchin through the streets, shouting for justice and retribution.

"Yes," was all she said in response to her father's query, and this, it seemed, was enough to make him angry again. "Yes, I was there."

"Did you see?"

"Yes…"

"Did he strike her?"

Elia hedged, her voice failing. On the day of the riot, Elia had seen his red face as he'd shouted at the Queen. She'd seen the way the boy had scampered in the ensuing confusion. She'd seen her Uncle's apoplectic rage, the way his face had reddened and his fists had clenched, and when the fighting had started, she'd seen his hand come out to strike, sending the Queen sprawling into the dirt.

For it had been his fist that had struck her, for all the Queen had doubted it, but Elia had not said a word to anyone, even after he'd been dismissed from the castle in disgrace. She'd not even whispered it to her doll, which she was ashamed to admit she kept on her pillow at night, for she knew that if she did, it would be upon her Uncle's head.

She had heard the King as clearly as anyone, shouting as he had. She'd heard the threat, thepromise. He could not charge Uncle with treason as there was no proof he'd been the aggressor. No one had seen. No one could say for sure.

No one except Elia.

"I… don't know," she lied and her father's eyes were narrowed, calculating. "I didn't see. It was so crowded…"

"But he caused the riot?" Papa pressed. "What was said at the hearing was true?"

Elia, having heard the whole trial from the hallway with the footmen and the maids, could only nod.

"He caused it?"

"Yes, Papa."

Papa turned away, staring instead into the flames.

"If he wasn't so short tempered…"

Eran snorted.

"You'd have better luck taming a boar," he said rudely. "Or a wild cat, for that matter. Uncle runs as hot as a burning coal. You know that."

"That doesn't mean I don't wish it otherwise," returned Papa. "What he's asking of us…"

"What is he asking?"

Elia's voice, tremulous and small, shocked even her. Papa, still silently surveying the carpet at his feet, took a moment before he replied.

"He is asking for knowledge, Elia," he said. "He is asking for you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," said Papa. "None of us are in the palace but you. None of us know what she's really like… except you."

"I don't know anything."

Papa's precarious calm snapped again.

"Don't be such a little fool," he growled. "Not here, in my rooms. You've never been coy before so don't start now. You know more than anyone else in this house— more than anyone in the district, I'd dare say— so don't tell me you've learned nothing."

Elia swallowed, her eyes on her shoes again.

"Tell me what's she's like."

"The Queen?" Papa rolled his eyes.

"Yes, little fool. The Queen. What is she like?"

"She's…" Elia struggled, fidgeting with the ribbon at her waist. "She's… boring."

The word fell out in a rush and Papa chewed on it, frowning.

"How so?"

"We…" Elia swallowed thickly, her mind racing. "We don't do anything."

"You must do something all day," reasoned Eran before Papa could snap at her again. "There must be some kind of routine?"

"We wake, we bathe, we help the Queen bathe and dress. Sometimes I do her hair, if the other girls are fighting. She has a pet bird that we tend to. Then we sit."

"You sit?"

"Yes," she continued. "In the tower rooms."

"Doing what?" demanded Papa.

"Sewing," said Elia, her fingers aching when she thought of the massive patch of indigo sky she'd stitched on a canvas. "Embroidery."

"What else?"

Elia frowned.

"She reads, sometimes," Elia hedged. "Boring books. Policy and laws."

"To what end?"

"To learn, she says," Elia replied. "She knows very little… she's rather ignorant still, for all the King has schooled her."

Papa snorted.

"Women usually are."

Elia bit her tongue.

"Sometimes she reads to us," she went on. "Sometimes she lets us play in her closet."

Eran laughed outright.

"Little girls playing at dress up," he said. "A fine way to squander time."

"The Queen doesn't mind," she defended. "She says it's alright…"

"She would," scoffed Papa. "By all accounts, she's perfectly placid."

"Yes."

Papa stared at her again.

"What of your outings?"

"We don't take outings anymore. Not since what happened at the market."

"Not at all?"

"Just to the yard," said Elia. "We tour the grounds, sometimes. When we're dismissed early, sometimes the girls and I will go to the fields to chase the dogs…"

If this irritated Papa, he did not say.

"Does she entertain?"

"No."

"No visitors?"

"None but the healer and his wife," said Elia. "And sometimes the woman. The pretty one."

At this, Papa sat up straight.

"Do they talk, the Queen and this friend?"

"Sometimes."

"What do they say?"

"I don't know, Papa…"

Papa slammed his hands down and Elia felt her heart race.

"Little fool," he spat again and when Elia turned in confusion to Eran she saw that he, too, seemed unhappy. "You stupid, useless little fool…"

Elia thought this was a bit harsh.

"She sends us away," she said quickly. "We're not allowed to stay…"

Papa laughed at her, though he was not amused.

"I suppose this is what happens when the Queen insists on taking on children," he grumbled.

"I think that's why she did it," Eran returned.

Papa simply sighed.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps what?"

Elia's tone, somewhat impatient, made Papa's fingers clench on the arm of his chair.

"Find me a loyal courtier, Elia, and I'd give you my house," he said. "Never once, in the history of the realm, has there been such a court of idiots in the royal household as the one our Queen has taken on now."

"I'm not an idiot…"

"You are a child," he dismissed. "You are stupid, naive, and silly. You've really no idea why we put you there, do you?"

"You didn't put me anywhere."

Papa laughed outright.

"You'd be sitting in your room with your dolls and your books had it not been for your mother's interference," he said. "You think it was a happy accident that you ended up in that throne room? That you ended up at the front, away from all the other girls?"

"I…"

"That woman has no friends here," said Papa and Elia knew that he was right. "She has no connection to any great families, as the Queens before her have had. We knew there'd be just a few women chosen from our district— the King has no great love for us, I assure you— and your mother knew that if we were to have any chance at all, we'd have to send you."

"But…"

"We didn't know you'd all be children, of course," Papa went on. "But that matters very little in the grand scheme of things. I forget how young you are, Elia, and how little of the world you really know."

"I know enough."

"Not nearly," he replied. "Not even the half of it. Now answer me this: who does she see?"

Elia frowned, confused.

"Her ladies," she began again. "The King, of course…"

"Naturally."

"The healer, the healer's wife, the handsome lady, the children…"

"What children?"

"The woman's," said Elia. "The boy and the baby. The little boy is half wild."

Papa grunted.

"Sometimes the Prince," Elia went on, and this made Papa perk up. "Sometimes the Commander, though he never stays long."

"What does she want with the Commander?"

"I don't know. They're friendly."

Papa sat back, thinking.

"Any soldiers?"

"No…"

"Any peddlers?"

"No, Papa."

"Where does she sleep, when you go to bed?"

Elia balked, her cheeks flaming again.

"In bed," she said quickly. "As always…"

"Her own bed?"

Elia shifted.

"No."

Beside her, Eran tittered.

"Unless the King is away," she went on. "Then she sleeps with Alice in her own rooms."

"Who?"

"The girl she favours," said Elia. "The herbalist's daughter."

"The orphan," said Papa unsympathetically and Elia, though she had no great love for Alice, felt uncomfortable.

"She's nice enough…"

"I don't care."

Elia, again, did not know what to say.

"Eight weeks you've been away," he went on. "Two whole moons, and this is what you have to show for it?'

She said nothing, feeling the sting of tears again.

"The Queen is happy enough with me, I think…"

"I don't care one whit if that woman is pleased with you," said Papa. "What I care about is that you serve this family."

"What?"

"Your allegiance," he began again. "You might work for that woman, but you are a member of this family. Do you understand what that means?"

Elia, not daring to do anything else, simply nodded.

"You do what's right for us, you understand?"

"Yes Papa."

"You will say nothing of this conversation… not to anyone."

"I know…"

"And you will do your duty."

Elia frowned at him, perplexed.

"I do my duty," she said slowly. "I help the Queen, and I…"

"I already said I don't care about the Queen."

Elia stilled.

"You will do your duty by us, Elia. I've housed and clothed you for twelve years. The very least you can do is give back."

"What do you want me to give you, Papa?"

At this, her father grinned.

"I want you to watch," he said, and Elia felt a sudden thrill of nerves. "I want you to watch the Queen. Who she sees, what she does. Who she speaks to. What she says."

"You want me to spy?"

Papa laughed.

"Always so dramatic," he scorned. "I want you to observe. I want you to take note of what you see and when you come back next week, you'll report it to me."

"Next week?"

"You're expected back here on your days off," he said. "No more running the streets like a wild animal. No more wandering the marketplace. You will come home when you are dismissed, and I'll have your brother meet you at the gates to escort you."

"Why do you want to know about her?" Elia asked. "What's the point of it, Papa?"

Papa only smiled.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said. "Just you do as you're told. Go up to Maren now, and play with the baby. And when you go back tomorrow, keep a close eye on your mistress. I'll hear from you again next week and I hope to get a good report."

"But…"

"Do as you're bid, Elia," he said, and at once her mouth fell shut. "I'll not ask you again. Go, now, before I get angry."

"Yes Papa."

"Off with you, then."

Elia did not need telling twice.

---

That night in bed with Maren, Elia sat awake into the wee smalls, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of what Papa had asked of her. She had been awake since nightfall, when her mother had ushered her off to bed, and she'd been awake still when Maren had come in, her arms full of that sweet, sleepy baby. Together, with the candle snuffed out, they had laid side by side in the narrow bed, Maren's cold feet brushing Elia's legs as she drifted off. Even after Maren had fallen asleep, Elia had kept her eyes peeled on the stuccoed ceiling of their small, quiet bedroom, her mind full of a vivid, scorching anxiety.

It was familiar here, and although Elia had longed for the moment when she'd be allowed to sleep in her own bed again, it was thoughts of Father that kept her up, and the task that he had set her. Elia thought of her life at the castle— of the doldrum routine and the boring days she'd spent in the presence of the Queen, but for all her quashed imaginings and disappointed hopes, Elia had never quite imagined this.

Before she had come to live in the great castle keep, Elia had only ever known the barest details of court life. She had never been presented to the old, dead queen— though she had, in passing, been allowed to look upon the Princes as they'd travelled through her district. She had never been brought to court, where her mother had served the old Queen. She had learned to curtsey not before a throne, but before the tall, tarnished glass in her mother's dressing room. She had learned the proper way to walk— with her back straight and her chin up— on the winding garden path behind the house. She had spent her days in dreaming— of imagining what it would be like to be a great lady of the realm, risen so high in a world of luxury and excess that she would hardly know how to live in the common peddler's house over which her father ruled. Elia had dreamed of being a courtier since the moment she was old enough to know what a castle was but despite her delicious and unexpected success, she was quickly learning that the reality did not quite live up to what she had envisioned.

She had dreamed of dresses and curls. Of carriage rides with great, strong horses. Of balls, and masques, and dramas, and feasts. Of music, and beauty, and laughter and boys…

Not of service, not of boring banalities, and most certainly not of illicit, covert espionage.

She shifted beneath the covers, squirming to get closer to Maren, and when she pulled the covers over Maren huffed, reaching over to snatch them back.

"Would you stop wiggling, Elia?" Maren's voice was thick with sleep. "You're worse than the baby, I swear."

Elia turned to face her, eyes wide and bright.

"I didn't mean to."

"Go to sleep, Elia," Maren sighed. "It'll be morning soon, and if you wake the baby…"

"Sorry."

Maren sighed, turning around to face her.

"You've been unsettled since supper. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing…"

"Liar."

Elia's irritation flared.

"I am not," she argued, sitting up in bed to glare at her sister. "You don't know what I feel."

Maren rolled her eyes.

"Of course I don't…"

"Papa asked a favour of me."

Maren frowned at her, confused.

"And so?"

"And so I don't want to do it," Elia returned. "It's not… right."

"Father would never ask you to do something untoward, Elia. You know better than that."

Elia shook her head, picking at a rough cuticle on her thumb. The sting made her gasp and she brought it to her lips but Maren, usually so quick to scold her, only watched, trying to puzzle it out.

"I'd get in trouble, if I was found out."

"Is it to do with your position in the palace?" Maren guessed. "With… her?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't need to tell me anything more," she said. "I'm sure I already know."

"No you don't…"

"Yes I do."

"How could you, Maren, if no one has told you?"

"Because there's only one thing he could have asked of you. You've only got one job."

Elia glared at her, unhappy and put out.

"He asked me to spy on her, Maren."

"I know."

"He demanded it of me."

"That's no surprise."

"Isn't it?"

Maren turned again, looking her full in the face.

"No," said Maren. "It isn't, Elia. Why else do you think father let you go work for her in the first place? It should have been Pippa, really. She's next after me."

Pippa— Elia's middle sister— was sixteen years old and had been as cross as a wet cat ever since Elia had been invited to court. Maren, already twenty, had been married for two years and was already a mother. Elia, just twelve, had a position in the palace. But Pippa… waspish, surly, sulking Pippa had neither a husband nor a position, and she had hardly said a civil word to Elia since she'd been selected as a Lady.

"It's not my fault she wasn't picked," said Elia. She had arrived at the palace for the Choosing on her sister's coattails but Pippa, flocking immediately to a gaggle of fine looking girls with upturned noses, had abandoned Elia just as soon as their father was out of sight. Pippa had not really expected either of them to be selected and not until the Queen had called Elia to her, ushering her to the side to stand with all the other little girls she'd chosen, had Pippa's haughtiness turned to anger.

"It's no one's fault but her own," yawned Maren. "Pippa's always been sulky…"

"But I was chosen."

"And you were allowed to go with Father's blessing," she said. "That blessing would have never come freely."

Elia faced her sister, frowning. Behind Maren, in the little basket at their bedside, the baby began to fuss and Maren sat herself up, turning to tend him.

"Everybody in this family must make themselves useful," she said and Elia reached out to stroke her nephew's cheek, sighing. "Every one of us."

"What have you done?"

"I married the man that Father chose," she said, snuggling her baby. Elia watched in the bright moonlight as he began to root around, his little lips moving. "I'd never have chosen my husband for myself, but his family has good connections."

Elia turned her face away as her sister brought the baby to her breast.

"I don't love him," she said, and it was so matter of fact that Elia felt a little sad. "I don't know that I ever will but we get along well enough. He's kind to me, for the most part, and he's given me my son."

"Do you love him?" Elia chanced a glance at the baby, who had latched on for a midnight feed.

"More than anything in the world," said Maren and Elia saw how she stroked the downy head, ran her fingers over the chubby, milky cheeks. "More than I ever thought I would, Elia. You can't possibly know until you've felt it for yourself."

"I don't want a baby."

Maren laughed.

"You might, one day," she said, rocking as he slowly ate his fill. "You'll never love anything like you love your child, Elia. I've never known such joy."

"Even if you hate his father?"

"I don't hate him," Maren said. "Not really. He's…"

Maren trailed off with a sigh, bringing her lips down to kiss the baby's cheek.

"He's half of him," she said and as Elia glanced down at the little face again, she saw that truth written in flesh and bone. He was undoubtedly Maren's child— his pale skin, his curls, and his sweet, rosebud lips were all gifts from her sister, but the set of his chin, his round, snub nose, and the eyes so dark they were almost black all came from that brother in law that Elia hardly knew. She'd seen him only twice— once at his own wedding and then again right before the baby was born, at the dinner her father had ordered to send Elia off to the palace. Maren's husband had never spoken to her— not so much as one, single word— and it felt strange to Elia just then, to be laying in bed with this littlest piece of him.

When the baby had eaten his fill, Maren brought him up to her shoulder, patting his back.

"We must all do our part," she said again and Elia, fighting to keep her face straight, snuggled down onto her pillow. "Whatever Father asks of you… it's for the good of the family."

"He told me to spy."

"Then spy."

"But…" The word made her anxious and she could feel the fluttering of her heart behind her ribs. "What if I'm found out?"

"Papa thinks it's worth the risk."

"I'd be disgraced."

"You're only a child," said Maren. "The King doesn't punish children."

"It's not right."

"It's only wrong if what you see is wrong," said Maren and Elia chewed on that, contemplating. "If nothing untoward happens, you'll have nothing to report. If it's as you say— she sees no one and does nothing— then there will be nothing whatsoever of value to relay to Father."

"Father will whip me if I don't tell him something."

"Father will whip you if you don't tell the truth," Maren interjected. "Be alert, stay vigilant, and tell the truth, Elia. That's all you can do."

"She's nice to me, Maren…"

"Nobody said she wasn't."

"I don't want to… make waves. She already likes the others more."

Maren laughed again, settling the sleeping baby back in his basket.

"You're not there to make friends," she replied and when she, too, settled back down onto her pillow, Elia felt the warmth of Maren's hand in hers. "You're there to do a job."

"My job is to serve."

"Your job is to do right by your family. Don't worry about anything other than that, little sister. Don't worry about who likes you and who doesn't. Papa knows what's right for us and if he's asked this of you, I've no doubt he's got good reason."

"Uncle…"

"Hush now," said Maren. "Uncle is part of this family too."

"I don't want to spy for him."

"You're spying for Papa."

"Who asked me for him," Elia argued. "And to what end?"

"Only the gods know," said Maren, and when she yawned, Elia knew that the conversation was over. "Only the gods and Papa… and we'd be fools to think he'd tell the likes of us."

"He ought to, if I'm to do the work…"

"You are his daughter and so he is your master," said Maren simply. "Do as you're told and you'll come to no harm. There's no shame in watching… just make sure you keep an eye out whenever you're with her."

"I'm always with her."

"Then always keep a watch," said Maren. "Do as Papa says, Elia, and make him proud of you. Life is always easier when Father isn't cross."

---

Elia returned to the palace before sunrise the following morning, her eyes and body heavy with lack of sleep. It was still pitch black when she kissed her little nephew goodbye and she had slipped into her dress in absolute silence so as not to disturb him. Downstairs, in her mother's kitchen, she had quickly downed some bread and cheese that the maid had left out for her the night before. It sat in her belly like a stone as she made her way out onto the street, where her father's hired man was waiting to load her bag into Father's second best carriage.

Behind her, leaning on the gate by the front door, her mother waited, her hair still tied in a scarf and her arms folded over her chest as she surveyed her daughter.

"Bye, Mama…"

Her mother, reaching out to touch take Elia's hand, pressed her fingers into the cool skin of her palm.

"You look ill," she said, pinching Elia's cheeks to bring some colour into them. "I warned you not to stay up all night."

"I couldn't sleep."

"You'd best wake yourself before you get back to the palace," she said. "No Queen wants to see her maids looking like that when they come back from their day off. It makes you look wild."

"Yes, Mama…"

"Wash your face well before you present yourself," she continued. "You'll have plenty of time… it's still very early."

"Yes, Mama."

"Cold water, mind you…"

"Yes…"

"Come here."

Elia leaned into her mother's embrace, relishing the warm, familiar smell of her skin. She had missed Mama these past few weeks, having no one at all to hug at the castle, and though her mother would not normally allow such an open display of affection right in the middle of the street, she did not push her daughter away this time. Elia felt the warmth of Mama's breath, the little hiccup when she finally pulled away, and when Mama stepped back to look her up and down, it was with a little nod of approval that made Elia feel better.

"I love you," Mama said, almost too softly for Elia to hear.

"I love you too."

"You mind your father's orders, now," said Mama. "Do exactly as he says."

Her heart skipped again and she could only nod.

"Good girl."

"I'll see you next week, Mama."

"I know you will."

"Goodbye…"

"Goodbye, darling."

She had set off with the hired man without another word.

Rolling in her carriage through the dark and lonesome streets was an experience that Elia had never before enjoyed. She'd been so often through these same roads and alleys when the sun was high and bright, but it had never seemed proper for a little girl to be out in the dark. At the New Year celebrations, she'd been allowed to watch the revelry from her bedroom window overlooking the party square. On the evening of her birthday feast, she'd been allowed a friend to spend the night. She had watched her sister, Maren, coming home from parties in the dark, and sometimes Pippa slipped out when no one else was looking, but never had Elia been privy to the quiet peace of the city before daybreak.

There were no horses on the road. There were no soldiers on patrol. There were no windows lit, other than the smithy and the baker, and even the tavern was shuttered and still. There were no chimneys pumping smoke from cookfires, no noisy talk of bartering and sales. There were no crowds, no laughing children scampering underfoot, but only a blissful, eeking quiet that made Elia feel drowsy and when she closed her eyes, the rumble of the wheels lulled her right to sleep.

When she awoke, it was to hear the hired man's voice, softly announcing that they'd arrived.

The castle, too, was dark and quiet, though Elia noticed at once that the guard at the gate had come down to greet her. Elia did not know all the soldiers— this one, in particular, was a total stranger— but it seemed that he knew her. He did not ask her who she was as he unlocked the gate, did not question the hired man to demand his business or his news. She stepped down from the carriage rather hastily, stumbling over a rut in the dirt and catching herself on the edge of the wheel, and the hired man barely acknowledged her at all as he deposited her bags by her feet, clicking his tongue to make the horses move.

Elia listened until the sound of the carriage faded away, the last of it disappearing beyond a bend down Market Street. The soldier, waiting patiently for her to notice him, bowed when she did, and when she reached down for her bags, he shook his head.

"I'll send the boy for them," he said. "Don't worry about lugging them up. You know how to ring for the night guard?"

"Yes."

"Right then. Good day to you."

"Good day…"

Elia walked the long, dark path to the castle doors alone.

Up in the servant's quarters, where Elia and the other maids all slept together in shared rooms, Elia tiptoed down the quiet, darkened hallway. The rooms were all silent— even Marta's, beyond which she could see no telltale flicker of candlelight. The scullery and kitchen maids had already departed for the kitchens, where they would prepare the day's meals and tend to the many fires that lit the hallways and the grand rooms. The footmen were still asleep— only Roberto, the King's personal page, and the unnamed spitboy who had come to unlock the door for her were out of bed and so Elia snuck quietly into the women's workroom, kneeling down to tend to the cold, blackened hearth. She set the logs down with careful precision, stacking the wood just so to help the flames catch quickly, but when she stood, dusting her hands on an old work rag hanging by the window, she realized that the maids had not left a flint and she had no way to light it.

In the darkness Elia sighed, letting her body slacken as she rested her heavy head against the stone arch that encased a window. Beyond, the world was still as black as pitch, early morning stars still twinkling in the sky without the threat of the sun, and though she was still on her feet she felt her mind begin to drift. Her quiet imaginings took root like a waking, lucid dream and before she could stop herself she had let her eyes fall closed, her body suddenly slack.

Perhaps she would have slept there, on her feet in her fine gown, all alone in the workroom by a black, cold window. Perhaps she would have dreamed, too, or simply keeled over, but it was not long before she was roused again by the sound of a voice, speaking so suddenly in the gloom that Elia yelped, wheeling around at once.

"Goodness, child, you're back early." Marta, dressed in her usual grey frock, held a candle on a plate that illuminated the room in an eerie, flickering light. "How ever did you get up the stairs so quietly? We weren't expecting you until lunch, at least."

"Mama didn't want me to be late," said Elia quickly, clearing her throat when her voice cracked. "She said it wouldn't be proper."

Marta only sighed.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Are your bags up yet?"

"I don't know," admitted Elia. "The guard said he'd call for a boy…"

"Very good."

Elia shuffled, awkward. In the orange halo of light Marta's surprise seemed to harden, and though Elia could think of nothing she'd said to rouse suspicion, she saw Marta's eyes narrow.

"Come here, child," she said and Elia, not wanting to be scolded, did as she was told. Marta held the candle out to her, scrutinizing. Elia felt the heat of that small, lonely flame on her cheek, and then on her brow and her nose, and when Marta set it down, reaching out to chuff Elia's fingers, she squeezed them hard, letting her warmth sink in.

"Are you well, love?" she asked and Elia nodded quickly. "You look ill."

"Just tired."

"Your hands are clammy," she said. "And your cheeks have almost no colour left. Are you sure you ate enough?"

"Yes, ma'am…"

"Do you need to go to bed?"

"No," said Elia at once. "No, Marta… I'm not ill."

If she was sent to bed, Elia knew there was no way she'd be able to furnish her father's report.

"What's the matter then?" Marta asked. "There must be something amiss, Elia…"

"I'm fine," she said again, her mind racing. "I'm just… tired."

"After your day off?"

"My sister," Elia stammered. "She was home too."

"I see…"

"She brought her new baby," Elia said. "He's got the colic, Mama says. He's a sweet little thing, but he cried all night… My sister and I share a bed at home."

This half-truth made Marta smile and at once, she set her candle down. The lie felt thick in Elia's throat, as if she'd swallowed some bitter, sticky medicine, but she forced her face to be still, to belie nothing of her true worry. If Marta found out what her father had asked of her… well. Elia did not need to be a prophet to know it would not be tolerated.

"I'm glad you got to see them," said Marta. "I know you've been pining after that baby… boy or girl?"

"A boy."

"What did she call him?"

"Lyro," said Elia. "Same as his father."

"I know Lyro," said Marta and Elia blinked, surprised. "His father used to be friendly with my brother. I didn't know he'd married."

"Last summer," said Elia. "Before."

It seemed that everyone, her own family included, had divided their lives into Before and After— before the Queen had fallen from the sky in a halo of smoke, and after she had laid claim to their King, and thus, their Kingdom.

"Yes, perhaps I did hear something of it," said Marta. "I think your father published it in the papers."

"It wasn't a big affair," said Elia. "Just a few friends and family. And dancing… I love dancing."

Marta chuckled indulgently.

"It won't be long before we see a ball in this palace again," she sighed and when she put the candle to the fireplace where Elia had stacked the wood, it caught at once. The sudden flood of warmth made Elia shiver. "It's too bad, really, that we're in such a tumult."

"What tumult?"

Marta let out a long, deep sigh.

"The King is up again this morning," Marta said. "He called for Bertie in the wee smalls, right at witching hour. I can't say what's gone wrong this time… but I expect he'll be off again."

"Is it the West?" Elia asked and Marta, going suddenly hard, just shrugged her shoulders.

"It's always the West," she said. "Always some new mischief…"

"Is it like last time?"

"No, child," said Marta and the fire, flaring up as another log caught, made both of them jump. "We'd have heard news of another burning, no doubt. No. I don't think it's so serious this time."

"Then perhaps he won't go…"

"He won't stay, if his men must go," she said. "Say what you will of our young, green King, but he is good to his men."

"I know."

"And with the Commander away…"

"Where has he gone?"

Marta eyed her, frowning.

"Recruiting," she said. "The Queen has paid for the army, you know…"

Elia did know, but she had forgotten.

"I pray that he succeeds," said Marta quietly and Elia, ducking her head, began to pick at her cuticles again. "But there. Prayers can only do so much, I suppose. It is men who must act now. Not the Gods."

This was so near blasphemy that Elia did not dare reply.

"As I said, love," sighed Marta, her fingers brushing a stray curl from Elia's cheek as she forced a smile. "Once all of this is done and we can be safe in our beds again, I'll eagerly await the day that we can dance. It won't be long now, I'm sure. Our King and Queen are young… and such revels are just made for people like them."

"Praise be," said Elia and Marta, picking up her candle again, began to look around the room. Beside her, just above the hearth, the call bells lay silent but just as Elia began to shiver with her heavy, weary exhaustion, one of them began to ring.

Northwest Tower. The Queen's tower.

"You'd better go," sighed Marta and Elia straightened her skirt, nodding. "Seeing as you're up. If she wants the other girls already, send a man down to fetch them."

"Yes ma'am."

As she crept away, slipping silently down the long, deserted corridors, Elia felt a thrill of fear as she made her way through the silent passages, around blackened bends that showed no light. The maids had not yet been here, nor the footmen, either, and no one had lit the lamps, and as she scampered on ahead to the base of the Queen's tower her fear turned cold in her belly. Elia thought the castle was beautiful in the daytime with all its statues, paintings, and marble floors, but when that beauty was obscured by the ebbing darkness of night, Elia thought that those darkened corridors and empty rooms might have become a haunt for ghosts.

When she found the Queen's tower, guarded as always by two nameless, faceless men, they let her in without a fuss and she sighed, relishing the closeness and the quiet of the tall, spiral staircase.

Her ascent into the tower was long, and she held a careful hand on the railing so she would not fall. She was the only one on the stairs this early— she doubted if even Alice, for all the time she spent up here, would be awake to greet her— and so when she made it to the final landing, and the last armed guard, she was surprised to see the glow of a fire crackling beneath the wooden door. The Queen must be up, she knew, for only she had the authority to ring the servant's bell, but she was surprised that the lamps had already been lit.

When she pushed the wooden door open she froze, lingering in the shadows as she took in the faces that had turned to look at her.

"Come in, sweetheart," said the Queen and Elia, surprised, saw that she had already dressed herself. "Close the door behind you, please… is Marta up? I thought it would be her."

"Yes, Your Grace…" Elia stammered, her gaze flickering between her mistress and the King. "She sent me… should I get her instead?"

"No matter," sighed the Queen. "No matter at all… Come closer to the fire, Elia. It's chilly this morning."

Elia did as she was bid. Her curtsey was clumsy— she very nearly stumbled when she pulled herself back up— but neither party seemed to care. Elia was used to the Queen— in fact, she thought, in the weeks of late, the Queen had grown quite commonplace to her— but the sight of the King, in all his regalia, still made Elia's mouth go dry. She did not know whether to admire him or fear him— he had never been unkind to her, but neither, she thought, had he been particularly sweet. In fact, other than Alice, who the King seemed to like, he barely said a word at all to any of his wife's ladies and even now, when he simply looked at her and said nothing, she felt whatever meager confidence she'd mustered shrink down to the size of a pea. It rested in her belly like a weight, not shifting one inch even when she scurried to a spot by window, and the Queen, not having missed even a second of this awkward exchange, took pity on her.

"The King is just leaving," she said and though Elia could hear that she was upset, she did not immediately know why. "Nothing to fret about."

"Yes, My Queen…"

"He's off again."

"Off?"

"West," sighed the Queen. "To the fields. There have been more… developments."

"Don't frighten her, Bella," said the King and Elia blinked at the sound of her mistress' given name, spoken so casually. "It's nothing for the girls to worry about."

"Promise me you won't fight."

"I don't intend to."

"Please, Edward."

This indecency— to hear the King's name without courtesy or title— made Elia's face flame bright red. She turned away to hide it, but kept her ears pricked.

"There's been no attack this time," said the King. "No burning. Just some activity out by the mountains and Ramos has asked for reinforcements."

"What of Emmett?"

"He is North," said the King. "As you well know. Gathering your army."

"It's hardly my army…"

"More yours than mine," The King said. Elia listened, confused. "I'm not the one paying them."

"Just…" Behind the Queen, Elia heard the little green bird begin to chirp from inside his gilded cage. "Be safe, please."

"I always am."

"And write, if you'll be longer?"

"Always, Bella…"

"I wish I could go with you."

"And I am glad that you cannot," he returned at once. "The battlefield is no place for a woman, Bella. Least of all you."

"You said there wasn't to be a fight…"

"There is always a chance," he said. "Always, no matter how we may try to mitigate it. I'm only sorry I'm setting off so early."

"Will you take Jasper?"

"No."

"He'll be cross."

"I've left him a note," said the King. "He's to be of use to you. Make sure that he is, please."

The Queen, biting her lip, gave a single, silent nod.

"Don't look so."

"I can't help it."

"I'm sorry, Bella…"

"It's not your fault."

Elia did not know where to look. This exchange, so intimate and personal, seemed altogether beyond her and though the Queen had not dismissed her, she had a sudden urge to flee into the stairwell. She did not want to hear these things— lover's talk, spoken in the dark— and it felt wrong and intrusive for her to listen in, even though neither seemed to mind that she was there. When he leaned down to kiss her, full on the mouth, Elia could not help but turn to face the window. She heard the sound of that affection, not loud, but still too much for her, and when the King pulled away, she thought she heard the Queen sniff.

One covert glance saw the Queen bring her sleeve to her eye and though the King was frowning, concerned, she shook her head.

"I'm being silly."

"You're not silly."

"It's just for a little while," said the Queen, as if she was trying to convince herself. "We'll be just fine here, me and the girls."

"And Jasper," he reminded her. "Don't let him get out of hand."

"He rarely does anymore…"

"You never know."

The Queen laughed.

"Be safe, please."

"I will."

"You've left me your lists?"

"They're on my desk," he said. "All of the petitions and appointments."

"Good…"

"Roberto knows to bring them," he went on. "Once your ladies have risen."

"Alright."

"Den is here too, if you have questions," continued the King. "I know you've been reading."

"As much as I can…"

"Good."

Behind her, in the northeastern window, Elia saw the telltale blue of the budding sunrise. It seemed to hit her all at once, sending the shadows of the bricks into sharp relief, and when the King glanced up with a sigh, both Elia and the Queen knew that it was time.

"They'll have Magnus ready by now," said the King. "I must be off."

"I love you."

Elia looked away again.

"I love you too."

She faced the wall as the King said his final farewell and only when he'd crossed the threshold, giving his wife one last, final kiss, did Elia curtsey and sigh, feeling suddenly shaky.

The Queen, seeming not to notice her, stared at the door long after he had closed it.

In the light of the budding day, Elia could do nothing to interrupt this sudden, quiet vigil and so she looked, instead, and did not speak. The Queen did not look at her— indeed, Elia wondered if her mistress even remembered she was there— and for a full, long minute after the King's departure, she stared at that door, unmoving and silent. She was like a statue, Elia thought— a stone likeness that seemed full of unspoken thoughts and worries— and only when she shifted, letting her shoulders sag a little as she lowered the kerchief from her face, did Elia hear her sigh. In that moment, with a tear track on her face and red-rimmed eyes, Elia thought that she did not look like a Queen. She did not seem like a goddess of the sky, either, as some of the other girls were so keen to believe, but like a woman. Just a simple, sorry, nervous woman, and Elia did not know what to do with that.

So to ease her own feelings she offered her mistress another handkerchief, taking a clean one from the basket of linens under the window and the Queen laughed, accepting it with a sad smile.

"I'm sorry," she said, dabbing at her face again. "I'm not usually such a sap."

Elia said nothing.

"I just miss him is all. He's been away so often lately."

This, Elia knew, was true. The King, as was his duty, had been out surveying his lands and taking stock of Western damages for months since that fire had ruined so many homesteads in the Northern Grasslands. The fire had been the only subject of conversation for weeks afterwards— even her Papa, strong and unflappable as he was, had grown nervous when the haze of smoke had wafted over the city to turn the sky a deep, murky orange. She'd heard her father's worry and it had frightened her, though she had been brave enough not to show it, and she had been a ball of nervous energy as she'd watched the soldiers depart, guarding the King as he went to take in the damage.

Her father had lost his favourite cattle farmer in the blaze and ever since, their table had been devoid of beef. He'd lost a grain farm too, along with all its tenants— one of only a few farms that her father yet retained from the days when their ancestors had owned fields in the Grasslands instead of houses in the Capital. Most had been sold off, she knew— either to the tenants themselves, when they could afford it, or to other wealthy landowners from a street or two away— and though there had been talk of reseeding the fields to see if something would grow, her father had thus far been too leery to try.

Even her Papa didn't want to venture into the Grasslands after such a vicious attack and so Elia, watching through the window as the King gathered his men in the yard, could not altogether fault the Queen for her worry.

"He'll come back, My Lady," said Elia and the Queen smiled at her again. "He always does."

"Very true, darling. Come and sit with me."

Elia, moving slowly to the little sofa that had become her special spot, sat carefully atop a plush, embroidered cushion.

"How was your visit?" asked the Queen. "Did you enjoy being with your family?"

All at once, Elia felt a frightful jolt of nerves hit her full force.

"Yes…"

"What did you do?"

And so Elia began to lie.

"I played," she said and the Queen, just as Elia knew she would, flashed a brilliant, indulgent grin. "We ate a fine supper. I saw my sister, and my new baby nephew…"

"Lovely."

"I walked with Mama," she went on. "Through the gardens. We talked."

"And your father?"

Elia swallowed.

"Away," she said. "Looking after his tenants, Mama said."

"That's too bad," said the Queen. "Maybe next time, eh?"

"Oh yes…"

Elia, feeling distinctly hot, turned her face away.

"I'm glad you were able to go," said the Queen, after a long moment's pause. "I know your family is happy for you to be here, but you must take time to be with them, too. They're important, you know."

"I know."

"There's no one else in the world quite like your family," she finished. "No one in the world, sweetheart. Don't take them for granted."

No, Elia thought. No, there certainly wasn't.

---

That long and quiet morning spent alone with the Queen turned into a long and tedious week that Elia, as tense as a bowstring, spent in a slow routine of watching, waiting, and observing. Just as her father had instructed, Elia kept her eyes and ears open, and as she began to take in all the minutia of this life she'd been living, she saw, for the first time, how things really were in the grand, royal palace.

Elia had never really looked before— not in any way that might be interesting or useful— but now, with her father's warnings in the back of her mind, Elia found herself noticing things that would have been beyond her before. All her life, Elia had envied the Queens and Princesses who had lived in the royal palace. All her life she had dreamed of becoming one of them. To be married to a Prince and to be privy to all the gossip, parties, and fun… it had seemed the height of luxury to Elia before she had arrived in the palace. Her rosy ideals, formed from storybooks and legends, had not held up long in the palace proper but even so, she had never quite realized just how tedious the life of a Queen really was. It was not a life of revels, as Elia had once imagined. It was not even a life of excitement. More often than not, it was a life of dull routine and careful, well-planned stoicism, and as Elia trailed her mistress and watched her daily tasks, it became more evident than ever that patience, not excess, was the prime descriptor of a good and decent ruler.

That patience started first thing in the morning most days, before the Queen had even left her rooms or taken a bite to eat. From the moment the first handmaiden trailed in at dawn, Elia saw how the Queen exercised a patience that Elia's own mother could never have, for from the very minute she began her morning routine, the girls were arguing.

The girls were always squabbling, though the Queen never said an unkind word about it. They fought over her hair— who would hold the brush, who would set the curls, which girl would be allowed to twist which braid and which would be allowed to pin it back. They argued over dresses— surely Mirri had had too many chances to tie the Queen's laces this week… shouldn't it be Santi, instead? But Luci hadn't tied any at all for two weeks… and Amalia and Rena and Dora… Elia lost track, but the Queen never did. She never frowned at them, never said a word to make them weepy or resentful, and though Elia knew that more than one of the girls would be whipped if word got back to their fathers of their squabbles, the Queen never lifted her pen to write to a single one.

Without the King, it was also the Queen's duty to see to the business of the realm. While she sat on his council with the Prince at her side, the girls were forced to wait in the yard, wandering the sunlit grounds until they were called back in. They went with her to the throne room, where she heard petitions from the people. She'd mediated a petty argument over a flock of sheep between two ranchers who had come all the way from the Farmer's Village. She had ordered a delinquent father to pay the fees for his children's school uniforms. Three women had fallen to their knees before her to beg for clothing and shoes and the Queen had hardly blinked before she'd ordered Alice to take them to the storerooms. Elia, who was next in the line, was sent to fetch them hampers from the kitchen. Lessie had groused about it— Elia had been forced to listen, impatient, as the cook prepared the baskets with a stormy barrage of curses— but afterwards, when the cook had caught sight of the poor creatures in the yard with their children trailing after them, she had not said another unkind word about it. She had even smiled, if such a thing was possible for her, and Elia had watched her take a moment of quiet reflection. This contemplation did not last long, however, and when she'd caught a kitchen maid looking at her too fondly she'd exploded into a furious temper again and the girl, scared out of her wits, had scrambled back to the larder with a whimper like a dog.

Elia had come back just in time to hear the final petition— one of her father's own tenants, complaining about the price of rent. Elia knew this man. He had been at her farewell feast and she had spent many summer days playing in the streets with his children. As he spoke, she snuck back into place, hardly daring to look at him in case she was recognized. She filed this man away in her mind with the rest of the details she would relay to her father, and when the man had departed she was so pale with nerves and the Queen, worrying that she was ill, had sent her promptly off to bed.

By the fourth day, Elia was exhausted.

In the tower again, in a new seat by the Queen's sofa, Elia sat in the shadows of the room with her work basket by her knee and a neglected piece of patchwork on her lap. Her fingers were aching— she had never sewn so much in her life as she had since she'd arrived here— and though all the other girls were working, Elia was not. It was already past midmorning— far beyond breakfast, and yet somehow still not lunch— and though Elia knew there would be something toothsome on the table today, she had begun to wonder if she would be able to wait it out.

On the sofa to Elia's right sat the Queen, her own handiwork abandoned as she leaned in close to her friend— the blonde woman who lived in City East, in the little pink cottage. With her, she'd brought her baby, though the boy had stayed back home with a neighbour, and though that baby had yet to walk, she had just learned to crawl. Above them, flying high to keep out of reach of those chubby, grabbing fingers, the Queen's pet bird was squawking his displeasure and the baby, delighted by the sounds he made, squealed back at him whenever he made a noise.

All around the room, Elia saw the little groups of girls who had formed friendships, some of whom had already begun to make rivals of the others.

By the Queen's side, as she always was, sat Alice, her attention fixed so firmly on her knitting that Elia wondered where she found the focus. Alice was a floater— here, with the Queen, she was a constant and loyal companion to her mistress. In the servant's quarters, where she sometimes joined in games and meals, she had made friends with almost all the other girls and she wandered between the groups, never seeming to show a preference for one or the other. Marta loved her. The Queen loved her. Even the King, indifferent as he was to the rest of them, held Alice in high esteem, and the Prince…

Elia did not like to think too hard about Alice's friendship with the Prince.

At the far end of the room, huddled together in a little, giggling circle, sat the Eastern girls, as Elia called them. All four were seated together as they were almost every day, and they were so named in Elia's mind because all but one had come to the palace from City East. Rena and Santi, the eldest and the youngest maids, had lived on the same street growing up and Fila, who was the daughter of a blacksmith, had lived just a few roads away. Together, the three had made fast friends with Celia, who came from the Rocklands, and today they had brought Dora over to sit with them too, though she seemed to have nothing much to say. Dora, rumour had it, had come from the Hollow Lands like Alice and they had lived in the Home together in the aftermath of that first raid almost three years ago. But although the Dora and Alice often spent their free hours together in talking and games, Dora did not have the courage to sit as close to the Queen as Alice did.

In a corner by themselves sat Luisa and Amalia, sisters who had come together from the Rocklands. Luisa, the younger of the two, was a lively, vivacious girl with plenty to say and a ready smile but Amalia, a full year older, was one of the shyest girls Elia had ever met. She said so little that hardly anyone had ever heard her speak, and what she couldn't say out loud, her sister said for her. Marta, having been assigned the task of preparing rooms for the girls, had tried to split them up, but that had lasted all of one week before she'd given up, letting them share the smallest chamber together, undisturbed. They always worked together, heads bent in near silent conference, and today was no exception.

Marzia and Luci were Elia's roommates, and though they were friendly to her when they went up together in the evenings, they did not go out of their way to include Elia in their jokes and games. They seemed so mismatched that Elia often wondered how they had become so friendly. Luci was tall and pretty, as skinny as a twig and with an awkward shyness that made her giggle when she spoke. Marzia, by contrast, was short and plump, taking after the traditional families of the Farmer's Village, from whence she came. She was round where Luci was long, loud, confident, and jolly where her friend was quiet and meek, but together, Elia thought that they seemed like one whole person. They were kind to her, these two girls, and they had never done or said a thing to offend, but somehow, Elia got the impression that they did not exactly want her. That if she were to leave, they'd neither notice nor care that she had gone.

It was Mirri, however— that wild, brazen, and most unpredictable of the girls, who caught Elia off guard. Like Elia, Mirri had no group. Unlike Elia, this seemed to suit her just fine.

"You're awfully interested these days."

Elia jumped and spun around, surprised to hear the voice so near. Mirri crouched behind the sofa, where the no one else could see her, and though her voice was low, Elia looked nervously at the Queen. Mirri ducked down a little more, bending so that her blonde, freckled head was level with Elia's, and when Elia shifted away Mirri scowled.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You keep looking at her."

"Looking at who?" hissed Elia. "I'm trying to work, Mirri. Go away."

"You haven't sewn a stitch for five full minutes, Elia, so don't even try it."

"I'm not trying anything."

"You're watching the Queen."

"We're all watching the Queen."

Mirri's pretty eyes narrowed and she folded her arms, leaning down to whisper so that she would not be heard. When Elia leaned away again Mirri's mouth pursed and she reached for Elia's work instead, abandoned on the basket. Under the pretense of examining some stitches Mirri leaned in close again and Elia, wishing she could smack her away, bit her tongue and kept quiet.

"What exactly are you looking for, Elia?" she asked. "Ever since you came back from your visit, you've been very secretive."

"Nothing," Elia hissed, snatching her work back. The sewing needle scratched Mirri's thumb and she scowled, bringing it to her lips. "What could I be looking for, Mirri? We're sewing."

"Why did you move seats?"

"I needed better light…"

"There's worse light over here," Mirri accused. Her usual spot, on the opposite end of the room, was bathed in sunlight and Elia flushed.

"Not for me," she said pathetically. Beside her, the Queen and her friend had begun to laugh and the baby began to crawl again, worming her way across the rug. Mirri followed Elia's gaze before she snorted, sitting up a little straighter.

"Is it the baby?" asked Mirri derisively, watching as the roly poly little thing began to wiggle her way back towards her mother. As all mothers did, the blonde woman began to prattle nonsense at her and the baby chortled, slapping her little hands on the floor.

"Yes," Elia lied as the baby found its mother, letting out a squeal of laughter. In the rafters above their heads, the Queen's bird gave an answering peep. "Yes, that's it."

"Could've just said," Mirri grumbled. "You're always so prickly, and I've no idea why. Maybe if you weren't, you'd make some friends."

Elia felt the sting of those words like a nettle and she scowled again, bringing her patchwork back up to her nose. Mirri, still nursing the oozing scratch on her thumb, did not notice what her words had done and without another glance she left, moving instead to sit between the sisters. Mirri was a loud, obnoxious girl but no one except Elia seemed to really mind her presence in their group and so with a pang of envy that she dared not show, Elia watched the other girls smile and make a space for her, right smack in the middle of their conversation. Elia would never have the nerve… would never have the audacity to be so presumptive, but none of the other girls seemed to mind and before long they were laughing all together and Elia, left alone in the shadows, didn't dare utter a peep of protest.

Elia didn't notice the baby as she crawled, passing first the Queen, then her mother, and then Elia's stool, where she stopped, smiled, and reached, grabbing at Elia's skirts as she tried to haul herself upright. Elia couldn't help but smile— she was a jolly little thing, always so happy— and she set her work aside, reaching down to hold those plump little hands so she would not fall back onto the hard, wooden floor.

"Elia has a new nephew of her own, Rose," said the Queen and the blonde woman smiled at her, nodding. "I think she likes you, Elia… what do you think?"

"Very pretty," said Elia honestly, for if there could be nothing else said about her, this, at least, was the truth. Like her mother, she had a pair of big, baby-blue eyes that seemed to shine, lighting up her whole face when she smiled her wide, gummy grin. Dark ringlets covered her head like little black springs and her cheeks were as plump and pink as summer roses. Elia plucked the baby up from the floor, settling her on a bouncing knee. Almost immediately, like a moth to a flame, she reached her pudgy little hand down to grab Elia's patchwork, needle and all, and the mother laughed again, pulling the basket out of reach. Elia felt the tension in that little body before she heard the shout and when the baby began to wail her mother took her back.

"Missy mischief," said the woman fondly though the baby, red-faced, did not settle. "She's been in a furious temper all week," she said to the Queen. "She's got three teeth coming in."

The Queen, who did not seem at all perturbed by the screeching or the noise, reached down to relieve her friend of the wiggling infant as she brought the baby to her chest and began to pace. At once the child seemed to settle, pressing her wet, teary face into the Queen's lace collar, and though Elia felt a visceral kind of annoyance when she thought of the job they'd have scrubbing out the marks in the fabric, she said not a word.

As she sewed, she listened.

"Have you heard from Emmett?"

"No."

"Where is he now?"

"East, I think." The woman seemed suddenly sad. "Last he wrote he was in the North, canvassing, but that was almost a full week ago."

"He'll be back soon, I expect."

"I hope so, Bella."

Elia bit her tongue, saying nothing.

"What of the King?'

"In the fields," said the Queen. "He writes and says that they are setting up a camp in the Hollow Lands."

"I thought there was no one left there…"

"There isn't."

Elia paused.

"But you would know that, Rose," said the Queen and Elia caught it then— a curious, quiet sort of insistence that made the blonde woman frown. "You and Finn were among the last to leave, don't you remember?"

At once, the blonde woman went blank.

"Yes, of course. Of course I do…"

Elia fished another needle out from her case. The Queen, turning away from her friend as she began to fuss with the baby's dress, rocked her for a moment longer until she settled and the blonde woman laughed, sitting back with a smile.

"Won't be long now, Bella, until you have one of your own," she said and though Elia did not quite understand, she saw the Queen's cheeks darken. "Soon it'll be your turn."

The Queen smothered a smile by pressing a kiss to the sleeping baby's head, handing her back to her mother. They shared a look, the Queen and her friend, and though neither said another word about it, they both noticed Elia watching. Elia snatched up her work again when the Queen met her eye, her fingers shaking so badly that she very nearly stabbed herself with a pin, and when the Queen bit her lip to hide yet another chuckle Elia felt at once relieved and annoyed.

"Will you go home again on your next free day?" she asked and Elia set her work down again. The words came slowly, as if they did not want to be said at all, and she fought to keep the shake out of her voice.

"If it pleases Your Grace."

The Queen laughed.

"It's what pleases you that concerns me," she said. "Would you like to return?"

"Yes," she lied.

"Well then." Behind the Queen, Elia saw Mirri's narrowed eyes again as she took in this sudden display of interest from their mistress. "It's settled then."

"My family has asked for me to return, Your Grace," said Elia. "My mother misses her girls, you see…"

The Queen's companion kissed her own baby daughter, as if to remind her that she, too, would be missed.

"Of course she does," said the Queen softly before she sighed, resting her hand on Elia's arm. "Of course they want you back… you're all still so young, and so long away from home."

"Yes…"

"Return as often as you can, honey. This last trip home seems to have done you good. You seem so settled since you've returned and if you're happy to go, then I'm happy to allow it."

This made Elia's stomach clench but she only smiled that sweet, placid courtier's smile as she nodded her thanks, refusing to meet Mirri's eye as she watched this interaction with quiet, nosy relish.

And so, three days later, at the very cusp of twilight, Elia tripped out into the yard again to find her brother waiting, his face dark and scrutinizing as she came skittering through the gate.

"Come," he said, tossing her bag over his shoulder. "Walk. Quickly."

Elia had to jog to keep up with his long, hasty strides.

"Eran…"

"Walk, Elia."

"Eran!"

Her brother did not so much as glance back at her.

For ten full minutes Elia jogged, chasing after her brother through the streets of City West. People in the market, clearing out of Eran's way without so much as a word from him, stared in astonishment as he marched on ahead of her, leaving her to scramble behind in the dust from his boots. Carts, laden with goods and people, veered to the side as Eran pushed through. Twice Elia found herself tripping over a rut or a loose cobble and on one of those times she fell into the dirt, and though this, at least, earned her a quick glance back, Eran still did not stop even when the boy at the butcher's stall came over to help her up.

"Eran please!"

"Keep up," he said at once. "Don't dally, Elia. We've not got the time."

"Don't go so fast," she begged, grabbing at a stitch in her side. "Eran please… slow down."

Her brother slowed, but only just, and Elia was gasping by the time she caught him, not at all used to the terse impatience she saw written on his face.

"What?" she asked, and he only scowled at her. "What's wrong?"

"You're slow, that's what's wrong."

"I'm not…"

"Father said to be back by nightfall. It's twenty minutes past."

"I had to help with the trunks…"

"It doesn't matter."

"It's not my fault, Eran."

"And it's not mine either, yet I'll be the one to hear about it. We can't dally, Elia. Uncle is waiting."

At once, Elia felt her heart hammer.

"Uncle?"

"Arrived this afternoon," said Eran. He was walking again, and she had no choice but to follow. "In a temper, as always…"

"Why?"

"Who the hell knows?" groused Eran. "Uncle is always angry with someone. I'd hoped to avoid it being me, but there's little hope of that now."

They turned the corner onto their father's street and their house, alight with hearths and lamps, cast an orange glow on the cobbles. The street urchins, huddled together by the warehouses, whispered as they passed. Eran continued to rush, grabbing Elia's hand when she stumbled and nearly fell again and he half dragged her to her father's front door where he deposited her, without much pomp, into the entranceway. The maid, Milli, stood waiting for her, and she immediately began to untie the laces of her cloak.

"Your father has asked for you, Miss," she said, and before Elia could say so much as hello, she'd been relieved of her hood. "He's in his study, Miss. With your Uncle."

"Milli…"

"He'll be cross, Miss, if you don't go." Milli's hands were trembling as she took the bag from Eran. "There's already been words…"

Elia's legs began to tremble, though she tried her best to hold her chin up.

"Thank you…"

"He's just through, Miss. At his desk."

"Go, Elia," said Eran, dismissing Milli with a wave of his hand. The maid, almost as frightened of Eran as she was of Papa, curtsied and scrambled away. "Don't keep him waiting any longer than you have to."

In the hallway to the study, Elia could see by the glow of her father's hearth that the door was open. Beyond, she could hear an exchange of voices— one unmistakably her father's, but the other more testy, and noisier. The sound made her heart hammer and her hands felt clammy as she wiped them on her skirt, but before she could steel herself to take those last, few steps, she heard Eran's angry huff behind her and his hand, hard and unyielding, gripping her arm.

"Ow!"

"Get in there," he snapped. "Don't be such a little fool…"

Her father, hearing the tail end of this insult, watched as Eran pushed Elia through the door, making her stumble when he gave her one, last little shove. He closed the door behind her, locking himself out in the hallway as Elia, her heart in her throat, turned instead to face the fire.

"You're late."

"I'm sorry…"

"Sit down, Elia."

As she had the last time she was here, Elia deposited herself in the familiar, cushioned chair, picking at the cuticle that had already begun to bleed.

"What kept you?"

"The trunks," said Elia. "We had to help Marta."

Father grunted, sitting back in his seat. As he had last time, Elia saw her father looking her over from head to foot, almost as if he expected to find something changed, something new. She wore the same dress as she had the week before, the same scuffed, mud-stained shoes, and although she fiddled with the ribbon that held her braid in place, which was a new addition, she doubted very much whether her father had taken any notice of it.

It was the presence at her back, which she could feel like a prickle down her spine, that set her teeth on edge.

Behind her, just visible in her periphery, Elia could see her Uncle, his gaze fixed on her like a dog on a deer. She did not know what Uncle knew— whether or not he realized that Elia had seen his disgrace, his public humiliation and shame— but it seemed to hardly matter at all. Whether he knew it or not, he was already peeved and Elia, having grown up in her Uncle's shadow, felt a new coldness despite the raging heat of the nighttime fire.

Neither man spoke as they watched her, half-expectant, half-derisive, and only when Father sat forward again, his elbows on the desk, did Elia force herself to speak.

"What do you want from me this time, Father?" she asked, and her father chuckled dryly. "I've done as you asked…"

"Have you?"

"Yes."

"Then you already know what I want," he said. "I asked you to watch, and if you've done that, you'll have news for me, I expect."

"I have watched…"

"Then tell."

And so Elia did.

She told of how the Queen had cried when the King had left, how she'd found them in the wee smalls before anyone else was up, sharing a moment by the fire. She told of how the Prince had sat in his brother's stead on the Council, which had met to discuss the West. She told how the Queen had listened to petitions, mediated petty squabbles over gardens and flocks, how she'd read— by the Gods, how she'd read— about everything from weather patterns, to the courts, to fantastical myths of sea nymphs off the northern coast…

"I don't care about banalities," said Uncle, cutting Elia short just as she'd begun to enumerate the many types of knitting stitches each of the girls had picked up over the week. "Nobody gives a damn about women's crafts."

Elia turned her head, frowning at her Uncle.

"Papa asked me to watch."

"Yes…"

"So that's what I saw."

The tone of her voice bordered very closely on rudeness and her Uncle, sensing her defiance, took a menacing step forward.

"Mihaelo…"

"Do not talk back to me you little slut," spat Uncle and Elia, shocked, felt her mouth snap shut. "You know damn well what your father was asking of you."

Papa, rising from his seat, shot his brother a warning glare.

"Need I remind you, brother, that you are in my house now. You'll not disrespect my daughter."

"Your daughter—"

"Has done as she's been told," snapped Papa. "It's not her fault if there's nothing to report."

Elia, beyond perplexed by this sudden turn of events, simply fell silent, staring so intently at the rug that she thought it might catch fire.

"You can't honestly tell me that the Queen does nothing?" Uncle shouted. "That there is nothing to report? No visitors? No words?"

"Elia?"

"She sees the healer," Elia said, but her voice had gone thin. "And his wife. The Prince too, now that the King is away. And the lady, Papa, just as before…"

"That goddamned Western whore!" spat Uncle through his teeth. "I'll never understand it, Tyros… never."

But the word Western, spat with such vehemence, was what made Elia freeze.

"Our concern is not the woman," said Papa, trying to soothe his brother's temper. "I care not one whit for that girl or her children."

"If the King had any sense, he'd ship her back at once. Look at all it's caused… we're on the brink of a bloody war because of her!"

"Mihaelo…"

"What does the Queen say of her home?" demanded Uncle and before Elia could answer, he was there, before her. He towered over her chair, blotting out all of Papa with his great, imposing bulk and Elia, leaning back to avoid his clenched fists, could only shake her head.

"She says nothing…"

"Of her family?"

"No!"

"Did she tell you where she came from?" demanded Uncle. "Did she tell you what her aim is?"

"She loves the King…"

Uncle spat onto the rug and Papa, growling, rose to his feet.

"You have the manners of a pig, Mihaelo," he said disgustedly. "You might be a disgraced man, but there's no need to behave like one."

Uncle, still fixed on Elia, ignored him.

"She is a Western whore," said Uncle and this time, Papa shoved Uncle away from her. Elia felt her throat tighten. "Of that, I am sure…"

"Control yourself, Mihaelo, or get out," Papa said, finally losing his patience. "You come into my home, abuse my staff, sully my carpet, intimidate my daughter…"

But Uncle, neither listening nor heeding Papa's words, went on with reckless abandon.

"I will not sit idle while our kingdom is pulled apart, Tyros," said Uncle. "I won't do it! Not then, and certainly not now. If the King wants to hate me for it, then let him. He's a fool anyways."

Elia, eyes wide, simply glanced over at her Papa to see how he would take this insult.

"Mind your tongue…"

"I will not!" Uncle bellowed like a wounded boar. "Our King is in bed with the enemy and what… we're to do nothing?"

"We do not know that she is of the West…"

"Where else could she be from, if not the West?" Uncle spat. "You see it yourself, Tyros. She confides in that Western bastard's bitch as if they were born sisters. No one from this side of the mountains would have the gall…"

"The Commander himself told the tale of her discovery on the beach… there's no way the Westerners could've taken her past the Watchtower, if she was a plant."

"The Commander is the King's trained pup," spat Uncle. "His father, perhaps not. But the son? Nothing more than a trained lackey who jumps at the King's every command."

This time, Papa laughed.

"We're all monkeys trained to do the King's bidding, Mihaelo. Whether we like it or not."

"Not I…"

"You more than anyone."

Uncle cracked his knuckles and began to pace.

"Emmett is as useless as a girl," Uncle said derisively, once he'd found his voice again. To Elia's relief, he was no longer shouting. "Just as besotted, too…"

"Emmett is amassing the largest army this Kingdom has ever seen, brother. And you know very well who has paid for it."

Uncle, shaking his head, chose to ignore this.

"My daughter is an honest child," said Papa as Uncle began to slow, resting his arms atop the mantle with a deep and heavy sigh. "She may not be the brightest of my girls, but she is good and truthful."

This barb bit deep and Elia, feeling the prick of tears one final time, turned her face away before her father could see. Elia was not stupid— not by a long shot— and though she loved her Papa, she felt a sudden surge of resentment. How could he, this man who hardly knew her, have any opinion whatsoever on her cleverness or her wit? How could he say that she was not bright— he, who had never even bothered to hold half a conversation with her? She knew that her father preferred her brothers— it was why Mama had spent so much time and effort coddling Elia and her sisters— but to hear him say it so plain and so clear made Elia wonder if this task he'd set her was worth the effort after all. When she sniffed he turned to her, though he said not a word of comfort, and when he spoke again it was not to her, but to Uncle.

"She would not tell an untruth," he finished. "Not to me, anyhow."

Uncle stared at her again, seeming torn between disgust and disappointment.

"There has to be something."

"There isn't."

"She has secrets, just like the rest of us."

"I'm sure she does," agreed Papa, "but evidently none are terrible enough to make it back to you."

"Our family has been here since the dawn of time," Uncle spat and Papa, deciding not to interrupt, let him rant. "We are descended from the original family, Tyros…"

"I know."

"And that scheming little Western slut," he spat, "has undone us."

Elia did not dare voice her own opinion on the matter. She had heard Uncle rant before. She'd seen his violence. She'd seen how he'd struck the Queen, hard enough to split her cheek, and how frenzied he'd been when he'd done it, like a half-mad cat… perhaps it was not the Queen that had undone them. Perhaps, Elia thought, it was him.

"She is not of the West, Mihaelo…"

"Oh not you too," Uncle snapped. "You can't possibly think that she is a god."

"No," he agreed. "No, I don't…"

"She's not," Elia said. "She's just a woman."

Uncle laughed, shaking his head.

"Just a woman," he repeated. "If it were up to me, I'd hang the lot of you."

"Mihaelo!"

Uncle spat again.

"Don't scold me, little brother," Uncle warned. "Don't you dare. Not here, in our father's house…"

"You are in my house, I'll remind you again," said Papa coldly. "You've no right to act a fool in here."

"I am angry!"

"Aye, and well we know it. But we've done what you asked, Mihaelo. There is nothing more for me to do."

Uncle rounded on Elia instead.

"You do not watch carefully enough," he accused. "Have you read her letters?"

Elia balked.

"She's not a spymaster, brother."

"We need her to be."

"You need her to be,"Papa corrected. "I'll remind you that my family has risked more than enough, I think, on your whims."

"It's not a whim."

"Agree to disagree, then."

Uncle began to pace again.

"Which men does she see?" he asked and Elia sighed, reciting the names again. "Not the family, girl. What about soldiers?"

"None," said Elia. "Only her own guards, and even then…"

"Even then, what?"

"Even then, just to give direction," said Elia. "They do not dine with us. They do not linger."

"Who else?"

"The Healer…"

"Does she see him alone?"

"His wife is always there."

Uncle grunted.

"The Commander?"

"Not since he left," Elia said. "I haven't seen him in weeks."

"He's been East," said Papa. "Recruiting."

Uncle swore again, but the questions seemed to run out. It was a long moment of that quiet— a long, fraught moment as Uncle scrambled for more questions to throw at her and as she waited with bated breath, to catch them as best she could. She thought on all that she had seen that week— all the mundane, familiar routines of her boring court life— and she wondered just what it was that her Uncle was looking for, what misstep or dishonour he thought that he would find.

When Uncle spoke again, Elia did not know what to say.

"When did she last bleed?" he demanded and Papa, scowling, turned away from his brother. "The Queen… when was her last cycle?"

"I…"

"It is your job to change the sheets, is it not?" he demanded. "In her rooms?"

"The laundry maids do it," Elia said quickly. "She stays with the King, most nights…"

"Her dresses, then," Uncle said. "Her… rags."

But Elia, having no clue what he meant, simply stared blankly at him.

"Surely you…" Uncle turned to Papa instead, who refused to meet his eye. "Tyros, surely she is old enough to know?"

"I know nothing of it," snapped Papa. "Speak to her mother, Mihaelo. Not me. I've no clue what my wife has told her."

"Do you mean to tell me," Uncle said, turning back to Elia with an astonished disbelief. "That the woman hasn't bled?"

"The Queen isn't injured," said Elia slowly though she knew without being told that this was not what her Uncle wanted to know. "She doesn't bleed, Uncle…"

Uncle sighed, shaking his head.

"It is done, then," he said, and when her father rose Elia jumped, feeling quite on edge. "She's caught him for good, Tyros. There's nothing for it now."

"I don't think there ever was," said Papa.

"I don't understand."

Both heads turned to her.

"Little fool," said Papa again but this time, it was Uncle who laughed. "You naive, little fool, Elia. Get up."

Elia rose from her chair.

"You are dismissed," he said, and Elia dipped a quick curtsey, ducking her head to hide her confusion. "Ask no more of me tonight… if you don't understand, then you can blame your mother for that. Go and ask her."

"The Queen isn't hurt, Papa…"

"Go, Elia," sighed Father as Uncle, glaring into the flames, began to gulp his cup of warm, spiced ale. "Off with you, little girl. Continue to listen and watch. I'll expect another report next week."

But as he closed the door in Elia's face, leaving her alone and cold in the dark, abandoned hall, Elia stood perplexed, her mind racing as she tried to puzzle out just what her father had said.

A/N: Thanks for being so patient with me... it really does mean the world. I've said it before, but none of my stories have been abandoned. All of them will be completed, in due course.

This chapter was a bit of a change for me, and I think I kind of liked it. I wasn't sure how it would go, trying to write an OC, but I feel like a different perspective might be just what we need to keep the story moving forward. As always, let me know what you think. I love hearing everyone's opinions!