A Bird In A Gilded Cage

She knelt behind the log, the battered rifle heavy in her hand. It had been her grandfather's, Kirill teaching her so long ago how to use it. Eyes wide, she watched the wolf lope across the snow, its fur gleaming silver in the moonlight. She was the depths of a lake in winter. Nothing stirred her surface. Yet the hairs stood up on the back of her neck regardless, dread dragging its fingers down her spine. As the fear swept through her, the wolf suddenly raised its head, its wild quartz grey gaze finding hers –

Lillianna shot upright, chest heaving, breath ragged. She glanced wildly around her, the smell of pine sharp in the air, only to see red velvet hangings and oaken posts instead of skeletal trees. Her fingers gripped silk sheets instead of snow. She collapsed back against the lace-trimmed pillows, closing her eyes again. It had been a dream, only a dream. But as she told herself this, something flickered strangely between her eyelids, like something darting past a darkened doorway. Alarmed, she sat up again, clutching the bed-clothes to her chin, the shadows seeming to shift around her -

Then there was a loud crash, making Lillianna lose her head completely. "Who goes there!?" she screamed, bursting through the bed hangings, only to see a terrified young girl on her knees in front of the vast fireplace. Pinecones and kindling lay scattered across the polished stone floor from where she'd just dropped them, a wicker basket lying on its side beside her.

"What is all the commotion for?" Varvara exclaimed as she swept through the doorway, drawing her wrapper around her as she moved, her auburn curls falling down her back, making her look grotesquely girlish. Her own apartments led off from Lillianna's, connected by a series of sweeping arches, and whilst suitably grand, they lacked the luxury Lillianna's chambers possessed, something Varvara had been swift to notice. "You girl," she fired at the servant, impatiently gesturing with her hand at the mess, "what is the meaning of this?"

"I – I – I dropped my basket, Madame."

"I'm not talking about that," Varvara snapped at the servant, making Lillianna flinch, "I want to know why you are not attending to the fires in my chambers first."

"M-m-m-adame, I" –

-"Saints, don't you know who I am, girl!?"

"Varvara Katukov?" a silken voice suggested from the doorway, making Varvara whirl around, startled. A beautiful girl, a few years older than Lillianna, stood there, her arms forming a cradle across her chest, nursing a bundle of shining white fur. She wore an ivory kefta with gold cuffs, marking her out as a Grisha servant, the first Lillianna had seen since her arrival. Long red hair rippled down to her waist, framing startling amber eyes, autumn's daughter in the flesh.

"And you are?" Varvara said coldly, arching an eyebrow. Grisha or not, this upstart was still a servant, and would be treated thus.

With a jerk of her head, the girl motioned for the otkazat'sya servant to leave, who did so gladly, her too large apron flapping as she fled. "I am Genya Safin," she then said, barely inclining her bright head, "or The Tailor."

"Then where were you last night?" Varvara demanded, nostrils flaring. "I was told you would be attending us upon our arrival."

"I am the Queen's Tailor."

"Apropos to what?"

"I am only at the royal family's disposal, Madame."

"You are at General Kirigan's."

"He made me a gift to the Queen, Madame," Genya reiterated, "which means I serve her above all others unless ordered otherwise."

"And General Kirigan ordered otherwise, girl."

"And I was ordered elsewhere last night, Madame."

"Who by?" Varvara scoffed. "The King!?"

"Yes... Madame."

At this, Varvara suddenly smiled strangely, a knowing light oddly entering her eyes. "I hoped you served His Highness well, then," she then said sweetly, startling Lillianna.

Genya looked at Varvara for a long moment. "On my knees, like a good subject," she then said demurely, too demurely, discomposing Varvara despite herself.

Recovering her wits, Varvara studied Genya, trying and failing to find the trick. "I want the fires in my chambers to be lit if not done so already," she then ordered abruptly, drawing herself to her full height, "and then I wish to speak to you in my solar – alone."

"As you so desire, Madame."

"I do desire it."

"And so it will be done."

Varvara glared at her before making to turn on her heel and leave, only to freeze. "What is this?" she demanded, making to pluck the pile of white fur out of Genya's arms.

Genya artlessly evaded her, going over to where Lillianna sat half crouched on the bed, eyes flung wide as the other girl approached her. "A… token of General Kirigan's regard," she said hesitantly, bowing her head as she presented his gift to Lillianna, who took it with some trepidation, letting the fabric slip through her shaking fingers.

As Genya stood there, Lillianna stared down at the gleaming luxurious fur spilled across her lap, feeling like she was going to throw up. In a fit of sudden pique, she had sent General Kirigan's peaches back to the kitchen last night, crystal bowl and all. As soon as it was done, she had regretted it. It had been done on childish impulse, Lillianna lashing out at a world that didn't care. Now she was reaping the whirlwind of what she had sown from her seeds of discontent.

"I asked what is that?" Varvara reiterated, coming over.

Against her will, Lillianna held it aloft, her heart sinking at the sight, what it meant. Know your place. "It's a shuba, Mother," she then said, voice cracking.

"There is no need to look so tragic, rebe," Varvara frowned, running a critical eye over the shuba, "a woman can never have too many furs, especially furs such as these. Maybe our dear General is not so oblivious to the issue of your trousseau after all." She touched the pelt with the tip of her finger, greed suddenly flaring in her gaze, and then it was gone. "You are a lucky girl, Lillianna," she then said, tossing her hair back, "I don't think you know how fortunate you are to have such a man dancing attendance upon you." Without a backwards glance, she then left the room, the sound of her heels fading into the distance.

Lillianna looked down at the shuba she still held, before suddenly letting it go, where it would have fallen to the floor if Genya hadn't caught it. "Where is my own shuba?" she demanded, sounding like a querulous child, hearing echoes of Varvara in her voice.

Genya took the shuba from her, eyebrows raised at her tone. "Heed the warning, solnyshko," she said quietly, "and learn fast. Do not be like your mother, blind to the dangers before you."

Lillianna bit her lip, fighting the fear and anger warring within her. She had left the estate in one of the Darkling's distinctive dark troikas, before meeting his own private equipage sent especially for their personal use, Lillianna wearing that damned shuba the whole way, flaunting her mother's folly for all to see. Yet… "I am not Grisha," she said slowly, finally voicing her own opinion rather than another's, "so therefore I assume I can wear any colour I please."

"Maybe so but not here, like this."

"And where is here exactly?"

"The Little Palace."

Lillianna stored away this sliver of information, before tilting her trembling chin. "Tell the Darkling I thank him for his generous gift," she then said through gritted teeth as she clambered off the bed, "but I can choose my own furs and peaches."

"Only his enemies call him the Darkling, solnyshko."

"Maybe that is what I am, then," Lillianna blurted out before she could stop herself, startling Genya. Then she turned and fled, escaping into the white and gold glory of her dressing room. But there was no freedom to be found there, Lillianna just a bird in a gilded cage. She was not the depths of a frozen lake after all. She was just a frightened girl who had been dealt a blow by an iron hand in a velvet glove.

And all because she had worn the colour of the sky.

Your mind is poisoned

Castles in the sky sit stranded, vandalized

The drawbridge is closing…