4.

When Genya Safin wakes, the first thing she becomes aware of is not the soft cotton sheets (though whether they were Fjerdan, Shu, or Ravkan peaked her curiosity last night,) or the spring sun streaming through the tall glass window, or the unfamiliar largeness of the room around her, or even the breathtaking height of the domed ceiling.

The first real thought that arises, even before she opens her eyes, is the raw, aching absence of her mother's breathing in the next room.

Her second thought is that the satin pillowcase is damp, though she doesn't remember crying. The tears must have slipped out in her sleep, then. Maybe she'll have run out of them in time for training with Baghra. Maybe then failure won't hurt as much, if she can only hold her chin high.

But this morning, like a miracle, they don't send her to Baghra.

One after another, the servants arrive at her chamber. They don't even bother to knock, and there's no lock on the door, so it's all Genya can do to hope her eyes aren't red from the crying and her hair isn't ruined from the night. The servants say very little to her, thankfully - they are dressed simply, when they speak it is in gentle tones, and for all practical purposes they are identical, save for their names, and Genya doesn't know what they are.

They lead her to an opulent bath that looks to her like a swimming pool, and for the first time, she washes with expensive soap, sweet-smelling shampoo that reminds her of a meadow, a limitless supply of blissfully warm water. For the first time since leaving Caryeva, Genya considers, I could get used to being Grisha.

If only I knew what sort of Grisha I'm supposed to be.

When she (reluctantly) steps out of the bath, she is given a simple robe for the sake of temporary modesty - and then it begins. The servants make her sit still for a small eternity, applying cosmetics, curling her hair into elegant waves, making her amber eyes shine like jewels in her young, young face. A small, childish part of Genya resents how long this takes, and she begins to fidget. Another part that she thinks far older, (though perhaps it is equally childish,) drinks it in because it means she is becoming beautiful.

One question lingers like an uncertain scent in the air. Why?

"Where are we going?" Genya asks. No answer; it's as if she hasn't spoken. A servant gives her hair a sharp tug, and she has to fight back a wince. "Why do I have to look so pretty?" she adds, not that she minds looking pretty.

When the servants tell her that she is to meet the Queen, she doesn't believe them. Not when she looks into the mirror and sees a cherubic stranger's face. Not when one of the servants all but flies from the chamber to retrieve something for her to wear. Not when the servant returns with a child-sized kefta the color of winter - untouched white, pure ethereal innocence - and the intricate embroidery at the cuffs glistens gold.

Genya traces the gold thread with her fingertip, amazed. "Why white and gold?" she asks the nearest servant, curious.

"What?"

"What Grisha wears white? What kind of Grisha am I?"

The servant smiles, a smile so achingly similar to that of Genya's mother that Genya feels it in her gut. "A very special kind of Grisha, child," the servant says before hurrying her out the door.

Genya bridles at the indignity of being dragged along as if by a leash. "Where are we -"

"There's no time, child," says the servant as she hurries through the maze of lavish corridors. "Moya tsaritsa does not like to be kept waiting."

She means the Queen. Genya Safin takes a deep breath. All Saints... I'm going to meet the Queen.

From then on, the day passes in a blur.

A child does not know when she has become a trite gift, a placid doll, something to be dressed in pretty clothes and paraded about like a royal puppy. A child, told she is special, does not know that special is merely another word for different. A child does not understand, when she babbles to the other Grisha children of the Queen's delicacies that she is so priveleged to share, why the children look at her and whisper, "Rawga," before turning away.

Rawga. It is the Ravkan word for servant.

A child does not see the foolishness of belonging to a Queen, in that she will forever belong nowhere else, and someday, she will also belong to the King.

A child does not notice when the King's eye, instead of admiring his wife, wanders absently to the long-legged, flaxen-haired servant that escorted Genya to the throne room. A child cannot understand the acute pain that flickers across the Queen's face and is gone.

"Pretty thing," the Queen breathes, marveling at Genya's unique kefta. "It suits you, child."

Boldly, wondering where her courage was coming from, Genya says, "It's Genya Safin, moya tsaritsa."

"Genya Safin." The Queen smiles. "I hope we will be friends, Genya. Would you like that?"

Without thinking, without knowing, Genya nods and says, "Yes."

Because she is five years old. Because she wants to be a beautiful princess in a beautiful palace with a beautiful place to belong. Because she is a child.

Because only when she undresses that night does a child realize, with a strange, vicious twist of doubt, that the royal servants also wear white and gold.

A/N: I'm not entirely sure how old Genya is in S&B and S&S, so I'm going to take a leap of faith and put her somewhere between fifteen and seventeen in the next chapter; I haven't decided yet. I'll be leaping forward to an older Genya in chapter five, seeing as there's nothing else particularly critical to cover in her childhood. The situation between Genya and the King will be addressed, but rest assured, it will not be overly graphic. This story is firmly rated T; I intend to keep it that way. That doesn't change the fact, however, that the King used Genya, and that's an important part of who she turns out to be in the end, because it's the first thing, I think, that really broke her.

Also, the Ravkan word I invented - Rawga - isn't completely random. My Russian Google search yielded that sluga meant servant, while rawb meant slave. Combining them (clumsy, I know, but I don't speak Russian!) resulted in the word Rawga. I liked the idea that it could imply servant or slave, because Genya sometimes feels like both, I think.

Thank you for reading!

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