Mila

The night is very late, but Vera decides when the world goes to sleep. The sweet smell of damp earth clings to the castle walls, seeping in through every crack and crevice, curling around me like a veil as I follow her through serpentine corridors.

Her heels click sharply against the stone while I trail behind her in near silence, my steps soft, almost as if the shadows themselves are swallowing them. I glance at the dark windows as we pass, the glass reflecting our forms like ghosts.

“Keep up, Mila,” Vera snaps. She doesn’t slow her pace, and I quicken my steps, though I’m not sure why I even bother. We both know where we’re headed—the sewing room, where the seamstress waits, needle in hand, thread ready to bind me to another sleepless night of watching her be fitted, adorned, worshiped.

The sewing room is bright, too bright. A dozen candles burn high on silver candelabras, casting long shadows that flicker across the room’s cluttered walls.

Bolts of silk and velvet are strewn across the floor, draped over chairs and tables like discarded lovers. The seamstress stands ready, her head bowed slightly, hands clasped in front of her.

Vera wastes no time. She strides to the center of the room, throwing her cloak onto a nearby chair with the kind of ease that only she can manage.

“Make it quick,” Vera says, narrowing her eyes at the seamstress.

I perch on the edge of a nearby chair, folding my hands in my lap, trying to blend into the background. The fabric beneath me is cool, the embroidery of the cushion scratching lightly against the back of my legs through the thin layers of my gown.

The seamstress approaches Vera with a reverence that borders on worship, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unfurl the measuring tape. “Stand still, Your Highness,” she murmurs, though there’s no need to say it. Vera always stands still. She is a statue—beautiful, cold, immovable.

I watch in silence as the seamstress begins her work, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.

Vera tilts her head toward me slowly, as if she is tightening a noose. “You should be grateful for this, Mila. Watching me will teach you something about grace. If you’re lucky, you might learn how to carry yourself like a proper princess.”

A proper princess. The words slither across the room, wrapping themselves around my throat.

I let a small smile slip onto my lips—too small for her to catch, but it’s there all the same. “Of course, Vera. I’m always learning from you.”

She doesn’t notice the edge in my voice, too absorbed in herself as the seamstress takes her measurements. The fabric drapes over her body like water, pooling at her feet.

Each time the seamstress pins a fold, Vera inspects it with the keen eye of a critic, finding fault where there is none. “Don’t pull it so tight,” comes the order in a honeyed voice that’s sharp enough to sting. “I need to breathe. Even you should know that.”

I suppress a long-suffering sigh, my eyes wandering to the shelves lining the walls, filled with rolls of cloth—silks, velvets, brocades, each one more luxurious than the last. My gaze lands on the last bolt of cloth—a simple, pale blue silk, nothing compared to the rich emerald and gold draped over Vera.

Still, there’s something about it that draws me in, the way the light catches on its surface, turning it into a river of moonlight.

Vera must be following my gaze, as she lets out a soft laugh. “That one?” She gestures to the bolt with a flick of her wrist. “I suppose you can have it. It’s not as though I’ll need it.”

I blink, caught off guard by her sudden generosity.

“Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s very. . . gracious of you.”

She smirks, turning her attention back to the mirror. “Of course it is. I’m nothing if not generous.”

The seamstress pauses for a moment, glancing at me from the corner of her eye, a flicker of empathy in her gaze. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the careful neutrality of someone who knows their place.

Honestly, I don’t blame her. She probably wants to finish and go to bed–and so do I.

Once we are done, Vera decides she needs to eat before we all retire for the night—although it is so late one could almost say it is early morning. I follow her to our dining hall, where supper is served.

The table, a gleaming expanse of dark oak, is laden with silver dishes and crystal goblets. The scent of roasted meats and baked breads mingles in the air, along with the perfume of rosemary and thyme.

A royal feast for three: Vera, Gisele—who has taken care of us since Mama and Papa passed—and me.

Vera, of course, sits at the head of the table. She commands the room even in her silence, pulling everyone and everything into the realm of her influence.

She has always sat there, even when we were younger, as though it was her birthright. When Mama and Papa were alive, they let her do it just for the sake of peace–she’d throw a fit the moment anyone else dared take her place.

Her dark hair gleams in the candlelight, her lips painted the same deep crimson as the wine in her goblet. The quiet between us stretches, the crackling in the hearth the only sound beyond the occasional clink of silverware.

Gisele sits beside me, her face soft but distant, her eyes lost somewhere far from this room. The lines around her mouth and eyes are deeper tonight, etched in worry, though I don’t know why.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye, trying to catch her expression without staring, but she’s difficult to read. As always, she is an enigma—a godmother, a seer, a presence in our lives as constant as the turning of the seasons, but never quite clear.

Her hands rest in her lap, fingers curled slightly, as though she’s holding something fragile. Her gaze shifts to Vera, then to me, and for the briefest moment, I see something in her eyes. Something like fear.

“This lamb is overcooked,” Vera announces, pushing her plate away. She lifts her goblet, taking a slow sip, as if the meal has personally insulted her.

A servant, hovering at the edge of the room, steps forward to clear Vera’s plate. Her hands tremble slightly, and I can see the sheen of sweat on her brow as she leans over the table, her movements hurried.

The edge of the plate catches on the tablecloth, and suddenly, a cascade of wine spills across the pristine white fabric, pooling in deep crimson against the folds.

For a moment, the room is frozen in silence. The servant’s eyes widen in horror, her mouth opening in a silent plea for mercy. The wine drips, slow and deliberate, onto the floor.

Vera rises to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Her expression hardens into something cold and dangerous. “What is wrong with you?” she hisses, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Do you have any idea how expensive that wine was? How utterly careless can you be?”

The servant stammers, her face paling as she desperately reaches for a cloth to mop up the mess. “I—I’m sorry, Your Highness, it was an accident, I didn’t mean—”

“An accident?” Vera’s laughter is like needles. “Do you think I care about your excuses? Do you think anyone does? Get out. Now. Before I dismiss you. Permanently.”

The woman’s hands are shaking as she gathers the soiled cloth and retreats, her head bowed, barely holding back tears. The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving the room steeped in a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

A quick breath from Gisele draws my attention to her. Her hands are still in her lap. There’s tension in her posture, a tightness in her shoulders, as if she’s holding back something important. Her lips press into a thin line, but she says nothing.

I swallow, my heart tight in my chest. “Vera. . .” I begin softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to be so harsh.”

Vera’s eyes snap to mine, her expression one of incredulous amusement. “Oh, really? And what would you have done, Mila? Let her get away with it? Let her ruin everything?” Her tone is mocking, like a cat playing with a mouse.

I meet her gaze. “She’s just a servant. She made a mistake, that’s all. She didn’t mean any harm.”

Vera narrows her eyes, her lips curving into a smirk. “Of course you’d say that. You always want to defend them. But you don’t understand, do you? They’re beneath us, Mila. They’re here to serve us, not the other way around. If they can’t do their jobs properly, they don’t deserve to be here.”

Gisele shifts slightly beside me, her brow furrowing. I can feel her watching Vera closely, but she remains silent.

I glance at Gisele again, hoping she’ll intervene, say something, anything, but she doesn’t. Instead, her eyes meet mine, and I see it—that flicker of dread. She looks away quickly, her fingers twitching in her lap as if she’s trying to grasp something that’s slipping through her hands.

The silence stretches on, and I look back at Vera. “You can be kind, you know,” I say quietly. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

Vera’s laughter is soft this time, almost pitying. “Kindness is for the weak, Mila. You should learn that before it’s too late.”

She sits back down, picking up her goblet and sipping from it as though nothing has happened.

I want to argue, to push back, but the words die in my throat. Instead, I glance once more at Gisele, who stares down at her plate. Whatever she sees in Vera, she’s keeping it close, hidden beneath layers of silence and secrets.

But I know one thing. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.