“Today,” Amalia said the next day, as they were meeting in the garden, “I’ll teach you how to fall.”

Euphemie raised an eyebrow. “I thought the point of a fight was to win.”

“The point of a fight is to survive,” Amalia informed her. “Now come closer. I'll demonstrate.”

Euphemie approached, arms crossed. “Shall I push you?”

“Go ahead,” Amalia said. When Euphemie’s hand pressed against her shoulder, the taller woman crumpled at the slight touch and fell to the ground. Afterward, she sat up. “What did you see?”

“You protected yourself with your hands,” Euphemie observed.

“I also controlled my fall,” Amalia said, and began to instruct Euphemie on how to do the same. Over the course of the afternoon, she learned how to position her legs, her arms, so that her fall might be controlled. They practiced the motions together, slipping into the grass step by step, glimpsing the blue sky above. Amalia was gentle the whole afternoon, and never touched Euphemie without first asking.

When the work was done, they took a break for afternoon tea. Euphemie had half a mind to insist the two of them both dress up, but neither had anything suitable to wear. Instead, they sat together at the little table, a tiered tray of pastries and a warm teapot between them.

Amalia poured the tea for them both.

“You did well today,” she said, staring into the surface of her cup. “Please continue to practice falling safely while I'm gone.”

“I will look ridiculous,” Euphemie said.

“Better ridiculous than dead,” Amalia replied.

“You speak as though I'm going to war.”

“You never know when self-defense may come in handy,” Amalia said. “It is my hope this helps you feel safe around me.”

“But I do feel safe around you,” lied Euphemie, sipping her tea.

Lady Amalia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. What may I do to prove myself?”

“Am I some fairy maiden now? You wish for tasks? Shall I tell you a riddle?” Euphemie was unable to stop a wry quirk from appearing on her lips.

“I want you to burden me,” Amalia repeated. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her stare grave. Euphemie swallowed the urge to fidget beneath it. 

“Fine. I would like a tea dress,” she clipped. “I've had enough of your hand-me-down clothes.”

Amalia nodded obediently. “I shall have one made, and bring it to you when you return. What color would you like it to be? What style?”

“Since when did you know such things?” Euphemie asked. 

“Since I was young and trying to pass for a normal girl,” Amalia said. “I have since given up, but there is much I remember.”

Euphemie moved to sip her tea. It occurred to her, as she lifted the cup from the it's place and brought it to her lips, as she smelled the tea’s floral aroma, as she tasted its warmth on her tongue, and as she placed her teacup back on the saucer, that there was very little she knew about Lady Amalia.

There had been rumor, of course, transforming her into a creature made of superlatives and stories; the Lioness of the North, most fierce of women. General of generals, the emperor’s sword, the strongest woman in the Holy Empire. 

Hero of the Lavendian War.

Euphemie ought to be more upset by that, but what did any of it matter? The Kingdom of Lavender was gone from the world, absorbed into the Holy Empire. And Euphemie had gone with it, excising the lavendian peasant she once had been and fixing in her place the hollow performance of an imperial noblewoman. Euphemie was naught but artifice. 

Now, there was something interesting about Lady Amalia; she bothered with no such mask. It seemed she had tried to act as an imperial noblewoman, failed, and simply been herself instead. How refreshing.

In truth, Euphemie had seen her just once before their faithful meeting, at a some party or the other. Amalia had been standing in one corner, her shoulders hunched, her cloak hiding what Euphemie understood now to be a towering stature. 

Euphemie had been leaning upon Prince Leopold amongst a gaggle of gossiping nobility, fanning herself and smirking where required. Her little group had caught sight of Amalia and torn her apart:

Was not the Lady Mondlicht a beast? Did she not hulk over the other noblewomen? Why, she could scarcely be called a woman at all, let alone an imperial one. Perhaps if they removed her gloves, they might find claws underneath. And just look at that horrible scar on her face! How could Mondlicht even be part of the empire,  if it produced such barbarians? Clearly more work ‘civilizing’ was needed.

Leopold had leaned close to whisper in Euphemie’s ear, then. “Be careful she does not learn you are Lavendian, my pet. She might kill you just for old time’s sake.”

Euphemie had swallowed then, and avoided any party to which Lady Amalia had been invited.

Frowning as she remembered it now, Euphemie sighed. 

“When you go to tea,” she began, “do not try to hide yourself. They already think you too much, so do not constrict yourself for their sake.”

Lady Amalia frowned at her. “I do not try to hide.”

“I am certain you do,” remarked Euphemie, fiddling with her teacup. 

“I know the imperial court finds me... jarring,” Amalia admitted. “I do not wish to scare anyone.”

Euphemie scowled. They should be scared, she thought. Yet she could not bring herself to utter such treacherous words aloud.

“The imperial court is full of gossip,” Euphemie said instead, lifting her teacup to her lips. “They will call you a beast no matter what you do. You mustn't let them mold you.”

Amalia blinked at her, slow and thoughtful. Euphemie had the distinct feeling that the other woman was looking beneath her skin, beyond the bone and sinew, to the heart that beat there.

“But you did,” Amalia murmured. 

Euphemie dropped her teacup; it smashed upon the garden table, spilling its contents across her lap. 

“You are not their slave,” she hissed, and drew herself to her feet. Here was where an apology was warranted, for the lost teacup, for the outburst. Euphemie gave Amalia neither. “You have no idea, the things I've done--”

“I know enough,” Amalia said. “Please understand, Lady Euphemie. Here, you do not have to be afraid. No one will ever hurt you.”

“Yet still I am at your mercy,” Euphemie hissed. Her hand flew to her dagger, but did not draw it.

“When I return from Lady Margaret’s,” Amalia said, slow and careful, as though she were comforting a frightened deer, “you will be a free woman, and a guest in Mondlicht.”

At the reminder, Euphemie shut her eyes. “It is so difficult to believe you, my Lady.”

“It is my intention regardless of if you do,” Amalia replied. “I hope I may pleasantly surprise you.”

A few days later, Euphemie watched from the upstairs window as Lady Amalia boarded a carriage and disappeared into the woods. Though she had schooled her face into a perfect portrait of passivity, her heart raced.

Would this truly be it? Would Euphemie be free? Just like that?

There had been a time with Lady Rosa when she thought such a thing possible.

My little Euphemie, Lady Rosa had whispered once, as they embraced in bed. I bought you to be my companion in all things. Does this please you?

Even now, Euphemie remembered the sweet lilt of her voice so clearly. At the time, she had thought Lady Rosa meant they would be equals, that Euphemie would be freed and would live with her darling savior forevermore. But the years passed and passed, and never did that precious day arrive.

And when finally Euphemie had asked for it, Lady Rosa had grown cruel and terrible. And... well. It had ended poorly.

Surely, she thought, Amalia would simply take Euphemie’s contract and keep it for herself. Surely Amalia had merely lied to Euphemie in order to placate her. It wasn't as though there was anything Euphemie would be able to do about it.

She thought of the knife, still tucked into one of her skirt pockets. Lady Rosa would never have dreamed of giving Euphemie such a thing.

Feeling a headache coming on, Euphemie ventured down to the kitchen. It occurred to her as she walked down the staircase, through the hall, and past the larder, all entirely unsupervised, that she had been given a greater degree of freedom than she ought to have been.

With Lady Rosa, she had never left the other woman’s side, unable to even dream of venturing anywhere without her. And why would she have, she had thought at the time, when Lady Rosa was so sweet, so kind, loved her so much? 

Prince Leopold had often gone off somewhere, but he had made certain there had always been a maid, watching. Waiting to see what she did, what she said. All under the guise of treating her like a queen ought to be.

But here in Mondlicht, Euphemie was alone.