Chapter 2: Dancing for the Gallows

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The sun was blazing today. When the guards brought lunch, they tossed someone in. The light made everything look cleaner than it was, and then they threw a woman right through it.

"Mrs. Doyle, you’ve got a new one." Henry’s voice carried a grin I’d already grown to hate.

A woman in torn, dirty clothes landed hard on the marble tiles, not moving at all. The sound echoed through the room like dropped cutlery in a silent kitchen.

I rushed over to check if she was breathing—she was alive. Her chest rose, then stuttered, then finally steadied.

Guard Henry licked his lips and grinned, "Relax, she’s not dead. We know how far to go." He treated cruelty like it was his favorite sport.

I shot him a glare. "You’re getting bolder every day." It came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t care.

He handed me a warm roll and a bowl of stewed beef. "Relax, her whole family was convicted of treason. Even if she survives, they’re all exiled—no coming back from that." He said it like a weather forecast he was happy about.

When I didn’t move, he reluctantly handed over a silver coin, probably filched from the woman. "Take care of her, Mrs. Doyle." He always tried to buy silence with someone else’s money. It was a little palace tradition: guards would skim valuables from the condemned, passing a cut to staff like me in exchange for discretion—everyone pretending it was just the way things worked.

Only then did I take it. "Alright, but try to sin less next time." My voice had the same tired bite as always; we both knew he wouldn’t change.

I was the one in charge of new arrivals, of seeing to the bodies, of handling the aftermath. I didn’t feel guilty about taking the money. In a place like this, you learned the difference between guilt and survival.

I covered the woman with a rough wool blanket, slung her over my shoulder, and carried her straight to the west wing. My back ached, but that was the job—carry what no one else wanted.

The room was empty except for a single, naked bedframe. No mattress, no mercy.

I set her down and left. I needed water, cloth, the little things that made misery manageable.

When I came back with a basin of water, the bed was empty. My stomach dropped like a stone in a well.

Startled, I saw her clinging desperately to the window, trying to climb out. The window was barred, but she kept scrambling, like someone running through a nightmare.

I quickly pulled her down. She was terribly weak, her limbs powerless, still trembling and muttering, "No, no…" The words caught in her throat like burrs.

I ignored her, dipped a cloth in warm water, and began cleaning her. I’d learned to move steady and gentle, the way you do with colts and broken people.

I couldn’t control what happened outside the palace, but once a woman came in, I tried to make sure she left clean. It was all I could give—an old habit that felt like dignity.

Under my care, the woman gradually calmed down. I put a coarse cotton robe on her. She stared at me with wide, dazed eyes. "Attendants, a reward—" Her voice still carried the old music of command.

I gave her a slight smile. "Thank you, Your Ladyship." The words always cut both ways—respect and reminder.

She quieted, even managing a faint smile. It was the kind of smile you give to a memory.

Every woman sent here fell silent at those words. Titles can be bandages; they can be knives.

Because they’d all once been called "Your Ladyship." The posture was muscle memory, even after the fall.

But for various reasons, they’d fallen out of favor, demoted to commoners, banished to the West Wing, and their lives were essentially over. This wing was where endings pretended to be recoveries.

I never understood what power the word "Your Ladyship" held. Maybe it held everything they’d lost.

I was just a nobody in the West Wing, but at least I was still alive. Sometimes that felt like defiance; sometimes it felt like luck waiting to turn.

I was also the only one here who wasn’t crazy. Or maybe I just hid my madness better than most.

Maria only came back after I finished tidying up, sticking out her tongue playfully. "You finished everything already?" She had a smile that made you forgive more than you should.

I knew she’d purposely gone out to slack off at this hour, but I didn’t say a word—just split the roll and stewed beef with her. Sharing made the food taste less like bribes.

The leftover broth, I took to Lady Bennett, who’d been sent here last month. Broth felt kinder than words.

She probably had only a couple days left. When I entered, only her eyes had any life left. They were the last windows in a shuttered house.

She’d been flogged fifty times when she arrived, barely alive, and after waking to find herself demoted and banished, she never recovered. Some people break only once.

I soaked a dry bun in the broth and touched it to her lips. The bun softened and so did her mouth.

The taste of salt and spice made her stir. The barest spark reached out across the dark.

After tasting it, she seemed content, passing away quietly that night. The room felt lighter and lonelier afterward.

The next day, I cleaned her body and wheeled it to the burial grounds. The wheels squeaked like they knew the way too well. In this palace, burial—not cremation—was the custom, a ritual for the court’s dead even when the living had forgotten them.

Maria grinned, "Evelyn, you’ve got this down. I’m skipping." She made it sound casual, like we were ditching chores.

I nodded, ending the conversation. It was the kind of nod that closed doors.

She didn’t get a share of the silver, so naturally she didn’t want to help. The palace kept the economy of kindness cruel and tidy.

When I got back, the steward had already delivered food. Maria saved me two dry buns, which I gulped down with well water. Only then did it hit me—I’d forgotten the madwoman. Sometimes the mind protects itself by forgetting, until it can’t.

I soaked the bun crumbs in water and fed them to her, little by little. Small things go down easier.

She was awake now. Not only were her eyes beautiful, her features were delicate and lovely. Beauty lingers even when everything else slips away.

But she spoke in circles, sometimes sweetly, sometimes with gritted hatred. Her voice spun from sweet to venom with no place to land.

"Why can’t I be queen? If not for my father’s support—"

"You think you can come between the king and me, you lowly maid?"

"You may be queen, and I only the Royal Favorite, but you’re of humble birth. Don’t expect me to bow to you!" She fought with ghosts as if they were sitting right there.

She wailed at the empty air. Sound fills space differently when it’s talking to the past.

Maria nudged me. "Didn’t the Royal Favorite die of illness?" Her whisper was part gossip, part fear.

I snorted. "You actually believe her? Every woman sent here claims she and the king were madly in love. Someone even said she was about to become queen." The story always wears the same dress.

Low-ranking maids like us never saw the real mistresses—just kept our heads down and worked. The affairs of the highborn were far from our world. We were the ones who cleaned up the accents of their pain.

Maria slunk away, awkward. Her bravado always had a wick that burned out fast.

I washed the dishes and tidied up. When I finally finished, I realized the madwoman had stopped crying at some point. Silence can be louder than grief.

I peeked in. She stared at me, dazed. "What time is it? Is Andrew still waiting for me in the East Hall?" Her voice made the hall feel closer than it was.

Andrew—was that the king’s name? It sounded oddly modern, almost out of place in the old palace. I wondered if the court had always used such names, or if this was just another way the world changed around us.

I soothed her. "He’s gone. Go tomorrow." I lied the way you do when the truth is a blade.

She shook her head stubbornly. "He wouldn’t dare leave without me." Pride is heavy even when the body isn’t.

I thought for a moment. "If you fall asleep, you’ll see him." Dreams are the only rooms we can redecorate on command.

"Really?" Her doubt was a child’s hand reaching for a promised treat.

"Mm." I kept my voice soft and bland, the way warm water feels over aches.

She began to cry again. "She only lost a child, just a worthless brat. How could she compare to me?" The words were knives thrown backward. My stomach turned, but I let her clutch my hand, nails digging into my skin—a pain that said, remember me.

Forget it. Why bother arguing with a madwoman? She was drowning; I couldn’t teach the ocean manners.

I was used to working alone. Even if she was crazy, I took good care of her, cleaning and feeding her. Loneliness looks like routine from a distance.

Maria would always roll her eyes and say, "Why bother?" She didn’t hate kindness; she just didn’t trust it to pay off.

I’d nod, "Alright." And that would be the end of it between us.

But I still kept at it. It felt less like a choice and more like gravity.

Life here was dull. I had to find something to do. Purpose grows in cracks.

The madwoman got used to my care and became more familiar with me. Familiarity is just frequency plus survival.

Today she seemed more lucid. As I cleaned and fed her, she kept watching me. When I was about to leave, she grabbed me. Her grip was the first steady thing about her.

"Father always said, you need someone to support you in the palace." The sentence sounded like a family rule sewn on a sampler long ago.

"You’re so loyal to me. I’ll recommend you to the king as a lady-in-waiting—how about it?" Her promise shimmered like a mirage.

I patted her shoulder, not really meaning it. "I’m just a servant, Your Ladyship. I don’t know." I’d learned to deflect gifts that came with invisible hooks.

She clung to my sleeve. "None of them are as good as you. I know how sincere you are to me." Sincerity is currency until it isn’t.

I couldn’t help but laugh, brushing her off. "I can’t do anything for you, Your Ladyship." Laughter refuses heavy crowns.

She looked at me hopefully. "I’ll teach you! Teach you how to win the king’s heart, how to fight the others." Her hope made even dust look like glitter.

I had plenty of chores to do, so I just said, "Alright." I say “alright” when the alternative is war.

Leaving the room, I didn’t expect to see Maria waiting outside, looking thoughtful. She rarely paused between impulses.

After a while, she brought a bowl of water to the madwoman’s room. The bowl looked like an offering.

I was surprised—she never did things like this. Soon, I heard the sound of a bowl smashing inside. Hope meets habit; habit wins.

Maria came out awkwardly. "She wants you." Her voice was both irritated and relieved.

I asked, "What were you doing in there?" The question felt too big for such a small hallway.

She hesitated, then whispered, "I went to ask around—" The way we all do when doors say more than lips.

She lowered her voice, "She… she might really be the Royal Favorite." The words trembled the way secrets do.

I retorted, "So what? She’s in the West Wing now. You think she can really recommend you as a lady?" The West Wing eats recommendations for breakfast.

Maria stamped her foot in frustration. "Didn’t you hear her say she’ll teach us how to win the king’s heart? She was favored for so many years—she must have some tricks! Are you really planning to stay here forever?" Her desperation made ambition sound like oxygen.

We both signed indentures for life to enter the palace—there was no day we’d leave alive. It was called a royal contract, but it felt exactly as permanent as it sounded.

Maria gritted her teeth. "Just help me out. Let’s go beg her together. If I really become a mistress, I’ll get you out of this hellhole too." She meant it like a promise, not a threat.

I sighed. "Alright." Sighs are yeses with history.

Everyone has their own goals. I’ve always helped when I could. It was my flaw and my pride.

We knelt before the madwoman, and Maria respectfully begged, "Please teach us, Your Ladyship. We’re willing to serve you." Kneeling was the only language the court recognized—etiquette here was strict, and kneeling meant business.

The madwoman stared at us for a while, then clapped and laughed. "Alright!" Her laugh cut like bells.

"Andrew liked to watch me dance the most." She said his name with a softness that hurt.

She danced barefoot in the sunlight, like a willow branch stretching for the breeze, her feet dusted with sunlight. The courtyard became a stage, the dust swirling around her like petals.

In that moment, she wasn’t mad at all. The body remembers what sanity forgets.

"He choreographed this dance for me. Back then, he was just a carefree prince—" Her past wore light clothes.

Maria was dazzled. "Please teach us, Your Ladyship!" She opened like a flower toward the sun.

She giggled. "Alright, I’ll teach you." The giggle faded into a distant look.

I brought them rough cloth to pad their feet, then went to water the vegetable patch. Work feels safer than longing.

From then on, Maria practiced dancing with her every day. She even half-jokingly asked me, "Evelyn, you really don’t want to learn?" She wanted company in her dream.

I smiled. "Just remember to help me out if you make it." Smiles are IOUs written on air.

She beamed. "If I work hard at dancing, the king will surely like me." She believed technique could call fate by its first name.

Part of me thought they’d never succeed, but at least they had something to pass the time. Hope is the palace’s contraband.

Even if she really was the Royal Favorite, favored for over a decade, she still ended up in the West Wing. Fame is fragile where power is bored.

Maria argued, "She was implicated by her family. I’ve got no ties—my father’s probably long dead. I’d be satisfied just being a lady-in-waiting." She pinched ambition until it looked humble.

She scraped together her savings, borrowed some from me, and bought a roll of light lake-blue silk, because the consort said the king liked that color best. Lake-blue—soft sky trapped in fabric.

On May 15th, as our court keeps the old moon-gazing rite, the king would ascend the tower to moon-gaze—the day he and the consort first met. It was their private tradition, the kind of ritual that turns nostalgia into schedule.

Maria couldn’t enter the royal garden, but the king would be able to see the Moon Terrace by the West Wing from above. Eyes travel farther than feet in the palace.

Dancing there, she might catch his eye. Might is the engine that runs this place.

She carefully applied rouge and powder, stained her nails with balsam, and before leaving, squeezed my hand. Her palm was damp, her cheeks brave.

"Wait for me to come back and get you." She said it like she could rewrite contracts.

I opened my mouth, but she was already gone. Some moments don’t need answers.

While she was preparing, the madwoman was unusually quiet. I fed her as usual, then wiped her face. Quiet from her felt like weather about to break.

"She’s going to seek favor. Aren’t you jealous?" she asked. Her tone was almost teasing, almost cruel.

I adjusted her sleeve. "Everyone has their own path." I was trying to believe it.

The madwoman laughed hoarsely. "I’ve seen plenty like her." The laugh tasted old and bitter.

I froze. "What?" The word fell, tiny in the air.

She laughed darkly. "It’s not up to a lowly maid to decide who I favor." She meant it the way people mean thunderstorms.

A cold sweat broke out on my back. "You’ll get Maria killed!" The fear poured straight from spine to mouth.

I turned to run, but the madwoman’s eerie voice followed me. "It’s too late." Words can close doors.

No—it wasn’t. I wouldn’t let it be.

I tried to run out, but the guard stopped me. "Mrs. Doyle, don’t go. It’s not a pretty sight over there—they’re whipping the new girl." His face had pity he couldn’t afford.

My lips went numb. "Is… is it Maria?" The name hurt on the way out.

He looked at me with pity. "His Majesty was already in a bad mood today." Mood is a blade in a king’s hand.

I wiped my tears. "How many lashes?" The question was obscene and necessary.

He shook his head. "You’ll only know after she’s dead." He let the disgust hang in the air, then finished in a whisper. "Mrs. Doyle, go back. Don’t get yourself in trouble."

I wandered back, dazed, and sat in the courtyard, staring at the rough cloth they’d used for dancing. The cloth looked like a flag of surrender.

My vision blurred with tears. Everything in the courtyard went soft and untrue.

"I’ll teach you. You’ll never end up like her," the madwoman whispered behind me. She sounded like a promise wrapped in a curse.

"Today was the anniversary of his mother’s death. Of course he was in a bad mood." She said it like she was naming the weather.

I turned to glare at her. "What did we ever do to you? Why hurt people like this?" I wanted a reason that would make sense and I knew there wasn’t one.

She laughed shakily. "Anyone who tries to use me never ends well!" That laugh was a torn veil.

I wiped my face, picked up the cloth, and went inside without another word. Some doors are safer closed.

She blocked me. "Where are you going?" Her eyes caught at me like hooks.

I shook her off. "To clean the house, boil porridge." Work turns grief into footsteps.

So I scrubbed the floors, boiled porridge, and let the scent of soap fill the air. Life had to go on, even when it shouldn’t.

But I never spoke to her again. Silence became my choice and my punishment.

Every day, she woke and sang, danced, muttered to herself—about her past, her family. Her voice filled the courtyard like a map to places I would never see.

It was just the two of us in the courtyard, so I couldn’t help but overhear. Eavesdropping was the price of air.

"That wretch actually became queen in the end. I knew she was trouble when she used to wash my feet." The words were stones she kept picking up. Foot-washing was a private humiliation in this court, and even the other servants found it degrading.

I finally couldn’t stand it. "Quit it." It felt like telling the wind to stop.

She brushed her hair aside. "You’re talking to me again?" Her tone was a smile with teeth.

I pursed my lips. "There’s no point cursing—only I’m here." The wall didn’t deserve venom.

She pretended not to hear. "She was my cousin. I hated Lady De and Lady Quinn, but I hated her most." Hate is a loyalty some people never outgrow.

"Lady De was a fool, Lady Quinn an idiot. No, I was the most foolish, thinking that wretch was a good person." I remembered the time Lady De tried to steal a hairpin and Lady Quinn wept over a broken shoe—petty, stupid things. She punished herself the way others had taught her.