Chapter 3: Lies Before the Queen

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Suddenly, the queen summoned me. The summons felt like a hand on the back of my neck.

The maid escorting me sternly warned, "Just answer whatever the queen asks. Don’t overstep, or I’ll be implicated too—understand?" She spoke fast, like someone who’d learned the hard way.

I nodded nervously. "Yes, I understand." My hands were damp; my voice was small.

I was anxious. I’d never been inside a real palace hall. The queen’s quarters were warm and fragrant, the maids silent and solemn. Even the air felt expensive.

I knelt, not daring to lift my head. Kneeling was the safest version of being seen.

"You serve in the West Wing? Have you seen the Royal Favorite?" a lazy, melodious voice asked. It slid over my skin like silk and a razor.

I bowed. "I’m just a servant, Your Majesty. I don’t know. I haven’t seen any Royal Favorite or Lady Bennett—just madwomen and fools." I knew how to shrink inside my words.

"Oh?" She chuckled. "The new one’s gone mad already?" Her amusement made my stomach twist.

I lied softly, "She dances in the courtyard every day. I got mad she trampled my vegetables, so I starved her for a few days." Lying to the cruel felt like self-defense.

The queen laughed lightly. The sound was bright and empty.

"Is that so." Her tone said she meant to see for herself.

After I left, her head maid asked, "She’s really mad?" The question floated with curiosity and malice.

I nodded. She smiled. "Alright, I’ll go take a look myself." She had the calm of someone who enjoys confirmation.

I was uneasy. The madwoman was less crazy now, but today she had to be mad—the crazier, the better. Performances save lives here.

I was so flustered I tripped at the West Wing gate, making a loud noise. "Sorry, ma’am, I haven’t eaten all day. I’m just too hungry." I made myself small and pathetic on purpose.

From afar, the madwoman’s giggles drifted over. They sounded like bells caught in thorns.

The maid ignored me and walked over. She didn’t need my script.

The madwoman was dancing wildly, facing the window and shrieking, "Wretch! Kneel before me!" The words were old choreography.

The maid watched for a while. "She really does seem mad." Her sigh had relief in it.

She told me, "No need to treat her well. If she has no food, let her starve. If she dies, it’s not your fault." Orders are easier than conscience.

I nodded. "Yes." The word could be obedience or surrender; here, it was both.

She didn’t give me a reward, just covered her nose with a handkerchief and left. Perfume blooms in mean places.

The madwoman danced for a while, then stopped. Even madness gets tired.

I watched her as she cursed under her breath. "Suspicious wretch." Her curses were crumbs dropped in a long hallway.

I drank plain water in silence. She quietly asked, "Why help me? Didn’t you hate me for getting that maid killed?" Her voice had the rust of remorse and the shine of defiance.

I kept my eyes down, letting the silence stretch between us.

I’d been in the palace almost ten years—served in the Royal Household, the Hall of Peace, even did a stint in the kitchens, nearly getting to serve the king directly. I had moved around this machine like a screw looking for a thread.

But the day I was in charge of the fruit tray, a kumquat went missing. Another maid took my place, and luck favored her. I heard the king married her to a guard, and she became a high-ranking lady. One missing fruit, one missing life.

I was lucky too—didn’t get flogged, but never got a good post again, ending up in the West Wing. Luck is a ladder you can fall down without breaking bones.

After all these years, maybe I was just too lonely. Maybe kindness is a way to talk to yourself.

I thought she was the same. In her, I recognized a hunger that didn’t end with food.