Chapter 4: The Crystal and the General

---

After several rains, the weather turned colder. The air felt like it had teeth.

I took out the winter bedding to air it out. That’s when the Royal Household staff arrived. Wheels and words moved at the same speed.

"Evelyn, pack up—you’re leaving the palace!" The announcement came like a miracle with paperwork.

I froze. "What?" Sometimes your ribs hold your breath hostage.

Steward Thomas was an old acquaintance. "Normally you wouldn’t get this chance, but the queen is merciful, letting a few life-contract maids go home. You’re lucky—your name’s on the list! It’s a lucky break. August 8th—don’t forget." He grinned, needle and thread in the same smile.

It was good news. I should’ve been happy. The kind you can touch and not feel.

But I just felt lost. Where does a ghost go when it’s given a street map?

Where would I go after leaving? Outside felt as imaginary as inside.

My so-called family were just blurry shadows, powerless to rely on. I’d saved some money, but not enough to live outside. Numbers don’t hold you when you sleep.

Thinking about all this, I was distracted caring for the madwoman, until I realized her forehead was burning hot. Fever glows like a cruel lamp.

"What’s wrong?" My voice gentled without me.

She didn’t answer, cheeks flushed. "I’m so hot." She sounded like a child who’d found a new word.

I felt her forehead and palms. "Where’s the blanket I brought you?" The question felt stupid and necessary.

She said nothing. Silence is a way to admit you lost something you never had.

I remembered how warm the queen’s palace was. Comfort turns to fragility like milk to cream.

Noble ladies raised in comfort couldn’t survive the autumn nights here. Air is crueler when it used to be kind.

I brought my own blanket and covered her too. It smelled like my back and old soap.

There were no royal doctors in the West Wing, but I’d served in the Hall of Peace, so I brewed herbal tea from the garden and fed her. The herbs were bitter and loyal.

She drank quietly, then watched me silently as I packed for leaving. Watching looks like love when you don’t know what else it is.

After all these years, I still had nothing. You can collect duties like beads and still have no necklace.

Her illness worsened—fever, then racking coughs. The coughs shook the walls; the walls kept standing.

I never found a chance to tell her I was about to leave. Some truths choke on timing.

She was gravely ill and still hadn’t recovered by the day I was to leave. The clock ticked; her breath didn’t obey.

The palace gates would be locked at sunset—I had to go by then. The locks always did their jobs on time.

She was unconscious with fever. Her lashes trembled nearly like wingbeats.

I told myself I’d leave at sunset. Telling yourself is the first lie, the kindest one.

But she wouldn’t wake up. That was the only thing she could refuse and did.

When she finally did, it was already dark. Night makes decisions for you.

"—You’re not leaving?" Her voice was the shadow of a question.

I said nothing. Silence is a blanket too.

Maybe I’d just forgotten to go. Or maybe I’d thought too much. Thinking can be a tether and a trap.

"—Charlotte." The name fell like an apple.

After a while, she spoke again.

"My name is Margaret Charlotte." Her tone had edges.

I held water to her lips. It felt like a covenant.

"My surname is Doyle. Call me Evelyn." Names feel like rescue cords in rooms without railing.

"If you stay, you’ll never get out," she murmured. She meant it like prayer, like warning.

I didn’t tell her—the queen already knew I hadn’t left, and had just ordered the Royal Household to reassign me. The palace always finds ways to fold people back into itself.

I tidied her courtyard, chopped firewood, stocked her with dry food and a jar of water, sorted the dried herbs, told her how to boil water, cook, air bedding. Instructions are affection in this kind of place.

"Take care of yourself," I said. The phrase is small and weighted.

The steward came to fetch me, eyeing my bundle warily, so I didn’t dare say more. Words look like contraband at the door.

Just as I turned, she suddenly rushed out, cursing and slapping me.

"Wretch! How dare you betray me! Guards! Take her to the Court of Discipline!" Her rage wore a crown; her palm barely landed.

I raised my hand to block, but her slap didn’t hurt at all—instead, she pressed something cold and hard into my palm. It was a secret that fit into my fist.

She was dragged away, still sobbing and cursing, then locked behind the door. The echo sounded like the closing of a vault.

The steward who came for me clicked his tongue. "You’ve finally made it out of that job." His pity had relief stitched into it.

"The Royal Menagerie sounds bad, but dealing with animals is easier than dealing with people." He wasn’t wrong.

He grinned. "Don’t worry—you’re one of us now." Belonging can be a door and a leash.

The Royal Menagerie cared for the palace animals, including the chickens. I liked the way they didn’t lie.

Steward Thomas grinned, "You have to count the chickens, but all the eggs are ours." He always had a joke that doubled as instruction—like, "Count the birds, count the eggs, and if you lose track, just remember: the eggs are for us, the feathers for the king."

I cautiously asked who’d take over my old job. The question tasted like guilt.

"Who cares?" he shrugged. Seeing my expression, he asked, "What’s wrong?" His voice softened a notch.

I lowered my head. "I’m just worried after looking after her so long." Worry doesn’t vanish with new keys.

He understood. "Alright, I’ll ask around for you tomorrow." He said it like a promise he meant.

I thanked him and, following his advice, raised a few hens. They pecked at my shoes like old friends.

No new maids were sent to the West Wing—just an old steward brought meals each day. The silence felt almost kind.

Margaret Charlotte had given me a small crystal pendant—the only thing she had left, I guessed. It caught light the way secrets do.

I kept it close. It was the most valuable thing I’d received in ten years. Not for gold, but for gravity.

I didn’t dare visit her, but I asked the old steward to take eggs to her daily. Eggs are quiet apologies.

Steward Thomas never asked, but seemed to know everything. It’s his job to know and his kindness to pretend otherwise.

He told me, "Her exiled brother won a big victory on the frontier. He might return to the capital." The frontier sounded like a place where air moved differently.

"Maybe he can’t overturn the case, but if she’s alive then, who knows—maybe things will change." Hope has many hats in this palace.

I said nothing. Silence keeps hope from embarrassing itself.

Even if her brother returned, he’d never see Margaret Charlotte again. That’s what the rules were for.

She was already "dead"—no trace of her left in the palace. Names can be buried long before bodies.

He looked at me. "The stables need extra hands—go help out." He always found work that felt like mercy.

I nodded. He smacked his lips and went off to roast quail. The smell always made me think of warm kitchens and long days.

We’d started raising quail too—they laid lots of eggs, though small. Small abundance counts.

In the stables, we cared for the horses of high-ranking officials. They were proud and honest in their needs.

I changed their bedding and checked their hooves. Hooves tell truth; you only have to listen.

One horse had a glossy black coat, clearly well cared for—must be a general’s horse. Midnight had a way of making the air near him quieter.

I patted it, and it nuzzled me affectionately. Animals take you at face value.

"It wants a treat," a gentle male voice said behind me. The voice had dust in it and patience.

I quickly bowed. "Forgive me, sir." The bow was habit and hedge.

He stepped in front of me, boots dusty, wearing armor—not a palace noble. He brought weather with him.

He reached to help me up. Surprised, I stepped back and saw his face. Pride haunted kindness in his features.

His eyes should’ve been beautiful too—but now he had only one. He lowered his chin like it softened the fact.

"Did I scare you?" he asked. His tone was careful.

I shook my head. "A general loyal to the realm—worthy of respect." It came out steadier than my pulse.

He stroked his horse, voice low. "You took care of my sister?" The word sister was both armor and wound.

I shivered and stammered, "I’m not there anymore." I couldn’t make my throat hold more.

He said nothing. I gathered my courage. "She gave me a crystal pendant." The words felt like I was holding it up.

I glanced around, then pulled out the pendant on my neck. It gleamed in the stable’s soft light.

He relaxed, pulling out a matching piece from his collar. The twin looked like a destination I wasn’t allowed to reach.

"She must have trusted you." His voice eased, slid toward warmth.

I shook my head, embarrassed. "I didn’t do much." I had to say it, so I wouldn’t break inside the praise.

He stuffed a heavy pouch into my hands. "Please keep looking after her." The plea sat in my palm and weighed more than silver.

I accepted. I would have even without the coin, but the coin kept the world simple for a minute.

Who knew how many pouches he’d handed out today. He wore generosity the way soldiers wear uniforms.

He spoke softly. "Samuel Charlotte. My name is Samuel Charlotte." Names join on first syllables—mine felt ready.

"Evelyn Doyle," I replied, gathering my things to leave. But for some reason, I turned back to glance at him. Sometimes you look to make sure the door isn’t closing.

He was watching me, then smiled. His smile was quiet, like clear water.

I blurted out, "You two look alike when you smile." The words jumped ahead of wisdom.

His ears turned red. It was a small grace.

I gave half the silver to Steward Thomas—he’d helped me a lot, after all. Sharing shields you from shame.

With the rest, I bribed the old steward for a chance to deliver food myself. There are doors no coin opens, but some gates swing for a small purse.

Three months later, I opened the West Wing door again. It sighed like it recognized me.

Inside was a mess, but better than I’d expected. Mess means life.

I hurried to Margaret Charlotte—she was awkwardly fetching water. Everything was slow and brave.

I helped tidy the courtyard, taught her to tell weeds from edible plants. Green looks like hope when your hands know it.

"Boil these for colds," I said, surprised to find the kitchen in decent order—she must’ve been managing. Pride warmed my words.

Her voice was soft. "If you don’t want to die, you learn everything." Survival as curriculum.

Her hair was messy, clothes ragged. Something fragile hung around her shoulders like a shawl.

"I have to act mad so they’ll let down their guard." Strategy disguised as illness.

"People always thought I was the worst, but all I ever wanted was affection. That so-called affection trapped me." The admission was a shard of glass lit by noon.

"A woman’s life is all suffering, dependent on others. Ha—ha—" The laugh broke on the last syllable.

I sighed. "That’s not true." I needed the lie to be true, or the truth to be kinder.

I washed her hair. "You must’ve had happy times as the Royal Favorite. You were favored for years—surely not all misery." Memory is the only court that sees you well.

She stared blankly, then tears streamed down her face. Tears are proof the body believes you.

I combed her hair and comforted her. "Try to let it go. People can live anywhere." I believed it in the second I said it.

I told her Samuel Charlotte had returned, though he’d lost an eye. The news was half wound, half anchor.

She cried harder. The tears sounded like soft rain on a tin roof.

I said he’d paid me to look after her—if she needed anything, let the old steward know. I wanted her to taste safety on her tongue.

I said I’d taken a lot of his money. Confession protects gratitude.

I said I raised quail—small eggs, but plenty. Next time, I’d bring some. Promises are feathers that carry weight.

I rarely talked so much—no one ever listened. But now, with Margaret Charlotte being mad, I didn’t have to worry. Secrets can hide in madness.

No one believed a madwoman. Which meant I could speak like a poem and not be punished.

I talked for a long time. When I was about to leave, Margaret Charlotte asked, "What about you?" The question slipped under my skin.

"I had my glory, was ruthless—I haven’t lived in vain. But what about you? You’ve always been just a maid." She said it without cruelty and it stung anyway.

I packed my food box. "There are good people in the palace." It sounded stubborn and small.

I met Maria. I met you. The sentence walked on its own.

I’m still alive. It mattered more than I wanted to admit.

Margaret Charlotte said, "You’re silly—like my brother." Silly, like brave.

---