After days of cheap food, cold leftovers, and stolen bites during kitchen breaks at Misha’s, the breakfast feels almost indecent. The tea is strong. The bread is fresh. The honey tastes like something from a life where people are not threatened, sold, or married for revenge.
For fifteen minutes, I’m almost happy.
Then another maid comes in. This one is younger, maybe my age, with a measuring tape around her neck and a notebook in her hand.
“Madam, I need your measurements.”
I lower my teacup. “For what?”
“Dresses.”
“Dresses?”
“For your wardrobe.”
I look down at myself.
I’m wearing the robe I found in Yaromir’s room. Under it, the nightdress from last night. My own clothes are either missing, ruined, cheap, or still folded in a small bag somewhere in this house.
“I already have clothes.”
The maid looks at me with careful politeness.
No, she does not say. But her face does.
I stand. “Can’t I go out and get them myself?”
She looks down at her notebook. That’s answer enough.
I laugh once, not because it is funny.
“I see.”
“Madam, if you would please stand straight.”
I want to refuse. But refusing a measuring tape feels childish after everything else I’ve survived, so I stand in the middle of the bedroom while she measures my shoulders, waist, bust, hips, arm length, hem length. She’s efficient and respectful, which somehow makes the whole thing more annoying.
No one says I’m locked in. No one says I can’t leave. They simply avoid answering when I ask.
When she finishes, she gathers her things.
“How long will it take?”
“Some items can be sent today. Others tomorrow.”
“And if I want to go outside?”
She pauses at the door. “Outside the room?”
“Outside the house.”
Another pause. “I can ask.”
“Ask who?”
She doesn’t answer.
Of course.
