Sylvie shifts, relaxing a fraction against the window frame. “No. Definitely not.” She hesitates, then adds, “Queen Rothmore has a very…specific view of women. Mostly that we’re soft, and delicate, and inherently lesser.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
“Every attendant within the castle is a woman. Every masked guard? Man. The message is pretty clear. Although it’s a lot harder to keep the palace running than it is to stand around in a mask and look vaguely menacing,” Sylvie says, rolling her eyes. “But in the queen’s mind, power looks like masculinity. Women are for cleaning, fetching, and bed sport.”
“That’s…deeply depressing.” My spoon clinks against the side of the bowl. “And confusing. I mean, when women think so little of other women, what does thatsay about how they see themselves?”
Sylvie lifts her shoulders in a slow, tired shrug. “I feel bad for her, really. The only value Queen Rothmore has ever had has been tied up in the man who chose to marry her. It’s no wonder she wears a crown and still feels like she’s not enough.”
Sylvie props her elbow against the window frame, gaze drifting toward the water. For a second, she almost looks sorry for Delphara. Almost.
“You didn’t hear that from me,” she adds quickly, her voice lower now. “And don’t repeat it. Not unless you want to earn a higher position on that list.”
A chill slides down my spine. I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to match hers. “Cone of silence. Whatever we say here stays in the vault.”
Sylvie’s eyes brighten, and she shifts closer, until we’re like two girls sneaking secrets at a sleepover. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You’ll think me foolish,” she murmurs, “but there was a time I believed I might be chosen as a lady’s maid. I thought if I worked hard enough, learned enough, perhaps the Queen would take notice.”
“Did she?”
“Oh, yes.” Sylvie’s smile turns brittle. “Her Majesty said I was too outspoken to be trusted in any position of importance. That a woman’s job is not to think, but to serve.”
My mouth falls open. “She actually said that?”
Sylvie nods, her nose wrinkling in a look of pure disgust. “And right after, she sent me to muck the stables for a full month.” She pulls a face like she’s just tasted something rotten. “And I don’t know what they feed theroyal horses, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sit well with them, I can tell you that much.”
We both let out a laugh, but it fades fast.
“Gemma?” she asks gently, looking down at the untouched tray from last night still sitting near the hearth. Her gaze flicks back to me. “You didn’t eat your dinner, and I know I’m being forward, and it’s not my place, but…you look so sad. Did something happen?”
I open my mouth. Close it. What do I say? I saw her friend die in a ritual bath? That magick is real and bloody and terrifying? That I’m letting the man I promised never to love again mess with my heart?
She fidgets with the hem of her apron again, nervous. “I too know what it’s like to arrive in a place and feel completely alone.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you,” I manage, voice small. “I’m…I’m okay. I just need time to think.”
She nods. “Often enough, that’s all that’s left to us.”
Sylvie crosses the room and sits beside me on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirts as she settles. I set the porridge aside, suddenly too full to eat, and before I can think too hard about it, Sylvie reaches over and takes my hand.
Her palm is calloused, her fingers warm. Solid. Steady.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just sit there, two women who don’t quite fit, caught in a place that chews up the soft and spits them out.
“I was never meant for a place like this,” Sylvie says quietly. “Too curious. Too stubborn.” She squeezes my hand gently. “You either learn to bend into somethingthey’ll keep—or break with the attempt.”
A lump rises in my throat. I blink hard, trying to will it away.
I want to tell her everything. About what I saw. About the secrets clawing at the edges of my mind. About how alone I feel, trapped in a castle of lies and blood, trying to hold on to a version of myself that’s slipping through my fingers.
I want to trust her. I want to trust someone.
But I’ve already trusted the wrong man. And I don’t know if I can even trust my own heart anymore.
The words tear free before I can stop them.
“I need to get home,” I say suddenly. “I need to find my way back home and…figure things out.”
Sylvie watches me with an unreadable expression. “And Lord Lockhart? Is he part of that home you’re trying to get back to?” she asks softly, tilting her head. “He was seen sleeping in one of the libraries last night.”
