Sometimes, I liked to pretend the palace garden was safe.
That behind the roses and fountains and ever-chattering nobility, there wasn't a hierarchy of power curling through every vine. That the shade of the willow tree could shield me from being seen—really seen.
But peace, here, was always temporary. It never lasted long.
Not when festivities happened almost every day and the garden rarely saw silence. Like right now.
It was always the same. The same carefully arranged tea tables beneath pergolas dripping in ivy. The same polite laughter, the same sidelong glances and silken words masked as compliments. Nobles gathered like clockwork to whisper behind their fans—about who was pregnant, who was getting married, who was still childless as if it were a personal failure. They talked about what dress someone wore to the last banquet, whose jewels were real, which families were gaining favor, and which were quietly fading into obscurity.
