*Julia*
The morning light bled through the narrow, iron-grilled window, catching on dust motes that floated lazily in the stale air. It stung Julia's eyes as she sat up from her thin cot, the coarse wool blanket falling from her shoulders like shed skin. Every movement pulled against her flesh—a symphony of fire that started at her shoulder blades and cascaded down her spine in waves. Each breath reminded her of the price she paid days before, the taste of copper still lingering on her tongue from where she'd bitten it to keep from screaming.
And like every night since. It had not been easy—not with the pain.
"Mew," came a familiar, grumbling protest at her feet.
Mr. N, the long-limbed white cat, stretched out luxuriously, his back arching and paws fanning outward like a lord shaking off sleep. He blinked at her with languid blue eyes that caught the morning light like sapphires, then sat upright with his tail curled around his front legs, regal and expectant. His whiskers twitched as he assessed her with feline judgment.
"I'm glad someone at least got to sleep," Julia murmured, scratching the cat's head. He leaned into her touch and gave a pleased purr that vibrated against her palm, kneading the thin mattress with his front paws until the springs creaked in protest.
But she couldn't linger. There was work to be done—there was always work to be done.
Rising stiffly, Julia moved to the battered vanity near the foot of her bed, each step sending jolts of lightning up her back. The mirror—cracked along one edge like a spider's web—caught her reflection in cruel clarity. Her face was pale as parchment, dark circles carved beneath her eyes like bruises. She loosened the back of her nightdress with trembling fingers and turned, hissing softly through her teeth as the fabric peeled away from dried blood.
Red welts slashed across her back like thick ropes drawn tight beneath the skin. Angry and raised, they ran in strict, even lines—twenty in total, each one a testament to precision. Her Majesty, Queen Belinda, had kept her word. The wounds wept amber serum that had glued the nightdress to her flesh, and the morning air kissed the raw skin with a chill that made her shudder.
Julia eased the hem up to inspect her legs, her breath catching as she discovered the damage. Twenty lashes each—crueler than necessary, the marks wrapping around her calves like crimson ribbons.
She drew in a sharp breath that tasted of iron and salt. "She didn't need to be so excessive…" The words came quiet, almost forgiving, a whisper that barely stirred the dust-laden air.
But she didn't resent it.
No, Julia understood. Belinda had to make a point—and Julia, as always, was the one trusted to endure it. That trust meant everything, more than breath, more than blood. She touched the swollen skin gently, feeling the heat radiating from the welts like embers beneath her fingertips.
"At least the bleeding has stopped." The lie came easily, even as she felt a fresh trickle slide down her spine.
The room they shared was humble—narrow and dim, tucked behind the servants' corridor of the western wing like a secret. The other girls decorated their spaces with little charms, pressed flowers, or tokens from family. But Julia's side of the room was sparse and meticulously tidy: a small iron cot that groaned with every movement, a narrow chest with a broken clasp that caught her finger each time she opened it, and a single wool cloak folded with military precision. The only ornament was a small brass comb that had once belonged to her mother—its teeth worn smooth from years of use, the metal warm against her palm like a ghost's caress. No frills. No softness. It was a soldier's life she lived in devotion to her queen.
Across from her, the opposite bed told a different story.
Doxy's side of the room overflowed with color and clutter like a garden in full bloom. Silk ribbons in pastel hues hung from bedposts, catching the light and casting rainbow shadows on the walls. Perfume bottles with missing stoppers clinked gently on the nightstand whenever footsteps echoed in the corridor, their contents long evaporated but their scents still clinging to the air. A crooked tapestry of a fawn in springtime hung askew over her pillow, its threads faded but still bright with hope. A faint scent of lilac powder clung to everything she touched, including her uniforms—sweet and cloying, like childhood memories made manifest. It was a room filled with sunshine and chaos, life spilling over its edges.
Julia had once paused to look at it when Doxy wasn't watching, her fingers tracing the air inches from a silk ribbon as if afraid her touch might tarnish it. There was something almost painful in its prettiness—like staring directly into the sun.
A corner of her heart ached—not out of resentment, but a quiet, gnawing envy that she couldn't quite swallow.
Most of the girls had families. Keepsakes. Memories that didn't taste of ash and regret.
Julia had none.
Her brother had died in some pointless skirmish over a nameless hill, his last letter still tucked beneath her mattress, the ink faded and the paper soft from her fingers tracing his words. Her parents were gone long before that—a fever had taken her mother, stealing her voice first, then her laughter, then finally her breath. Her father went quietly not long after, simply closing his eyes one evening and never opening them again. The house emptied of voices, of warmth, of everything that made it home. She had outlived them all, a lone survivor in a world that had forgotten her name.
But I have Her Majesty, she reminded herself, the thought warming her chest like mulled wine. And that means I am never alone.
She pulled her dress over her shoulders, fabric rough as burlap against her tender skin. The moment it touched the welts, fire exploded across her back and she bit back a cry that clawed at her throat. A small trickle of blood bloomed beneath the cloth, spreading like spilled wine.
"Ah—" A warm trickle slid down her calf, tickling the sensitive skin behind her knee. She tore a strip from an old linen towel—one of many sacrificed to her wounds—and dabbed at the blood before it could stain her only clean dress. The fabric came away pink and wet.
The door creaked open with the groan of old hinges.
"Good morning, Ms. Julia, and Mr. N—oh!"
Doxy's voice bounced through the room like a bell—bright and too loud for the gray hour, sweet as honey cakes fresh from the oven. She was all legs and arms, a flushed face framed in a cascade of untamed blonde curls that caught the light like spun gold. Her apron was already dusted with flour, white handprints marking where she'd wiped her fingers, sleeves rolled to her elbows revealing forearms dotted with tiny burns from the ovens. The scent of yeast and cinnamon clung to her like perfume.
The girl gasped, stumbling forward with the graceless enthusiasm of a newborn foal. "Ms. Julia! Your back—oh, let me—"
Her small hands reached out, fingers stained with flour and concern painting her features.
Julia smacked her hand away, firm but not cruel, the sound sharp in the morning air.
"You are the most clumsy girl I've ever met, Doxy," she said, turning to meet her wide blue eyes—eyes like summer skies, unmarked by the storms Julia had weathered. "I wouldn't even ask you to bury me. You'd mess that up, too."
The words came out harsher than intended, leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.
Doxy's lips quivered, trembling like flower petals in a harsh wind. "Yes, Ms. Julia." She wilted onto the edge of her bed, shoulders sagging under the weight of the reprimand. Mr. N promptly leapt into her lap like a diplomat sent to negotiate peace, his purr rumbling through the tension.
"Oh, you sweet boy," she cooed, burying her nose into his fur and breathing in his warm, familiar scent. "Miss Julia, what does the 'N' stand for again?"
"Mew!" Mr. N swatted her nose with his paw—claws carefully sheathed—and leapt away with a dramatic flick of his tail, landing with perfect feline grace.
"Oh!" Doxy pouted, holding her cheek. "Well, that was rude."
Julia couldn't help it—she laughed, a breathy, soft thing that escaped before she could cage it. The girls reaction and Mr. N's attack leaving Julia to foregt her own pain to laugh out. The sound surprised them both, rare as birdsong in winter. But just as quickly as it came, she pulled it back in, growing somber. Needing to be.
"It stands for none of your business, Doxy."
"Very funny, Ms. Julia," Doxy huffed, disappointed at once again being denied, but her pout didn't last—it never did. Her smile returned, easy and undamaged, bright as morning sunshine breaking through storm clouds. That was the thing about Doxy—she was like a daisy in bad weather. Always bouncing back. Always believing tomorrow would be better.
Julia pulled her sleeves down, wincing as the fabric caught on a particularly deep welt. She didn't want to like Doxy, not really. The girl was too open, too bright—like staring into flame. But somehow, Julia always found herself watching over her anyway, drawn to that unquenchable light despite herself.
"Is Queen Belinda up and dressed already?" Julia asked, fiddling with the buttons on her cuffs, keeping her shopulders stiff so not to snag against the cloth again.
"She was with one of the other maids earlier," Doxy replied, then tilted her head curiously. "Why do you ask?"
"Where is Queen Belinda right now?" Julia cut over, making the girl puff her lower lip a little. An expression of frustration and again getting no answers from Julia, but she subsided after a short time. Like she always did.
"She's in the pink room."
"That's very like her," The answer came automatically, muscle memory from years of tracking Belinda's movements, knowing her routines better than her own heartbeat. As if Belinda's predictability was charming rather than desperate.
Julia allowed herself a smile, now, small but genuine. "She'll want tea about now. Thursdays are always Almony's tea days."
Belinda had her habits—refined, predictable, and sometimes endearing. After years of service, Julia knew them as well as she knew the count of her own scars. The knowledge felt precious, intimate— like her own heartbeat.
"Doxy, place an order for Her Majesty's tea. Make sure it's the Almony set. She'll want the porcelain one with the gold rim." The one that caught the light like captured sunbeams, the one that made Belinda's gray eyes sparkle.
It felt good to give an order, to have purpose flowing through her veins like lifeblood. She straightened her skirt and winced again as the movement pulled at tender flesh.
"But—oh! Ms. Julia—Her Majesty's already having tea."
The words hit Julia like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. Something tightened in her chest—a fist of ice and disbelief.
Already?
Since when had Belinda not waited for her? Since when had the sacred morning ritual proceeded without Julia's careful orchestration?
Always before, Julia would find her waiting—always with a glance, a nod, a word of acknowledgment. Their mornings were choreographed like a dance they'd perfected over years.
Now, the tea was served without her? Their private moment was interrupted by some usurper? The dance had begun, and Julia was left behind.
No. Don't be ridiculous. You're just late. That's all. The explanation was quick and filled the strange hollow in her chest that had formed days before. Yes, that was all. Of course, her majesty wasn't going to wait. She was a queen. It was her who was being insufficient.
"I see," she said, too quickly, the words sharp as glass shards. She swallowed the flicker of unease that rose in her throat like bile.
"You sure you're okay, Ms. Julia? You look pale." Doxy stood, her brow puckering with genuine concern, and reached out with flour-dusted fingers. "Maybe you should lie down?"
The kindness in her voice made Julia's throat burn with unshed tears she refused to acknowledge. The gesture too kind and familiar, to tender. It was dangerous because she could feel a part of her want to adhere to it. To allow herself that weakness.
But Belinda was waiting.
"I have no time to be sick, Doxy." Julia brushed her hand away, the touch brief but warm against her cold skin.
"There is work to be done." She stepped toward the door, each movement a careful negotiation between will and agony. Pain surged as the cloth dragged against the healing lashes, but she clenched her jaw and straightened her spine like a soldier facing battle.
The linen of her skirt brushed against a tender wound, and pain bloomed fresh down her side. She gritted her teeth until her jaw ached, tasting copper where she'd bitten her tongue.
But she kept walking, one foot in front of the other, because stopping was not an option.
"My lady needs me."
The words were prayer, promise, and plea all at once.
And so, she went.
-x-
I've already made her wait this long.
Shame tightened Julia's throat like a noose as she shuffled forward through corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly. She should've moved faster—should've anticipated the time it would take. But the raw, weeping wounds on her back tore open with every step, and the pain made her legs quiver beneath her like saplings in a storm.
Each pace was a quiet torture, the fabric of her dress catching on scabs and reopening wounds she thought had begun to heal. What should have been a two-minute journey stretched into an eight-minute ordeal of measured breathing and clenched teeth. She had to stop at intervals to quickly swipe away a loose tear with the back of her hand, glaring at any maid or attendant that happened to be in view until they turned away or left altogether—their eyes wide with a mixture of pity and fear.
No, she was not going to have them see her weak. Especially when they knew the reason for her pale complexion and her strained movements. Word of the whipping had no doubt spread around the castle by now like wildfire—whispered in corridors and giggled over in servants' quarters. Everyone would know.
Julia could not show a moment of weakness. She was the queen's attendant—the queen's everything. She had to be stronger, better, more adapted to her lady's needs than anyone else who might covet her position. Thus, it aggravated her to no end how slow she was moving, how her body betrayed her devotion with its frailty.
Still, she tried. Her loyalty urged her forward like a hand at her back, teeth clenched, breath held between the searing pulses down her spine. Belinda would be waiting—surely she would be waiting. She needed Julia even more now, with His Majesty gone. It would be just the two of them again, as it had been in the beginning. A small light of hope filled Julia's chest at the thought, warm as candleflame in the darkness.
Hopefully, she won't be too upset.
Julia reached for the ornate handle of the pink room door, its golden vines twisting like frozen flame over dark wood that had been polished to a mirror shine. The metal was cool beneath her palm, solid and reassuring. She braced herself, wiping her wrinkled face dry with the back of her hand—salt on her tongue—before smoothing her apron with shaking fingers. A quick hand pinched in any flyaways from her severe bun, tucking them behind ears that burned with embarrassment at her tardiness. She filled her chest until it ached but her voice was clear as crystal when she called out:
"Your Majesty, forgive my tardiness—"
Laughter spilled out first. Light, delighted, unmistakably not alone. The sound hit Julia like a horse's kick to the chest, stealing her breath and making her stomach lurch. She blinked, disbelief washing over her in cold waves.
Belinda had company? But wasn't she waiting for Julia to come and—Julia's stomach dropped as she heard it again. The laugh was thick with an obnoxious accent that scraped against her ears like fingernails on slate—the throaty sound of Almony's icy mountains weighing every syllable. The sound had become far too common these past months, grating and invasive, until Julia didn't need to guess who it was.
Not her. Anyone but her. Julia froze in the doorway, her hand hovering over the handle like a moth afraid of flame. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
If it were Nicoli, or even the King himself, she could've masked her dismay with a smile, a tilt of the head, practiced subservience. But this—
Did it have to be her? Julia swallowed hard, forcing her resolve steel-hard for the unpleasant encounter that made her belly boil with heat. She pushed open the door with more force than necessary, revealing the room and its occupants in all their casual intimacy.
The table was set up with two seats by the window, morning light streaming through silk curtains and casting everything in golden amber. Julia could immediately spot the giant first—the large oaf of a girl was difficult to miss, like an iceberg displacing all the water around it. Seeming to need to take up all the space in the room with her size and her audacity, Hidi lounged across from Belinda like she belonged there, owned the very air she breathed. One leg was crossed lazily over the other, leather boots propped casually on the delicate chair, gloved fingers curled around a porcelain teacup that looked like a child's toy in her massive hands.
Belinda looked radiant. She wore a soft plum linen gown, off-the-shoulder and dripping in Amarin lace, with gold-threaded embroidery climbing up her sleeves like ivy. Her chestnut hair was twisted into an elegant bun, loose curls tumbling at her neck. Beside her, a tray of rose-glazed biscuits sat mostly untouched, save for the few missing ones scattered on Hidi's plate in careless crumbs.
Julia's heart pinched at the sight of the dress—that dress, the one with the impossible tiny buttons up the back that only Julia knew how to fasten properly. She realized with a sick lurch that she had missed changing her lady this morning as well, another sacred ritual proceeding without her careful hands. But that regret quickly faded as she heard Belinda laughing again—really laughing, from deep in her chest. Her cheeks were flushed rose-pink and her smile was genuine, unguarded in a way Julia hadn't seen in months. Not since King Alexander's announcement had thrown their world into chaos.
But here she was, laughing like nothing was the matter, carrying on like it was the most natural thing in the world. The sight was jarring, wrong somehow. Julia had expected Belinda to be somber, cold even, needing comfort and reassurance with Alexander's departure.
Yet she wasn't. It was like she didn't even remember how I was—Julia swallowed down a hard gulp as a jolt of pain came from her back, the wool again rubbing at a scab like sandpaper. She must have made a sound—a cry or a whimper—because gray eyes lifted to the door with a pause.
"Julia?" Belinda's voice came light and cheerful, barely a question. Her eyes skimmed toward the door without real concern, the way one might glance at a servant entering with breakfast. She observed her long enough that Julia lifted at the attention, hope fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. Secretly relieved to find her lady attentive now, she searched Belinda's face for recognition.
Perhaps she remembered? There was a flicker of something running across her features that Julia could almost recognize—concern, maybe? Guilt?
Yes, she must have been worried. Julia felt the familiar guilt return, washing over her like cold water. She didn't want to worry her lady; Belinda already had too much on her plate.
Julia dipped her head, beginning her apology: "Your Majesty—"
But Belinda was already turning away, her attention sliding off Julia like water off glass. The smile returned full-force as she looked back at Hidi.
"You are such a delight," Belinda was beaming, her voice thick with laughter. She reached across the small table to pat the giant's hand with obvious affection, her small porcelain fingers looking like a doll's against Hidi's gloved monstrosity. The size difference was almost obscene, but if Julia noticed it, the observation was lost on Belinda. She only looked on at the blonde with undisguised fondness.
No—she was more than smiling. There was something sincere in her expression, something that glowed across Belinda's face like morning light catching on glass. She was enjoying herself for the first time in months, genuinely happy in a way that made her look years younger. The sight was shocking compared to what it had been before—Belinda crying behind closed doors, sneaking extra wine when she thought no one was looking, needing Julia's aid more than ever as her world crumbled around her.
But now? Now she looked whole.
Julia forced herself to breathe, the air sharp in her lungs.
She's just entertaining her guest. It doesn't mean anything. The words pooled into that hollow space in her chest again as the sound reopened the wound inside. She tried to will it away, not wanting to feed any more into it.
Julia stepped fully into the room, careful to close the door behind her with practiced silence. The sharp click echoed off the vaulted ceilings above, where heavy rose-pink drapes framed each tall window like theater curtains, and chandeliers of crystal and ivory flickered with dozens of candles that had been lit despite the morning sun.
The air was thick with competing scents—sugar and white lilies, far too warm for a spring morning, stifling with the layered fragrances of both women's perfumes and oils. Belinda's usual jasmine and orange blossom warred with something darker, more exotic—bergamot and lemon that could only be Hidi's. Rich, dusty pink rugs muffled footsteps, and the wood-paneled walls gleamed with fresh polish that caught the light like honey. Every surface was dusted and polished to a high shine, testament to the servants' early morning labor.
Julia's gaze drifted back to Hidi with the inevitability of a moth to flame.
The Queen of Almony wore a form-fitting hunting coat in glacier green that emphasized rather than concealed her impressive bulk. It was far too casual for court—scandalously so—but she didn't seem to care about propriety or protocol. Her boots, high and laced with bronze eyelets, were kicked out like she owned not just the chair but the entire kingdom. Gold rings glinted on every other finger, catching the light with each gesture, and a heavy chain of office rested across her broad chest like armor.
Her thick blonde hair was braided back in a messy plait that spilled over one massive shoulder, a few escaped strands framing her face in a way that might have been artful if it weren't so careless. Her thighs were nearly spilling over the sides of the delicate chair, making the furniture look like doll house pieces. The cups and saucers looked miniaturized in her large, leather-gloved hands as she gestured carelessly, taking a bite of cookie only to make a face and drop it back to the plate with the rest—the act of a spoiled child too picky to finish what she'd started.
She looks too at home. Julia felt the need to bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.
"I was worried you'd be in poor spirits," Hidi continued, not even acknowledging Julia's presence. She lifted her teacup with practiced ease, pinky extended in a mockery of court manners. "Now that His Majesty is gone, I mean. He left so abruptly—I missed saying goodbye."
There was something sly in her tone, something that made Julia's skin crawl.
"He didn't want a grand farewell," Belinda answered coolly, her rings clicking gently against the fine china like tiny bells. Her voice was smooth and even but not without a hint of something Julia could catch—satisfaction, perhaps? A slight smirk crossed her lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "He needed to be gone."
A partial truth wrapped around a partial lie. Belinda flicked her gray eyes up to Julia briefly—a moment of shared understanding—before the smirk dissolved and she returned to her tea, adding more sugar cubes with silver tongs.
"I don't blame him, considering the mess over there," Hidi added, moving to bite into a different cookie. This time she seemed to approve, tossing the whole thing into her mouth and talking around the crumbs. "Those pirates are quite a pest. Messing up more shipment."
Crumbs scattered across the pristine tablecloth like fallen snow.
"It's almost as if he just learned how urgent things were getting," Hidi mused aloud, pausing mid-sip. Her pale green eyes twinkled with subtext, and her voice carried the weight of secrets. "I wonder if that's why Nicoli didn't know."
"Know what?" Belinda asked, sparking with sudden curiosity at the mention of her son. She leaned forward, teacup forgotten. "What about my dear Nicoli, daughter?"
The endearment hit Julia like a slap. Daughter. When did that start?
Hidi only laughed, a sound like breaking glass, reaching for another cookie with casual disregard. "It's nothing," she waved the treat dismissively, popping it into her mouth and letting more crumbs fall to the immaculate table.
Hidi's smile dimmed slightly, and she brushed her fingers clean on the linen napkin. "I've sent word ahead. I'll be returning home soon."
Belinda lowered her tea with a visible pout, her lower lip jutting out like a child denied a sweet. "So soon?"
"Mama's unhappy with me," Hidi shrugged, nonchalant as if discussing the weather. "I've kept her waiting long enough. You know how she gets when she's separated from her... companions."
"No, stay longer," Belinda said, leaning forward with genuine urgency. Her hand shot out to clasp Hidi's completely, pale fingers disappearing in the giant's grasp. "Look how much Nicoli adores you. Bratha will understand."
The sight of their joined hands made Julia's stomach lurch with something she refused to name.
"He does, doesn't he?" Hidi's cheeks colored slightly—the first genuine emotion Julia had seen from her. She didn't look down or away this time; she let the pink rise and bloom across her pale skin. Her peridot-green eyes seemed to sparkle at the thought, catching the light like gemstones. "We're so much closer now. All thanks to someone."
Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Belinda, and something passed between them—intimate and exclusive.
"Hmm?" Belinda arched a perfectly sculpted brow, but her smile suggested she knew exactly what Hidi meant.
Hidi only smiled behind her teacup, mysterious and satisfied. "I'll miss him terribly. But maybe now's the time? I could take him with me when I go."
"To Almony?" For the first time, Belinda's smile dimmed, uncertainty creeping into her voice.
"He'll have to go eventually," Hidi said with casual certainty, tracing the gold rim of her cup with one massive finger. "I'm not moving here permanently. Pleasant as Dawny is..." She trailed off, eyes sweeping the room with barely concealed disdain. "It's not Almony, you understand. When we marry, Nicoli will be living in my kingdom. Almony is so much more..." She cleared her throat delicately, touching the opal brooch at her neckline. "Sophisticated."
What's wrong with Dawny? Julia's jaw tightened until her teeth ached. That was bold—no, it was insulting. She flicked her eyes toward Belinda, waiting for the rebuke that must surely come. Come on. Say something. Don't let her speak that way about your kingdom—
But Belinda just smiled again, wider than before.
"Oh, not yet, Hildenberg," she warned lightly, wagging a finger in mock scolding. "You'll never bring him back if you steal him away now."
"Ha! You read me right, Mother." Hidi's laughter boomed through the room, rich and self-satisfied.
"Why, of course I do, Daughter." Belinda gave her hand a playful squeeze, their fingers intertwining like lovers. They laughed together, in perfect harmony, sharing some joke that excluded the rest of the world.
Julia blinked, her vision swimming slightly. That wasn't just amusement between them. That was intimacy—real, deep, the kind built over shared secrets and whispered conversations. The kind Julia thought she alone shared with Belinda.
"Oh, Julia," Belinda finally said, as if suddenly remembering there was someone else in the room.
"Your Majesty," Julia straightened like a soldier called to attention, hope and desperation warring in her chest. "What do you need?"
But before Belinda could respond, Hidi's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Are you blind? Don't you see my cup is empty?" Hidi raised her teacup with exaggerated patience, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. "Fill it up."
"That—" Julia hesitated, the casual command hitting her like a physical blow. The dismissive tone, the assumption of authority over her—
Hidi cocked a pale eyebrow, her green eyes cold as winter frost. "Is she going senile or something? Really, Mother, your staff seems rather... past their prime."
The words landed like individual slaps. Senile. Past their prime. Julia's hands began to tremble with barely suppressed rage.
"My apologies, Your Majesty." The words tasted like ash in Julia's mouth, but she forced them out with practiced servility. She scrambled forward, arms trembling from both effort and humiliation. Every movement pulled at the tight, half-healed skin across her back, but she kept her expression smooth as marble as she reached for the silver teapot.
Hidi scoffed, a sound of pure disdain, brushing an imaginary crumb from her sleeve. "Perhaps your maid is overdue for pasture, Mother? I have girls half her age who are twice as quick."
The casual cruelty in her voice made Julia's vision blur red at the edges.
"She has gotten on in years," Belinda said, her tone distracted and careless, as if discussing the weather or the price of grain.
Julia's stomach twisted into knots, her hands faltering as she lifted the heavy teapot. The weight of it seemed enormous suddenly, the silver handle slipping in her sweaty palms. The spout quivered as doubt and hurt crashed over her in waves.
She has gotten on in years. The words echoed in her mind like a death knell. Is that how Belinda saw her? As an aging relic, useful but ultimately replaceable?
But then, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, Belinda smiled. Just a little, but enough to stop Julia's world from completely crumbling. "But she's loyal. Terribly loyal. Aren't you, Julia?"
"Your Majesty, I—" will always be loyal. Until my last breath, until my heart stops beating, until the world ends. Julia's heart swelled with desperate gratitude, emotion surging in her chest like a tide. She lifted her chin, barely restraining the tears that threatened to spill over.
But the moment dissolved as quickly as it came, fragile as spun glass. Belinda had already turned back to Hidi, dismissing Julia's existence as easily as one might dismiss a servant.
Which, Julia realized with sick clarity, was exactly what she had done.
"Anyway, you were saying? About leaving me too?"
"In a few days," Hidi said, plucking up her freshly filled tea with the tips of her fingers as if the cup might contaminate her. She took one delicate sip, then her face twisted in disgust. "This is burnt."
She shoved the cup away with obvious revulsion, the liquid barely touched, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Burnt? No. It couldn't be. Julia stiffened, her professional pride warring with confusion. She'd brewed it precisely, carefully—with fresh leaves from the locked pantry, with water heated to the exact temperature Belinda preferred. With the same care she'd lavished on every cup for over a decade.
But before she could steady the rejected cup, momentum carried it forward. A splash leaped from the rim—hissing as it struck her wrist like liquid fire. The pain was instant and blinding, searing through nerve endings and up her arm.
A scream shot up her throat—raw and desperate—but she crushed it before it could escape. She clamped her jaw so tightly her teeth creaked, her vision going white at the edges. The burn spread across her skin like spilled acid, and she could already feel the blister forming beneath the surface.
Belinda wouldn't want a scene. The thought was automatic, trained into her bones after years of service.
But she couldn't help the glare that escaped, sharp as a dagger thrust, aimed directly at the giant who had caused this latest humiliation. Heat swelled in her stomach—not from the burn, but from rage so pure it made her hands shake.
Her knuckles went white around the handle of the teapot, and she held it like a weapon. The skin on her wrist bubbled and wept, raw and already beginning to welt. Another mark to add to her collection. Another reminder of her place in this carefully ordered world.
But she didn't mind. Not really. Not if it was for Belinda. Every scar was a love letter written in flesh, every wound a testament to her devotion.
"I could always send you a new maid," Hidi said sweetly, her voice dripping with false concern as she tapped her painted nails against the rim of her saucer. The sound was sharp and rhythmic, like a woodpecker attacking dead wood. "Part of my dowry, perhaps. Someone younger. With steadier hands and sharper eyes."
The words hit Julia like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs and making her knees buckle slightly. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was certain it would burst. The very offer to replace her—so casual, so thoughtless—felt like a knife sliding between her ribs.
That was deliberate. The realization came with crystalline clarity. This wasn't kindness or concern. This was calculated cruelty, designed to wound in the deepest possible way.
Belinda laughed—light, charming, utterly unbothered by the venom in the words. The sound was like silver bells, beautiful and cold. "You are too generous, Hildenberg."
Too generous. As if the offer to discard Julia like yesterday's newspaper was a gift to be treasured.
"I mean it seriously," Hidi pressed, leaning forward with the intensity of a predator sensing weakness. "One of my girls would take such exquisite care of you. Better than..." Her eyes flicked dismissively toward Julia, taking in her trembling hands and pale complexion. "...that one, anyway."
Julia looked straight ahead, focusing on a point just above Belinda's head where dust motes danced in the morning light. But her vision blurred at the edges, and her ears rang with a sound like rushing water. A replacement. A younger, prettier, more competent replacement who wouldn't carry the weight of years and scars and absolute, unwavering devotion.
Her lungs strained against her ribs, but she didn't move. Couldn't move. To show weakness now would be to prove Hidi's point.
Belinda leaned forward, her smile never wavering, fingers playing with the delicate gold chain at her throat. "But then who would I trust with my mornings? With my dresses? With all my little secrets?"
Her voice was light, almost singing, and her fingers fluttered in the air like butterfly wings—dismissive and playful, as if the very idea was absurd. "She's mine, I'm afraid. Worn bones and all."
Mine. The word hit Julia like a benediction, like absolution for every sin she'd never committed. Relief struck her so hard her knees nearly gave way, and she had to grip the teapot tighter to keep from swaying. Of course. Of course Belinda would never—
She had proven herself, hadn't she? Loyal beyond question. Dependable beyond doubt. Irreplaceable in ways that went beyond mere competence. She had earned her place through blood and sacrifice, through years of silent service and absolute devotion.
The scars on her back were proof of that bond. The burns on her hands were testament to her value. The quiet, tireless years at Belinda's side were her credentials, written in flesh and bone and the kind of love that asked for nothing in return.
Still, the pit in her stomach remained, cold and heavy as a stone. Because she had heard something else in Belinda's voice—something that made her blood run cold despite the warmth of the room.
Worn bones and all.
Not treasured. Not beloved. Worn. Like an old shoe that was comfortable but no longer beautiful. Like a piece of furniture that had served its purpose but was showing its age.
"Julia?" Belinda's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, gentle but expectant.
Julia flinched back into the present moment, blinking rapidly to clear her vision. She returned woodenly to her post by the wall, each step setting fire to the raw patches along her back. The fabric of her dress scraped against the wounds with cruel precision, and she shifted subtly, covering the fresh burn on her wrist with her other hand. The blister was already forming, angry and red against her pale skin.
It's fine. The lie came easily, practiced after years of swallowing pain. It wouldn't be the first time. It won't be the last.
If it was for Belinda, she would take it all. Every lash. Every insult. Every ounce of pain and humiliation. She would smile and curtsy and say "Yes, Your Majesty" until her throat was raw and her knees were bloody from kneeling.
She would wait.
Belinda was distracted now, caught up in the golden web of Hidi's attention and flattery. But distractions were temporary. Guests eventually left. The giant would return to her icy kingdom, and the castle would settle back into its familiar rhythms.
Her majesty would remember then. She would turn those gray eyes toward Julia with need and recognition, and everything would return to how it had always been—just the two of them, bound together by years of shared secrets and absolute trust.
That's what Julia believed. That's what she needed to believe.
Julia had made herself indispensable. She had carved out a place in Belinda's life that no one else could fill, a space shaped precisely by her devotion and sacrifice.
She was irreplaceable.
She had to believe that.
Because if she wasn't—if she was just another servant who could be discarded when something better came along—then what had any of it meant? What had the pain been for? What had the years of service, the sleepless nights, the careful attention to every detail of Belinda's existence accomplished?
Nothing. The word whispered through her mind like a death sentence. It would all mean nothing.
But that was impossible. Unthinkable. Belinda needed her. Belinda had said so herself—she's mine. Those words were a promise, a covenant written in shared history and mutual dependence.
Julia straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, ignoring the way the movement pulled at her wounds. She was the queen's attendant. She was Belinda's right hand, her confidant, her most trusted servant. She had earned that position through years of perfect service and absolute loyalty.
A spoiled giant from a frozen kingdom couldn't change that with a few cruel words and an offer of replacement.
Could she?
The question haunted Julia as she stood in the warm, perfumed air of the pink room, watching the woman she loved laugh with someone else. Watching Belinda's face light up with genuine joy at another's company. Watching the easy intimacy between them, she had thought it belonged only to her.
Mine, Belinda had said. But the word felt hollow now, empty of the warmth and protection Julia had always found in it.
Because being owned was not the same as being loved. And being useful was not the same as being irreplaceable.
The realization settled over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. But she couldn't acknowledge it—
So she stood in her place by the wall, silent and still as a statue, and pretended that her world wasn't slowly crumbling around her. She pretended that the fresh burn on her wrist didn't throb in time with her heartbeat. She pretended that the laughter filling the room wasn't a small voice whispering the truth she couldn't bear to hear.
You're already being replaced. You just don't know it yet.