Later that evening, the scent of lavender water and powdered jasmine signaled the return of Caralee's maids. They moved in a gentle procession, as they always did—soft-footed, speaking only in murmurs, their presence as ephemeral as candle smoke.
Caralee sat at her vanity like a statue carved from moonlight, her thoughts far from the gilded mirror's reflection. She barely registered the gentle brushing of her hair or the delicate tug of silk being pulled taut across her frame. Her mind spun with images— phantoms conjured from memory and suspicion.
The corset came next. Hands moved to cinch her bodice, lacing the garment with expert precision, but Caralee's lips parted before they could tie the final knot.
"Lydia," she said quietly, her voice a whisper wound in uncertainty. "How would one go about visiting the dungeon?"
The room stilled at once.
The rustle of skirts ceased. Brushes paused midair. A silence spread across the chamber like ink bleeding through lace. Lydia's smile—always poised, always patient— withered into a flat line. Her eyes, so often warm, dimmed as though clouded over by stormed glass.
"My lady," Lydia said after a heartbeat too long, the false cheer in her tone almost brittle, "what a strange thing to ask. No one would wish to visit the dungeon. It's a frightful place. A silly question, truly."
Then, more firmly, she turned to the other girls. "That'll be all, girls. I can finish the laces on my own. I'm sure you've other tasks needing your attention before night's end."
The maids exchanged hesitant glances, confusion flickering like candlelight behind their eyes, but they knew better than to argue. "You're excused," Lydia repeated, her tone brooking no protest.
They curtsied, their skirts brushing the polished floor like wind in a crypt, and scurried out, their slippers barely whispering as the door clicked softly closed behind them.
Only when the room was still again did Lydia return to her task. Her fingers resumed tying ribbons, pulling cords, fastening hooks—but her gaze was no longer focused on the task. She watched Caralee in the mirror, her expression unreadable, her voice low as mist rolling through a cemetery.
"Now," she said carefully, "why would you be asking about the dungeon, my lady?"
Caralee's throat tightened. She looked away, then back again, gnawing gently at her bottom lip. Her eyes flitted around the room as if afraid of being overheard by ghosts or the walls themselves. At last, she turned on the stool and met Lydia's gaze full-on.
"Lydia…" she asked, voice trembling with the weight of a secret. "Can I trust you?"
Lydia's hands froze mid-tie. Her brow furrowed, dark lashes casting shadows down her cheeks as she studied her mistress.
"That is…" she exhaled, "a very difficult question, my lady."
She stepped back and regarded Caralee not as a maid might regard her mistress, but as a woman weighing truth against loyalty. "I was assigned to serve you," she said finally, her tone steady. "And I take that charge seriously. My only duty is to care for you—see to your needs, your safety, your understanding. I was instructed to guide you. Even if it costs me my life."
Caralee blinked, startled by the depth of the vow. Lydia stepped closer, her voice softening to a murmur.
"I will keep your secrets. I will never lead you astray. I will tell you honestly if I believe something unwise. But betray you?" She shook her head. "Never. Not to any soul in this realm."
Then, her eyes flicked away for just a moment, and a crease formed at the corner of her mouth. "Except…" she added, reluctantly, "where His Majesty is concerned."
Caralee's breath caught.
Lydia sighed. "I cannot lie to him. He can compel the truth from me, and I will not be able to resist. I would not go to him willingly, but if summoned… I would fail you."
Caralee searched Lydia's face, looking for cracks in the veneer of loyalty. Lydia must have seen the doubt. She leaned in again, lowering her voice until it was a mere hush.
"I think I know why you ask."
Caralee went pale.
"It's all right, my lady," Lydia said quickly. "I said I wouldn't betray you, and I meant it. But I'm not the only one who's guessed."
Caralee's brows drew together in confusion. Lydia offered a faint smile, touched with pity.
"The human slave," she said, "was brought here just days before your arrival. That is— unusual. Our king does not keep human slaves. He despises the practice."
Caralee's head pounded.
"He only uses them when absolutely necessary—for leverage, or information. And even then, rarely. But what is rarer still is turning a human. And rarer still than that is His Majesty siring one himself."
Caralee's lips parted, but no sound emerged.
Lydia nodded gravely. "Yes, my lady. It's exceedingly rare. His Majesty only turns the willing, and only after careful judgment. Even if he agrees, he often assigns the task to someone else. He rarely takes fledglings directly."
Caralee clutched the edge of the vanity, her knuckles paling.
"So you see," Lydia continued, "both of these things have not occurred in centuries— and then suddenly both, in the same week? Everyone with ears at court has drawn the same conclusion."
The blood drained from Caralee's face. She felt faint. The implications sank in slowly—like poison.
Lydia's voice dropped further. "He must be someone from your past. Perhaps someone— significant."
Caralee said nothing.
"I saw your face," Lydia whispered. "When you saw him. I saw the tears when you asked me to remove him. You didn't react that way to the other feeders. But this one—"
Caralee bit her lip hard, but the tears still came, shimmering like pearls along her lashes.
"You knew him," Lydia said, softly but without question.
Caralee turned away, unable to deny it, unable to voice it.
Lydia stepped closer, kneeling beside her. "Was he… someone important?"
Caralee nodded, slowly.
Lydia's voice became more delicate, more fragile. "Your brother?"
A pause. Silence.
"Your cousin?" Another silence.
"A relative?" Still nothing.
And finally—barely a whisper, barely a breath—"Your lover?"
Caralee's lip quivered.
And then, one silent, heartbroken nod.