POV: Mara
Steam fogs the washing room until the world is a soft gray shape. A copper tank sighs as heated water trickles into the basin. I lower myself slowly, hissing when the warmth finds the stitched shoulder. The ache turns bearable in a minute, then close to holy.
Pia sits on a stool nearby, chattering as if words keep the pipes flowing. “Silvie says the Regent is more terrifying when she whispers. She never shouts. People who shout need the sound to make them tall.”
“What does she do?” I ask, scrubbing the grime from my arms, watching brown water spin down the drain.
“Looks. Then you realize you’re suddenly telling her everything and also begging her to adopt you. It’s a problem.”
I try not to laugh because laughter would tip into something else. “I won’t beg.”
“I didn’t say you would. I said she could make you want to,” Pia says, handing me soap that smells like lemon peel and clean slate. “Turn. I’ll wash your hair. Don’t bite me.”
“I don’t bite.”
“I do, but only bread,” she says, serious.
I sink, then sit up, water cutting rivers down my face. Pia’s fingers are efficient and gentle. She hums a tune I don’t know—something with steps in it, like a dance that needs both feet and breath.
“Why do you help me?” I ask.
“Because you’re here,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Because Silvie told me to. Because you look like a person who doesn’t remember what warm feels like, and I’m good at warm.”
Aster sighs with pleasure in my ribs.
“Warm.”
After, Pia wraps me in a clean towel that smells like sun. She weaves my hair into a simple braid, deft fingers tugging without pain. When I look in the chipped mirror, a woman looks back who could pass for someone’s sister rather than someone’s warning.
The dress Pia finds is soft black with a small pink ribbon at the throat—not a ribbon for show, but a tie to keep the fabric closed. It falls to my calves and doesn’t bind my breathing. I flex my fingers. They no longer shake.
“Hearthworks rules,” Pia says as she helps with the ribbon. “Do not look up unless someone says your name kindly. If you must pass a corridor and someone important is coming, step into the doorway and pretend you belong to the wall. Do not run. Do not freeze. Move at the speed of useful. Drink water. If you can’t find Silvie, find me. I’m everywhere.”
“Useful,” I repeat. The word fits my mouth.
“And the most important thing.” She taps my chest over Aster. “Steady breath. No flaring. The citadel smells fear the way cats smell fish.”
I draw a slow breath, let it out. Again. Again, until the tremor in my limbs becomes a pulse I can set my steps to.
“Good,” Pia says, approving. “Now come learn where the cups go, or Silvie will make you eat with your hands and then judge you for it.”
We return to the main room. Work flows like a tide—peel, wash, stack, carry, return. I string my body to the rhythm, and soon the quiet part of my mind—the part that watches for sudden hands—can rest a finger-width. The clatter of plates and the hush of knives on boards make a music Aster hums along to.
Midday bells ring. Silvie distributes bowls and makes a circle with her finger—sit, eat. I spoon broth into my mouth, savoring onions and salt. I could cry for the taste, but I won’t waste water.
“Better,” Silvie says when she sees the color returning to my face. “You look like a human, not a rumor.”
“Thank you,” I say.
A bell sounds beyond the kitchens. Not the hour bell. Not the shift bell. A pattern I have never heard—four notes, then two, then a long-held tone that prickles my arms.
Silvie glances at the ceiling, then at me. “Don’t faint.”
“What is it?” I ask, already knowing.
“Summons. For the hibiscus hall.”
Pia squeezes my hand. “Nobles use that pattern. Also doom, but mostly nobles.”
I wipe my mouth, stand, straighten the pink tie at my throat, and keep my breath steady. “What do I do?”
“You walk,” Silvie says. “You answer what is asked. You do not embroider your story and you do not apologize for what isn’t your fault. If she offers water, drink. If she offers silence, take it.”
“And if she offers mercy?” My voice is quiet.
Silvie’s mouth softens. “Say thank you and put it in your pocket for when the world forgets to be kind.”
My legs feel like not-mine as I cross the kitchen and enter the corridor. The chime garden sings as the wind shifts, small clear notes. I pass a colonnade where blue light pools on the floor. A Shield steps out and nods, then peels away—escort without intrusion.
Aster settles, warm and coiled.
“Stand straight,” she says. “We know how to survive questions.”
The hibiscus hall waits at the end of a long, pale corridor. The double doors are carved with flowers and moons. A servant in dove-gray opens one wing. “Mara Ilyas?”
“Yes.”
“Enter.”
I do.