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Princess and Maid - Chapter 11: Whispers and Warnings
🕑 Added 2025-03-27 04:22:39 +0000 UTCAdrastia and Lady Sephine stared at Roselle with identical expressions of surprise.
“What exactly did you hear?” Adrastia asked, her tone suddenly sharp.
Roselle wiped her palms against her apron. “I got lost yesterday morning—trying to find you and the gold antechamber for cleaning. I ended up in some sitting room with connecting doors.” She swallowed hard. “The Empress and a duke were talking through an adjoining door. They didn’t notice me.”
Lady Sephine’s posture went rigid. “Duke Orastian?”
“They didn’t use names,” Roselle admitted. “But she called him ‘Father,’ and he was tall with silver hair and a beard.”
“That’s him,” Adrastia confirmed, her jaw tightening. “Continue.”
“They were talking about you, Your Highness.” Roselle glanced nervously between the two noblewomen. “The Empress said something about making you understand your position, that the charade had gone on long enough.”
Lady Sephine leaned forward, her composed mask slipping. “What else?”
“They specifically mentioned House Sephine. The Duke said—” Roselle closed her eyes, trying to recall the exact words. “He said House Sephine could be ‘strangled quite easily’ because the Duchess is ‘drowning in debts.’ They talked about pressuring creditors.”
Adrastia’s hand clenched into a fist. “To what end?”
“The Empress mentioned suitors as well,” Roselle answered.
Lady Sephine inhaled sharply, her complexion paling. “That explains everything. The simultaneous demands, the trade disruptions, and the sudden offers… it’s all orchestrated.”
“There’s more,” Roselle added hastily. “Something about a Prince Reynold? The Emperor’s nephew? They’re bringing him to your debut ball.”
Adrastia froze, her focus sharpening like a blade. “Reynold? You’re certain that was the name?”
“Yes. They said he’d just returned from the eastern campaigns and had the military record you could only dream of achieving.” Roselle grimaced. “Their words, not mine.”
“Reynold is my cousin,” Adrastia explained, rising to pace the room. “My father’s sister’s son. He’s been commanding frontier forces for three years.”
Lady Sephine’s fan snapped open, fluttering rapidly to cool her flushed face. “A male debut at the Imperial Ball? It’s unheard of. Males have their own banquet during the Summer Quarter.”
“They said he’d completely overshadow you,” Roselle added. “And once House Sephine was isolated from House Lysara—your mother’s house, I’m guessing—and this prince showed such promise…”
“The Emperor would face pressure to reconsider me as heir apparent,” Adrastia finished, her voice dangerously quiet. “Did they mention the council?”
Roselle nodded vigorously. “Yes! They said the council had already drafted proposals suggesting a male of imperial blood would provide greater stability.”
Lady Sephine’s fan stilled. “Stability. That’s always the excuse when they want to strip power from women.”
Adrastia ceased pacing and fixed Roselle with a penetrating stare. “What else? Every detail matters.”
Roselle closed her eyes again, concentrating. “They mentioned someone named Lysithea? The Duke called her a ‘minor obstacle’ that couldn’t stop what they’d set in motion.”
“Commander Valorian,” Adrastia murmured, exchanging a significant look with Lady Sephine. “My mentor.”
“Anything else?” Lady Sephine pressed. “About my family specifically?”
“Just that instructions would go to the Sephine creditors by week’s end and their would be suitors,” Roselle answered. Wait was she repeating herself? It was hard to remember everything exactly. “Oh! And they mentioned me too.”
Adrastia’s head snapped up. “You?”
“They called me ‘the tavern girl situation.’ Said it was a peculiar move, even for you.” Roselle shifted uncomfortably. “The Duke dismissed it as insignificant, but said your ‘erratic behavior with commoners’ strengthened their position. Something about suggesting you abuse your power to harass innocent subjects.”
“That explains the dinner,” Adrastia said grimly. “My stepmother wasn’t just fishing. She was trying to build a case against me.”
For several minutes, both noblewomen bombarded Roselle with increasingly specific questions. Did they mention other houses? Were names of council members spoken? Did they reference the Imperial Guard or military deployments? Had they discussed timelines beyond the debut ball?
Roselle answered as best she could, straining to recall each detail while fighting the growing headache behind her eyes. When she finally admitted she couldn’t remember anything else, Adrastia relented, allowing her to sink back into her chair.
“What now?” Lady Sephine asked quietly.
Adrastia’s expression hardened with determination. “We counter every move. Starting with your house’s finances.”
“How? The damage is spreading by the hour.”
“I’ll authorize an immediate transfer from my personal funds to cover your most pressing obligations,” Adrastia declared. “Then we’ll approach Lord Cavendish. He controls enough banking interests to halt the creditor demands.”
Lady Sephine frowned. “Cavendish was mentioned in their conversation. He may be compromised.”
“You’re right. We should bypass him entirely.” Adrastia drummed her fingers against the armrest. “My personal funds should keep things from falling out of control long enough for me to prepare a loan on credit from the bank. And nothing stops us from putting our own pressure on Cavendish.”
Roselle watched the rapid exchange with growing bewilderment. The speed with which Adrastia formulated countermeasures made her head spin.
“What about Prince Reynold?” Lady Sephine asked.
A cold smile touched Adrastia’s lips. “Let him come. His appearance at a debutante ball will spark more scandal than if I arrived in full armor. The traditionalists will be horrified.”
Lady Sephine frowned. “Unless they’re already prepared to excuse the breach of protocol.”
“Then we ensure the breach becomes impossible to excuse.” Adrastia’s gaze drifted toward the window, calculating. “I need time to develop that strategy. We should discuss it with Lysithea. For now, we focus on securing your house.”
“And the tavern girl?” Lady Sephine asked, glancing toward Roselle.
Adrastia turned, her expression softening slightly. “I must apologize, Roselle Varian, but this information confirms you can’t possibly return home yet. The fact that they mentioned you specifically, even before the imperial dinner, means you’ve caught their attention.”
Roselle’s heart sank. “So I am trapped.”
“Protected,” Adrastia corrected. “And valuable. You’ve just provided intelligence that may save both House Sephine and my claim to the throne.”
Lady Sephine studied Roselle with new consideration. “Indeed. Your observational skills are impressive for someone without training.”
“Tavern work teaches you to listen while appearing not to,” Roselle muttered. “Drunk soldiers talk. A lot.”
“Then perhaps,” Adrastia said thoughtfully, “we should put those skills to further use.”
Lady Sephine raised an eyebrow. “You can’t be suggesting…”
“Not as a spy,” Adrastia clarified. “But as someone who can move through certain spaces more freely than either of us. With some guidance, of course.”
Roselle looked between them, apprehension building in her chest. “What exactly are you planning for me?”
“For now, simply to keep you close,” Adrastia answered. “They’ve already tried to use you against me once. They’ll try again if given the opportunity.”
“And I’m supposed to just… what? Follow you around until the Empress forgets I exist?”
Adrastia’s expression turned grim. “The Empress never forgets potential weapons. But she might underestimate this one.” She exchanged a meaningful look with Lady Sephine. “You said you’d stay until after the ball. By then, I suspect much will have changed.”
Roselle sank back in her chair, the full weight of her situation settling over her. She’d gone from tavern maid to palace servant to unwitting pawn in imperial politics in barely a week.
“Great,” she muttered. “Wonderful. Fantastic.”
Adrastia’s lips twitched. “Welcome to court life. It only gets more interesting from here.”
***
The servants’ dining hall hummed with the steady rhythm of clattering dishes and overlapping conversations. Roselle pushed her stew around with her spoon, mind drifting through the whirlwind of the past several days. Since revealing what she’d overheard, her role had transformed completely. No more cleaning random corridors or polishing endless ornaments. Now she attended the princess from dawn till dusk.
She’d helped Adrastia dress for council meetings, stood in the corner during military briefings, straightened stacks of paper into neat towers, and even accompanied her to a tense meeting with Lord Cavendish regarding “financial irregularities.” Each day revealed new aspects of the princess’s life—the endless demands, the constant scrutiny, the careful balance of military discipline and court politics.
Most surprising was Adrastia herself. In private moments, she spoke to Roselle almost as an equal, explaining political maneuvers and asking for her observations of servants’ gossip. The princess even seemed to value her opinion, particularly about how common people might perceive certain actions.
“Earth to Roselle!” Mira snapped her fingers inches from Roselle’s face. “You’ve been staring at that stew like it holds the secrets of the imperial treasury.”
Roselle blinked, returning to the present moment. Helen and Bess watched her with identical expressions of curiosity across the wooden table.
“Sorry,” Roselle muttered. “Just thinking.”
“About Her Royal Highness?” Helen wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “You’ve been practically attached to her side all week.”
Bess leaned forward slightly. “Are you moving to the central wing? That’s where ladies-in-waiting stay.”
“What? No!” Roselle shook her head emphatically. “I’m not—I’m just a commoner. Nothing’s changing that dramatically.”
Helen snorted. “Nothing dramatic about a princess personally selecting a tavern girl as her attendant.”
“Someone of her rank doesn’t keep commoners as personal attendants,” Mira pointed out, stirring her tea methodically. “It’s not done.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless she’s… mistreating you? Using you for something inappropriate?”
“Gods, no!” Roselle couldn’t help laughing. “It’s nothing like that. She’s just…”
“Just what?” Helen prompted when Roselle trailed off.
Roselle struggled to find the right words. How could she explain the complexity of Adrastia to people who’d only seen her from a distance? The princess who drilled with soldiers at dawn, debated policy with advisors at noon, and stayed up late studying military histories. The woman who remembered the names of kitchen servants but could forget to eat unless reminded.
Her long pause made Bess reach across the table and grasp her hands. “We’ll help you,” Bess whispered with unusual intensity. “Whatever you need. Just say the word.”
Mira smacked Bess’s shoulder. “Help her how, exactly? Are you planning to storm the royal apartments and demand better treatment for her?”
“It’s not like that,” Roselle insisted, tugging her hands free. “The princess isn’t—”
“Roselle Varian?” A young page in imperial livery appeared beside their table, scanning their faces with impatient efficiency.
“That’s me,” Roselle confirmed, turning toward him.
“Princess Adrastia requests your immediate attendance.”
Roselle frowned. “That can’t be right. The princess is scheduled for cavalry exercises with the Third Division today. She specifically told me I’d have the day to myself.”
The page’s expression remained professionally neutral. “Nevertheless, I’m to escort you directly.”
Helen and Mira exchanged meaningful looks across the table. Bess’s brow furrowed with concern.
“Something’s wrong,” Roselle murmured, rising from the bench. “She never changes plans without reason.”
Roselle followed the page through a labyrinth of corridors she’d never seen before. With each turn, the hallways grew narrower, the ceilings lower. The gleaming marble of the main palace gave way to unadorned stone, and the air took on a musty scent that spoke of disuse.
“Where exactly are we going?” Roselle asked, slowing her pace. The uneasy feeling in her stomach grew stronger with each step.
“Just ahead, miss.” The page gestured vaguely forward without turning around.
They passed a row of empty storage rooms, their doors hanging open to reveal nothing but dust and forgotten furniture. The silence pressed against Roselle’s ears like cotton wool.
Finally, they reached a dead-end corridor with a single wooden door at its terminus. The page stopped and gestured toward it.
“The princess will meet you here shortly,” he announced, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space. “Wait inside.”
“The princess doesn’t even know this part of the palace exists,” Roselle said, taking a step backward. “What’s really going on?”
The page’s face remained impassive. “Those were my instructions.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and hurried back the way they’d come, footsteps fading rapidly.
Roselle watched him disappear around the corner. This was wrong. All of it. She started to leave without hesitation, only to find her path suddenly blocked by three women in servant’s dress she’d never seen before.
She pivoted, intending to run to the door, but two more servants materialized from the shadows of an alcove she hadn’t noticed. Five against one. Her stomach dropped as understanding dawned. Ambush.
“Running away already?” An older woman with a hard face and graying hair stepped forward. “Before you’ve learned your lesson?”
“What lesson?” Roselle backed away until her shoulders hit the wall. “I don’t even know who you are.”
The woman’s smile never reached her eyes. “The lesson about what happens to common trash who forget their place.”
Before Roselle could respond, one of the women stepped forward and upended a wooden bucket. The contents—a foul-smelling slurry of human waste and rotting food—splashed across Roselle’s front, soaking her uniform and splattering her face.
The stench hit her like a physical blow. Gagging, Roselle lunged sideways, desperate to escape the circle of attackers. A hand grabbed her hair, yanking her backward with enough force to bring tears to her eyes.
“Not so special now, are you?” hissed a voice near her ear.
Tavern instincts took over. Roselle drove her elbow backward with all her strength, connecting with something soft. A pained grunt told her she’d found her target. The grip on her hair loosened enough for her to wrench free, tearing out several strands in the process.
She swung wildly, her closed fist connecting with the older woman’s face. The impact sent a shock through Roselle’s knuckles, but satisfaction flared as she saw blood spurt from the woman’s nose.
“You little bitch!” The woman staggered backward, hand pressed to her face. “Hold her down!”
Four pairs of hands grabbed Roselle at once, forcing her to her knees. She kicked and scratched, landing several blows, but the weight of numbers was overwhelming. Someone twisted her arm behind her back, sending white-hot pain shooting through her shoulder.
“Thought you could rise above your station?” The older woman loomed over her, blood dripping between her fingers. “Thought you were special because the princess picked you?”
The others dragged heavy canvas sacks forward—laundry bundles crusted with filth and gods knew what else. The first blow caught Roselle across the back, forcing the air from her lungs. Another struck her shoulder, then her side.
Roselle curled inward, trying to protect her head and face as the blows rained down. The heavy bundles struck with surprising force, each impact shooting dull pain through her body. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, tasting blood.
“This is just a friendly reminder,” the leader said between blows. “Stay in your place. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of. The princess doesn’t need tavern rats in her service.”
The beating continued for several more minutes, blows slowing down to come at random intervals whenever she dared to relax. It only stopped when she finally went limp, barely able to groan.
“Remember your lesson,” the older woman said, breathing heavily from exertion. “Next time will be worse.”
Footsteps retreated down the corridor. A door opened and closed in the distance. Then silence.
Roselle lay motionless on the cold stone, waste-soaked fabric clinging to her skin. Her entire body throbbed with pain. When she finally tried to push herself upright, her arms trembled violently, refusing to support her weight.
Someone powerful had sent them after her. She didn’t need three guesses to know who that was.
