6

Amber was sleeping soundly, still wrapped in the euphoria of her brief break from housemaid duties. Her rest was deep, her body slack, unaware that trouble was already brewing.

Meanwhile, in the dining room, Isis and Rhea entered, both yawning as they made their way toward the table. Their drowsy expressions quickly morphed into surprise when they found the table empty—no usual steaming cups of coffee waiting.

“Mother, no coffee?” Rhea whined.

“This is why I keep my maids close,” Isis fumed. “Just a few days off, and she’s already grown lazy.”

“Mother, please do something,” Rhea groaned, stomping over to a chair. She flopped down and folded her arms, her mood instantly soured.

At that moment, Amber rushed into the dining room, still in her nightdress, hair tousled and eyes wide from panic. The realization had hit her like a brick—she’d broken the cardinal rule: the morning coffee.

“I’m so sorry, I woke up late!” she blurted, out of breath and desperate. “I’ll get your cups of coffee right away.”

“As in… you want to start making it now?” Isis asked darkly.

“Yes, madam. I’m really sorry.”

Amber’s heart pounded. The look Isis gave her could’ve frozen fire.

“On your knees,” Isis ordered, her voice soft but sharp with steel.

“Madam…”

“Now!”

Amber dropped to her knees.

“Hands up. Eyes closed,” Isis continued, and Amber obeyed. Oddly, the act of closing her eyes gave her a small sliver of comfort—if only because it shielded her from Isis’s glacial stare and Rhea’s mocking grin.

“Good,” Isis said calmly. “You’ll stay like that until I say otherwise.”

Amber swallowed hard. She would’ve given anything to turn back time and fix this mistake.

“You brought this on yourself,” Rhea said, her voice like sandpaper.

“Darling, let’s go get our baths,” Isis told her daughter. “I’ll make food. Some people think if they slack off, we’ll collapse.”

Amber knew some people meant her. She knew Isis misunderstood her, but she also knew better than to argue.

As Isis and Rhea turned to leave, Amber called out, her voice trembling. “Madam, please… I won’t do it again. I promise.”

They paused.

“Try that pity nonsense on someone else,” Isis said, visibly irritated.

“I swear I won’t. Please… please…”

“One more word,” Isis snapped, “and you’ll be there longer than I intend.”

Amber bit her lip and stayed quiet. After a pause, she asked in a small voice, “How… how long, madam?”

“As long as I want,” Isis said flatly. “This will teach you to sit up.”

Amber froze, her face draining of color.

Rhea laughed. Amber began to sob, quietly at first.

“Better stop that,” Rhea sneered. “It’ll only drain your strength.”

Amber listened to their retreating footsteps, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. But she cried only for a few seconds before mentally commanding herself to stop. Tears wouldn’t save her—they never did.

Instead, she devised a small strategy. She’d drop her aching arms when the house was quiet, then lift them quickly at the sound of footsteps.

It worked—twice.

But the third time, she wasn’t quick enough.

“Mother!” Rhea’s voice rang out. “Amber is cheating!”

Amber shot her arms up again, but it was too late.

“Watch her,” Isis’s voice echoed from within the house. “Let me know if she tries that again.”

“Okay, Mother,” Rhea said gleefully.

So Amber remained still, eyes shut, arms trembling, while Rhea watched her like a hawk. The minutes dragged, turning into a full hour. Sweat trickled down her face. Her knees ached, her whole body shook. Rhea occasionally chuckled with sick amusement.

Then Amber heard it—Isis’s footsteps. Rhea was still present, so it had to be her.

Amber whimpered softly, voice hoarse. “Please… please…”

“You’re released,” Isis said.

Amber collapsed forward, her strength completely gone. She opened her eyes to see Isis and Rhea standing over her. Their faces were unreadable. Then they turned and left.

She lay there for a while, the silence around her almost sacred. Eventually, she gathered the energy to stand. Life had to go on. She was just grateful they’d left her to recover.

Rhea silently followed her as she made her way toward her room.

As Amber passed the portrait of the Prince hanging in the living room, she instinctively paused and glanced at it.

She heard Rhea laugh.

“Even in this state, you still can’t resist a glance,” Rhea said. “I wonder what the Prince would do if he knew a maid couldn’t take her eyes off his portrait. Laugh? Or maybe… the royals would have your head?”

Amber didn’t reply. She turned and continued walking, her knees still shaky.

Behind her, Rhea spoke again—this time not to her, but to the portrait.

“Oh Arnold, my love. No one is going to steal you away from me.”

Amber stole one last glance. Rhea was now standing close to the portrait, delicately tracing her finger along its edge.

Amber’s heart skipped, and she hurried off—craving the little peace her room could offer.

---

Later that evening, dark clouds loomed above the house. The air was heavy with the promise of a pounding rainstorm.

Outside, near the water’s edge behind Isis’s home, Amber had just finished washing dishes. She stacked the clean ones in a tray and balanced it on her head, hurrying back to the house—unaware she’d left one ornate bowl behind, sitting atop a wide, flat stone.

Back indoors, around 8 PM, thunder rolled as rain lashed against the windows. Amber was kneeling in the kitchen, searching through a cabinet beneath the counter.

A pot of Irish potatoes bubbled on the stove, the steam rising into the room.

“Where is that bowl?” she muttered, fingers moving along the rack of dishes.

She paused, trying to remember, but the noise of the boiling pot pushed her to abandon the thought. She stood, covered the pot with a towel, then opened it. Steam hissed up. The potatoes were almost done, water drying off.

She grabbed a sieve and basin.

Then came the voice—sharp and impatient.

“Hurry up, we’re starving!” Isis called from the dining room.

“What’s taking her so long?” Rhea chimed in.

Amber forced calm into her voice. “Hold on, madam. I’ll soon be there.”

She began pacing, arms crossed tightly. The cold wasn’t just from the weather—it came from the dread inside her.

“Mother, I’m in trouble,” she whispered.

Because deep in her heart, she feared what she already suspected:

She had lost Isis’s favorite bowl.

And if that was true, she’d need to brace herself again—for thorns.