Chapter Three

By the third lesson, Elara had stopped pretending to understand the diagrams.

They were detailed—beautiful, even, in that distant, medical way: precise renderings of anatomy drawn in delicate pencil, labeled with looping script. Her mother laid them out on the table like they were precious heirlooms passed down through generations. There were dozens of them. Pages showing womb positions, ovulation charts, illustrations of the most “favorable” positions for conception.

She was supposed to memorize them all.

By the fifth lesson, she did.

“Arch your back,” her mother said calmly, one gloved finger tapping a sketch of a faceless woman folded beneath her husband. “That allows for deeper penetration. Increases the chances.”

Elara nodded. She had long learned not to ask questions.

The room smelled like lavender and ink and sweat. The fire crackled in the hearth, trying and failing to bring warmth to the space. Two of the senior maids stood to the side, silent as shadows, their faces unreadable. Another sat behind Elara with a thick braid of hair coiled around one hand, re-braiding the younger girl’s hair over and over as the lesson continued.

Her scalp stung. Her legs were sore from the positions they'd made her hold. Her stomach churned from the tea they made her drink to "cleanse her womb"—a bitter, herbal thing that burned going down.

But she didn’t complain.

She’d learned to smile instead. Small, docile. The smile of a girl who wanted nothing more than to please. The kind of smile that earned praise. And permission.

“You’ll be expected to guide him, especially if he’s impatient,” her mother continued. “Men aren’t naturally gentle. And your first time will hurt. But don’t resist. That makes it worse.”

Elara nodded again.

She had memorized that too.

How to please him. How to prepare her body for him. How to respond to his touch. When to breathe. When to moan.

They had given her scripts.

Literal ones.

Lines of what to say when he entered her room. What to say after. How to thank him when he finished. How to ask for permission to touch him. How to apologize when she failed to satisfy.

“You’ll bleed the first time,” one of the maids offered. “That’s good. It means he’ll know you were kept pure.”

Elara’s cheeks didn’t flush. Not anymore.

The heat of embarrassment had long since burned out, leaving only a tired sort of numbness.

She wanted to lie down.

Not cry. Not protest. Just… lie down.

But there was no time for that.

They had another round of "exercises" before dinner.

One of the younger maids entered with a tray of wooden models—grotesquely detailed. Her mother picked one up without hesitation.

“This is what he will look like. Roughly.”

Elara swallowed, slowly. Her mouth had gone dry.

“Hold it.”

She did.

It was heavier than it looked.

“Now show us what you’ve learned.”

And so she did.

Hands trembling slightly, she moved as instructed. Smiled as instructed. Let her mouth form words she didn’t feel. Posed her body the way the sketches had shown her. Heard the murmured approval. Felt her soul retreat just a little further.

There were no windows in the room. The curtains had been drawn days ago.

Time had started to bend.

Morning bled into afternoon bled into evening. The lessons came in waves—bodily, behavioral, biological. How to bathe properly before mating. How to clean up afterward. How to kneel during punishment. How to accept discipline with gratitude.

She had passed every test.

Her mother said she was a fast learner. One of the maids said she was lucky—some girls fought the training. Some cried. Some ran.

Elara didn’t run.

She didn’t even think to.

He hadn’t even looked at her.

Not once.

She remembered his face, though. Not clearly—just the shape of it. The darkness around his eyes. The way he had sat slightly apart from the others, too still, like a painting that might shift if you blinked.

He hadn’t smiled.

He hadn’t touched her.

That should have been a relief. But somehow, it wasn’t.

She didn’t think he wanted her.

And that meant she would have to work even harder.

She would have to earn it. His attention. His approval. His warmth, if there was any to be earned.

Because if she failed, it wouldn’t just be her shame. It would be her family’s.

“You will have to be useful,” her mother reminded her as they laid out her nightgowns later that evening. “Especially in the first months. If you don’t conceive quickly, they may begin to question your value.”

“I understand,” Elara whispered.

“Do you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She folded each gown carefully. Silk, lace, soft cotton. All of them designed to be removed quickly.

She touched the ivory ribbon on the last one—just a brush of her fingers.

It was pretty.

She liked pretty things. Or maybe she used to. She couldn’t quite remember.

The maid behind her gently took the gown from her hands.

“You’re lucky,” she said softly. “He’s young. Clean. Could’ve been one of the uncles.”

Elara smiled again.

Yes. Lucky.

So lucky.

Her body ached as she climbed into bed that night, every muscle humming with the soreness of controlled posture and forced poise. Her back stung faintly from the thin birch rod her mother had used to correct her slouch earlier. Her scalp throbbed from the tightness of her braid.

She stared at the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach.

Somewhere, far off, a bell chimed the hour.

Soon, she would be sent away.

To that cold mansion in the woods. To that silent man. To the future everyone seemed so eager to begin for her.

Elara closed her eyes.

She didn’t pray. She didn’t cry.

She rehearsed the script one more time in her head.

Good evening, my husband. I exist to serve. Please teach me how to love you properly.

Then she smiled, just faintly, as the dark settled over her like a second skin.