What Was Never Mine

There was a rhythm to Hawthorne Castle that revealed itself only to those who served it.I did not understand it at first — only felt it in my bones. The bells rang for the nobility, but the stone woke us earlier, and more harshly. My days began before the sun had decided whether it would show its face at all: cold floors beneath bare soles, sleeves rolled before prayers were finished, the quiet understanding that slowness was not forgiven kindly here.I was a general maid, which meant I belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once. I scrubbed where I was told. I carried what was handed to me. I moved through halls built to forget me, through passages designed so that servants might pass unseen, unheard, and unremembered.At the time, I believed that was safety.The morning began as most mornings did — with work that left its mark. Buckets hauled from the well until my shoulders burned. Ash swept from the hearths before the cook’s temper could rise with the smoke. Trays carried, spills

The day began as most days did — with cold stone underfoot and the familiar ache in my hands before the sun had properly climbed the sky.Mistress Hale had me in the scullery first, hauling buckets and scrubbing the soot from last night’s pots until the water turned black and my fingers stung from lye. When the cook clapped her hands and declared the hearth was hungry again, I was sent to fetch kindling from the lower stores. When the pantry boy dropped a sack of grain and split it open like a careless wound, I was made to sweep every last kernel from the corners as though my life depended on it.In truth, it often did.A general maid does not belong to one hall or one household. I belonged to need. To the next voice calling from the next doorway. To the endless list of tasks that kept the castle clean and running while noblefolk slept and argued and prayed and feasted above our heads.By midmorning, I was given the basket and told to take it to the seamstress — thread, needles, a str

There are places in Hawthorne Castle that exist only if you already know they are there.Passages worn thin by centuries of servants’ feet. Narrow doors disguised as paneling. Stairwells that lead nowhere unless you turn at the correct landing and press your palm to stone polished smooth by repetition. I had known them all since I was a girl small enough to slip beneath carts and bannisters, since the castle had taught me its body the way a mother teaches her child the shape of her hands.It was why I was not looking where I walked when I heard his voice behind me.“Edith.”He did not call out. He never did. The prince spoke my name the way one might test the weight of a word before deciding whether it belonged in the world.I stopped anyway.The corridor I stood in was dim, tucked between the eastern wing and the old solar that had not been used since the queen’s death. Dust softened the tapestries here; the air smelled faintly of stone and dried lavender. I should have turned at onc

There are moments in a life when the world grows quiet—not because it has ended, but because it has chosen, briefly, to look away.By then, ours were no longer new.Secrecy had become its own language between us, refined through repetition and trust. A sprig of lavender left where only I would notice. A phrase spoken without meaning to any ear but mine—“The west corridor runs cold today.” I never answered. I never needed to. I simply altered my steps and went where I was meant to go.Our hidden place received us as it always did, unchanged and waiting. The stone walls remembered our voices now; the narrow window admitted just enough light to soften his features when he turned toward me. I no longer arrived with nervous haste. What I felt there was anticipation—quiet, steady, inevitable.We spoke as though time had been granted to us freely. Of his lessons, endured more than learned. Of my work, the paths I knew so well I could walk them without sight. He asked questions that lingered,

I did not hear the news from him.That, I think, was the first wound.I was polishing the brass rail outside the east gallery when two ladies passed behind me, their voices light and careless, as though the words they spoke were nothing more than gossip fit for tea.“—two years’ time,” one of them said. “The contracts were sealed this morning. The dowry alone—”“And such a perfect match,” the other sighed. “A princess raised for obedience. The king will be pleased at last.”Their footsteps faded before I could rise, before I could breathe. The cloth slipped from my fingers and fell to the stone, but I did not move to retrieve it. I knelt there, frozen, my pulse loud in my ears, my thoughts suddenly sharp and merciless.Two years.Sealed.Final.I told myself there must be some mistake. I told myself such things were spoken of freely long before they were decided. I told myself—foolishly—that if it were true, he would have told me.But when I saw him that evening, standing beneath the