The floorboards of the tiny cottage groaned under the frantic, repetitive rhythm of Madeline's boots. Back and forth. Wall to window. Window to wall.
She held the heavy parchment between her trembling fingers, staring at the elegant, looping calligraphy as if it were a venomous snake preparing to strike. She read the words again, and again, and again, praying the ink would somehow rearrange itself into a harmless merchant's receipt.
It didn't. Recruit Madel. Royal Guard.
"No, no, no," Madeline whispered, her voice bouncing uselessly off the damp stone walls. She stopped pacing and collapsed into the rickety wooden chair by the hearth. "This can't be. This has to be a dream. I hit my head when I fell in the mud. I'm asleep."
She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the soft flesh of her forearm, twisting until her nails dug deep. The sharp, blooming pain shot up to her shoulder. She opened her eyes. The letter was still there. The golden wax seal of the Crown mocked her from the edge of the table.
She didn't know whether to laugh until she choked or weep until her eyes bled. Was she cursed? Had someone placed a hex on her bloodline? The Woodsman had threatened to kill her, but this... desertion from the Royal Guard meant public execution. It was a noose wrapped in silk.
If she told Charlene, the poor girl would likely have a heart attack right here on the rug. And her grandmother—frail, unconscious, clinging to life by a thread—if she woke up only to learn her granddaughter had enlisted in a meat grinder of a military force to escape a debt collector, her fragile heart would simply shatter.
Madeline felt the walls of the cottage closing in. Death felt like the only way out, but the primal, beating thing in her chest refused to surrender. She wasn't ready to die. Not for Woodsman, and not for the King.
Needing to shock her system, she fetched water from the basin and scrubbed herself raw. She hoped the cold water would wash away the lingering stench of the alleyways, the ghost of Woodsman's touch, and the invisible stain of the ink on her fingers. But as she scrubbed, the heavy dread in her stomach only hardened into a cold stone.
She dressed in her own threadbare clothes, tucking the damning envelope deep into the inner pocket of her cloak. She needed a distraction. Charlene would be exhausted when she returned from the washhouse, her hands cracked from lye and hot water. Madeline forced her trembling hands to chop root vegetables, the rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack of the knife against the wooden board the only sound keeping her tethered to reality.
She set a pot of thin stew over the fire. As the broth bubbled, she sat rigidly by the hearth, her hand resting over her pocket.
Clack.
The sudden sound of the front door latch lifting sent a jolt of pure terror through Madeline's spine.
Charlene pushed through the door, bringing a gust of freezing fog with her. She looked utterly drained, her face pale and her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, but she managed a weak smile. She hung her cloak on the rusted nail by the door.
"Maddy, what are you doing sitting over there in the dark?" Charlene asked, rubbing her bruised neck absentmindedly.
"I was just... a little cold," Madeline lied, her voice tight. She forced the corners of her mouth upward into a fragile smile. "I prepared dinner."
"I was wondering where that heavenly aroma was coming from," Charlene sighed in relief, dragging her feet as she made her way to the small wooden table. She pulled out a chair, the wood scraping loudly against the stone floor. Madeline followed, moving like a wind-up toy, and sat opposite her.
Madeline kept her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her bowl. She was acutely aware of the crinkle of the parchment hidden in her cloak hanging just a few feet away. Should I tell her? Can I tell her? If she didn't, Charlene would wake up tomorrow to find her gone. But if she did, the panic might destroy them both.
Charlene blew on her spoon and tasted the stew. She closed her eyes in appreciation before opening them again. "Could you pass me the salt, Maddy?"
Madeline didn't move. She was staring right through the wooden table, her mind miles away, trapped in a courtyard filled with armed soldiers and executioners' blocks.
"Maddy?" Charlene asked, her brow furrowing. She waved a hand across Madeline's line of sight, startling her so badly she almost knocked her bowl over. "Are you okay?"
Madeline swallowed hard, her throat feeling like sandpaper. "Y... yes."
"Aren't you going to eat?"
"I'm not really hungry," Madeline whispered, gripping her hands together in her lap to hide their shaking.
Charlene kept talking, trying to fill the heavy silence with stories from the washhouse—gossip about the overseer, complaints about the cold water—but to Madeline, it sounded like someone speaking underwater. She saw Charlene's lips moving, but the words dissolved into static.
Eventually, Charlene stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Maddy," Charlene said, her voice dropping to a serious, terrified whisper. "You aren't listening. What happened today? Is this about Woodsman? Did his men come at you in the market?"
Madeline squeezed her eyes shut, unable to respond.
Charlene reached across the table, her wet, rough hands enveloping Madeline's trembling ones. "You don't have to worry, Maddy. I told you I'd protect you. We'll figure a way out of this."
Protect her. The word echoed mockingly in Madeline's skull. How could a washhouse maid protect her against the entire King's army?
Madeline opened her eyes. The guilt of lying to the one person keeping her alive was heavier than the fear.
"Char," Madeline whispered, her voice cracking. "I need to show you something. But... but you have to promise me you won't get mad. You have to promise you won't panic."
Charlene's face hardened with confusion and a dawning dread. "I promise."
Madeline hesitated. Her breathing turned shallow. "Or... let's just forget about it. It's nothing. Eat your soup."
"Madeline, don't you trust me?" Charlene asked, deeply hurt.
That was the breaking point. With a long, shuddering breath, Madeline stood up. She walked to the door, reached into the pocket of her cloak, and pulled out the envelope. It felt like it weighed fifty pounds. She walked back to the table and placed it directly in front of Charlene.
"What is this?" Charlene asked, staring at the thick, cream-colored paper. Her eyes flicked to the heavy wax seal. "Maddy... why does this have the Crown's crest?"
Madeline couldn't speak. She looked away, fixing her gaze on a crack in the stone wall.
With agonizing slowness, Charlene broke the wax seal. She unfolded the parchment. Madeline heard the rustle of the paper, followed by the complete cessation of Charlene's breathing.
One second passed. Then five. Then ten.
Charlene stared at the document without blinking. All the blood drained from her face, leaving her looking like a marble statue. It looked as though time itself had frozen in the tiny cottage.
The tension was unbearable. Madeline couldn't stand the silence a moment longer.
"I'm suddenly so tired," Madeline blurted out, her voice unnaturally loud. She forced a fake, hollow yawn. "I think I'll head to bed now. We can... we can talk about this tomorrow."
She turned and took a desperate step toward the cot in the corner, desperate to escape the judgment, the fear, the reality.
"Madeline."
The word cracked through the room like a whip. It was the first time Charlene had ever used her full name, and the tone lacked any of its usual warmth. It was hollow. Terrified.
Madeline slowly turned back to face the table, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Charlene slowly looked up from the parchment, her eyes wide with a terror that rivaled anything Woodsman had ever caused.
"Madeline," Charlene breathed, the parchment shaking violently in her grip. "What have you done?"