Next morning, Elissa woke before the bells.
For a while she only sat by the window, legs tucked beneath her, forehead resting lightly against the cold stone. Outside, the night was slowly bleeding away. The heavy dark over the mountains thinned into deep blue, then the faintest silver, then pale, washed-out gold.
The castle roofs, white with frost, caught the first light like edges of glass. Smoke curled from distant chimneys. Somewhere below, the courtyard stirred—a clatter of buckets, the low murmur of stable hands, the echo of a lone cart wheel.
Skoll lay near her chair, eyes half-closed, nose occasionally twitching at sounds only he could hear. Every now and then he cracked one eye open to check on her, then huffed and settled again.
For a few brief minutes, the world felt simple: just light replacing dark.
A soft knock sounded, and before Elissa could answer, Martha nudged the door open with her hip, arms full of linens and towels.
"You're up," Martha said, eyebrows rising.
"I woke on my own," Elissa replied. "The light…wouldn't let me sleep."
"Good. Saves me the trouble." Martha set her things down and eyed her more closely. "How's your head?"
"It's fine ," Elissa said.
Martha made a quiet approving sound."humm".
Soon the copper tub was steaming behind the devider. Martha ushered Elissa behind a screen, fussing and clucking in the way that meant she was worried and refusing to say so directly.
The hot water eased the ache in Elissa's back and shoulders, washing away the last echoes of stiffness from sitting too straight and too still under too many eyes.
Martha's voice drifted over the screen. "Any nightmares?"
"No," Elissa said. "Just kept waking up, hearing the hall in my head."
"Mm." Martha understood more in that one small sound than any long speech could have.
When Elissa stepped out, cheeks flushed from heat and steam, Martha wrapped her in a towel and set to work, moving with brisk, familiar efficiency.
They chose a dress the color of soft yellow buttercups, the fabric falling in gentle lines, not too rich, not too plain. Martha laced the back, then stood back with her hands on her hips.
"You'll blind them, princess" Martha declared. "Like opening a window in a cellar."
"Is that…good?" Elissa asked.
"For you? Yes. For them? Let them squint." Martha reached for the brush and started gently working through her hair. "They expect black and blood and secrets. Give them sunlight. Confuse their poor, shriveled hearts."
Elissa smiled faintly despite herself.
As Martha divided and wove Elissa's dark hair into a loose braid, she hesitated.
"You know," she began carefully, "no one would blame you if you stayed here for breakfast. I can have a tray sent up. You don't owe them your mornings as well as your evenings."
Elissa watched Martha's hands move in the mirror. "If I don't go, what will they say?"
"That you're exhausted. That last night was a lot. Overwhelmed ." Martha's mouth twisted around the last word as she murmured it under her breath.
Elissa met her own reflection's eyes. " You know.... They think I'm fragile. Or monstrous. Or cursed. I can't stop the stories, but…" She drew a slow breath. "I don't want them to see I'm afraid of them."
Martha's gaze met hers in the glass, sharp and assessing.
"So you go," Martha said quietly. "Not because you're not afraid—"
"—but because I am," Elissa finished, voice soft, "and I don't want it to own me."
Martha snorted softly. "I don't know why you got so dramatic, but I approve."
She tied off the braid and smoothed it over Elissa's shoulder.
All right," she said. "Dining hall it is. If anyone says something petty, you ignore them. If they say something worse than it, you tell me, and I will personally salt their tea." Martha humoured her to ease her tension a little.
On the other side of the castle, a very different morning was unfolding.
In a guest chamber draped in dark blue and silver, a figure stood before a tall mirror while a servant adjusted the fall of a coat. The reflection was watched not with vanity, but with calculation—head tilting slightly, testing how much charm lay in a faint smile, how much threat in the absence of one.
"The ball will be crowded," the figure said quietly, more to the glass than to the servant. "Too many eyes at once. But the morning? Softer eyes. Less guarded mouths."
The southern princess came to mind, alone at a table full of predators. The northern prince, always watching. The western heir, smiling too easily.
"So many pieces," the figure murmured. "So few moves needed."
A slow, satisfied smile curved those lips.
When the clothes were arranged exactly as desired, eyes went to met with the servant, servant bowed with a small nod and was dismissed with a flick of the fingers, and the figure left the room, expression now smooth, pleasant, unremarkable.
"Nothing in the face betrayed the plans coiling beneath the surface as the figure walked toward the dining hall."
In Elissa's room, Martha tied the last ribbon at her sleeve and stepped back.
"There," she said. "You look like spring snuck in early."
Elissa rose, smoothing her skirts. Her stomach fluttered, but her feet felt steady.
Martha watched her a moment longer. "Last chance," she said. "I can still barricade the door. Fake an illness. Set fire to the curtains."
Elissa gave her a look. "You like those curtains."
"Yes," Martha said flatly. "That's how much I dislike them staring at you."
Elissa's lips twitched. "I'm going."
Martha sighed, resigned. "Then remember: ignore them. Their stares, their whispers, their questions. Pretend they're drafts in the hall—annoying, but harmless."
"And if they're not harmless?" Elissa asked.
Martha's eyes hardened. "Then they'll find out."
That, oddly, helped.
They stepped out into the corridor. Skoll padded to the threshold, then stopped as Martha pointed sternly at the hearth.
"You," she said. "Stay. Guard. No scratching at doors. No following at a distance like a ghost. And if anyone enters without me or the princess, bite them. Politely."
Skoll blinked at her, then lay down again with a soft, put-upon sigh.