The heavy velvet curtains of Princess Veronica´s bedchamber were drawn tight, but they could not muffle the tempest brewing inside.
She was in a foul mood.
This was, in itself, not unusual.
Veronica felt like a caged lioness. The fever was a low, simmering coal in her chest, but the boredom was a far more agonizing affliction. Since Clara had left the room hours ago to "return the tea tray," the air had grown stale. The silence felt heavy. Every time a maid entered with a fresh bowl of tepid water or a vial of bitter tonic, Veronica's temper flared like a match on dry tinder.
"I said no," Veronica hissed, her voice a jagged rasp. She pushed herself upright, her silver hair spilling in tangled knots over her shoulders. "If you bring me one more damp cloth, I will ensure your next duty station is the laundry pits of the Southern Province."
"But Your Highness," the young maid stammered, her knees shaking, "the Royal Physician insisted-"
"Enough. Before I lose what little remains of my patience," Veronica snapped and then, "Where is she?"
The maid standing nearby stiffened.
"Y-Your Highness?"
The chamber felt wrong without the tutor's voice filling it with ridiculous commentary.
No teasing remarks.
No strange herbal concoctions.
No irritatingly calm presence that refused to back down.
"My tutor," Veronica said sharply. "She should be back by now. Wasn't she only returning the tray?"
The maid lowered her head.
"I believe Lady Clara is… occupied at the moment."
Occupied?
Veronica's irritation spiked immediately.
"Occupied with what?"
The maid hesitated.
"T-tutoring duties, I believe," the maid replied, though she didn't sound confident.
Veronica's expression darkened at once. The air in the room seemed to grow heavy as the mana around her stirred- dense, oppressive, pressing down on every person present. The maids stiffened where they stood, shoulders tense, breaths shallow beneath the invisible weight.
For a moment, no one dared speak.
Then one maid stepped forward, swallowing nervously.
"Y-your Highness," she said, bowing her head. "I saw Miss Clara earlier… she was in the kitchen, preparing snacks."
Veronica's posture shifted. The anger didn't vanish, but it transformed into a sudden, sharp curiosity. "Snacks? For herself? She's been gone long enough to bake a five-course banquet."
"Actually," the maid said, intentionally not mentioning a certain thirteen-year-old's involvement, "she looked quite determined. I believe she was working on something for you. Something to help with the throat."
The fire in Veronica's eyes dimmed, replaced by a strange, flickering light. She was making something for me?
Without another word, Veronica retreated back into the bed, pulling the silken sheets up to her chin. She looked like a cat that had just been promised cream. "Very well. If she is being useful, I suppose I can wait. Tell the guards... tell them no one else is to enter."
"As you wish," the maids said in unison, bowing before they exited.
Alone in the dim room, Veronica felt her mood shift with a speed that would have baffled the court. She reached for a book on the nightstand, but she didn't read it. She positioned herself against the pillows, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers.
She wanted to look "majestic," yet "fragile." She wanted Clara to walk in and see exactly how much she was suffering.
Hurry up, you insufferable woman, she thought, then a little whisper,
"Hurry up and spoil me," her heart giving a traitorous little thud.
***
Halfway across the palace, the "Mission Partners" were having a crisis of confidence.
Victoria stood paralyzed in the center of the North Corridor. In her hands, she held a silver tray bearing six perfectly golden madeleines, their edges glistening with a translucent indigo glaze. The Thermora-Glazed treats smelled of citrus and magic, humming with a faint, bioluminescent glow that matched the girl's wide, terrified eyes.
"Vicky, your feet have stopped moving," Clara noted, stopping beside her. "Is there a sudden gravity anomaly I'm unaware of?"
"The atmospheric pressure in this hallway is suboptimal," Victoria whispered, her voice tight. "Furthermore, the crystallization of the sugar on the third madeleine is beginning to show signs of structural fatigue. If the glaze cracks before my sister consumes it, the flavor-to-heat-absorption ratio will be skewed by at least fifteen percent. We should retreat. We must recalibrate in the kitchen."
Clara sighed, not understanding a thing, looking down at the small girl who was hiding her fear behind a wall of big words. "Vicky, look at me."
Victoria slowly turned her head, her porcelain face pale.
"Vicky," Clara said, her voice firm but kind. "The glaze is a masterpiece. The stoichiometry is flawless. You aren't scared of the chemistry; you're scared of your sister. But here's the truth: she is currently trapped in a bed. She cannot run, and she is too tired to shout for more than five minutes. You have the cookies. You have the high ground. This is a total tactical victory in the making."
Victoria's grip on the tray tightened, making the porcelain rattle. "She once called me a ghost, Miss Clara. She said I should haunt another hallway."
Clara can´t help but giggle deep down.
Sounds just like her.
"She was sick and grumpy," Clara nudged her gently with her hip. "And she was lonely. Trust me. I'm the 'Mission Specialist.' Now, chin up. Imperial posture. Let's go."
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
Veronica knew immediately who it was. Inside, her heart leaped.
Clara.
Clara never knocked timidly like the servants did- never the hesitant tap-tap of someone afraid to disturb a volatile princess. Her knock was confident. Two firm taps, followed by a brief pause, as if she expected the door to open whether anyone granted permission or not.
Veronica's mood lifted instantly.
She suppressed it just as quickly.
The princess straightened, smoothing the blankets with practiced efficiency. She arranged the pillows behind her back and reopened the book she had thrown aside earlier, positioning it so that she looked mildly occupied rather than impatiently waiting.
Then she added a faint cough for effect.
Not too dramatic.
Just enough.
Her expression settled into something appropriately miserable. Her manipulative nature taking over.
Perfect.
"Let her in," Veronica said coolly.
The door creaked open.
"I would prefer to be left to rot in peace. Is that a difficult concept?" Veronica playfully started, expecting their usual banter.
Before Clara could reply, a smaller voice spoke instead.
"It is not medicine."
Veronica's eyes flicked upward.
Victoria stepped out from behind Clara.
She set the silver tray onto the bedside table with a deliberate clink.
"It is a batch of Thermora-glazed madeleines," Victoria said, her voice carefully composed. "They are designed to retain gentle warmth even in cooler environments. The Thermora nectar stabilizes the temperature during consumption, which should be beneficial for throat irritation."
She paused, glancing briefly at Clara.
"Miss Clara contributed… her baking skills and a well-needed encouragement," she added, more stiffly. "But the measurements and chemical balance were my calculations."
Veronica's eyes narrowed at her little sister. She was holding onto Clara's dress. A sharp, tiny prick of something- not quite anger, but something uncomfortably like jealousy- twisted in Veronica's gut.
Since when did they get close?
Veronica stared at the madeleines. They were beautiful- too beautiful to have come from the palace's main kitchen. She looked at Victoria's hands and spotted it: a small, red burn on the girl's thumb, and a smudge of white flour right on the tip of her nose.
Veronica opened her mouth to say something biting- to ask why Victoria was wasting her time in a kitchen like a commoner- but she caught Clara's eye.
Clara wasn't smiling. She was giving Veronica a look of absolute, terrifying intensity. It was a glare that said: Your sister stayed up half the afternoon worrying about the "stoichiometry" of your snacks. If you are mean to her, I will personally ensure your next lessons are going to be filled with writing essays worth a one-hundred thousand words.
Veronica swallowed. This was the first time Clara glared at her and she felt like obeying.
She reached out a pale, thin hand and picked up one of the cakes.
"It looks... suspiciously blue," Veronica muttered, though the sharpness was gone from her voice.
"That is the bioluminescence of the blossom," Victoria said breathlessly. "It is a sign of freshness."
Veronica took a bite.
The world went still. Victoria fidgeted. The madeleine was light- impossibly so- but the glaze was the true miracle. As it hit her tongue, the "chill" of her fever seemed to be sucked out of her throat and into the cake. A wave of cooling relief washed over her vocal cords, followed immediately by a gentle, steady warmth that radiated from her stomach to her chest. It didn't taste like sugar; it tasted like a summer evening after a rainstorm.
"It's... decent," Veronica said. She cleared her throat, and for the first time, it didn't hurt to breathe. "Significantly less offensive than the sludge Clara tried to force down my throat once."
"Hey!
Victoria's eyes lit up like stars. "Just as I hypothesized. Though I fear the sugar levels are still five percent too high for optimal-"
"Shut up and sit down, Victoria," Veronica interrupted.
Victoria flinched, her face falling.
"You're making the air in the room feel anxious with all that chatter," Veronica finished, her voice softer than it had been in years. She patted the edge of the large bed. "Sit. If I have to eat these, you might as well tell me how you managed to stabilize the nectar without it curdling the butter. It's a notoriously difficult reaction."
Victoria blinked. She looked at Clara, who gave her a wink and a thumbs-up.
Slowly, tentatively, she climbed onto the edge of the bed. She sat perfectly upright, but her eyes were fixed on her sister.
"I used a cold-press extraction method," Victoria began, her voice gaining confidence. "And I added a pinch of stabilized sea salt to lower the freezing point..."
Clara watched them quietly from the dim edge of the room. On the bed, Veronica leaned back against her mountain of pillows, absently reaching for a second madeleine while listening- really listening- to a ten-year-old explain the physics of baking.
Clara realized she was no longer needed for this part of the mission. She began to back toward the door to give them a moment of privacy.
Clara felt something in her chest loosen.
The bridge had been built.
All it needed now was space.