"What are you going to do?"
Vera's voice drifted through the darkness of the small room, soft as a whisper but heavy with meaning.
Adeline heard the door close behind her friend, the old hinges protesting with a familiar squeak, but she remained motionless beneath her thin sheet, eyes squeezed shut, pretending sleep still held her. The fabric was worn threadbare in places, offering little warmth against the pre-dawn chill that seeped through the stone walls. If she didn't get up, then she didn't have to leave today. The logic was childish, she knew, but it offered a fragile comfort in the pre-dawn darkness.
Vera's shoes squeaked against the stone floor as she crossed the room, each step echoing in the confined space. The bed creaked, and Adeline felt the mattress dip as Vera sat on the edge, the ancient springs groaning in protest.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you and John." Vera's voice cracked slightly. "It's always been the three of us."
Adeline gave up the charade. She opened her eyes and looked up at her friend. Vera's curly brown hair had been thrown up in a messy bun, and deep purple bags shadowed her eyes. She looked terrible. Probably about as bad as Adeline felt. The single candle Vera had brought flickered on the chest of drawers, casting dancing shadows across the cramped room.
Adeline sighed, not knowing what words could possibly help. "Well, I'm glad that at least one of us gets to stay here. John and I will be okay."
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, metallic like fear, but what else could she say? That she was terrified? That every story she had heard about Ziad made her want to curl up and disappear? Vera already knew all of that.
Adeline pushed the thin sheet off her body and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, pulling herself up into a sitting position. Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, sending a shiver up her spine. Her muscles ached from a sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster—thirty-seven in total, spiderwebbing out from the water stain in the corner.
"Help me pack?" Adeline asked.
She knew Vera had chores to do today, responsibilities that wouldn't pause just because Adeline's world was ending. The laundry still needed washing, the floors still needed scrubbing, the Beasts still needed serving. But she wanted these last few hours. She had said her goodbyes yesterday during dinner, enduring tearful embraces and whispered well-wishes from servants she had known her entire life. The dining hall had smelled of salt from tears and the bitter herbs they'd served with the evening meal. The thought of going through that again made her chest tight.
Vera's face softened into a sad smile. "Of course."
The next few hours passed in a bittersweet blur of memories and laughter that sometimes turned to tears. They packed Adeline's meager belongings into a burlap sack—rough fabric that scratched at her hands—while reminiscing about the years they had spent together. Three worn dresses, folded carefully. Two pairs of underclothes, mended repeatedly. The sneakers on her feet would have to do. A wooden comb, one of the few items she truly owned. They remembered running through the castle gardens as young children, back when the world seemed vast and full of possibility, when the smell of roses and honeysuckle filled the air and the Beasts seemed less like masters and more like distant giants they could hide from.
They recalled becoming teenagers who gossiped about who was sneaking off with whom, their whispered conversations lasting late into the night in this very room, huddled under blankets while the castle slept around them.
The castle had been relatively kind to its young. Human children weren't expected to begin formal service until they turned ten, which meant Adeline, Vera, and John had enjoyed something resembling a childhood. They had explored the gardens, played games in the corridors when the Beasts weren't watching, and built a friendship that had sustained them through everything that came after. Before the age of ten, they'd been the responsibility of the human caretakers—elderly servants too old for hard labor who watched over the children while their parents worked.
"Do you remember when John and Sara started hooking up?" Vera asked suddenly, choking on her laughter. "We would have to cover for him and tell his mom that he was asked to go help out in the gardens."
Adeline chuckled at the memory, the sound rusty in her throat. "I doubt his mom believed us for even one second, especially given that we couldn't stop giggling while speaking to her."
"And remember when she caught them?" Vera snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. "She made all of us sleep out with the horses for lying to her!"
The memory brought the smell of hay and manure rushing back. They'd been fifteen, shivering in the stables, wrapped in horse blankets that reeked of animal sweat. They laughed together now, the sound filling the small room with warmth. They continued trading stories, each memory a small rebellion against the fear that threatened to swallow them both. Time moved too quickly, and before Adeline was ready, the sun had climbed high enough that pale light filtered through the single narrow window, illuminating dust motes that swirled in the air. She knew she could delay no longer.
She took one last look at her bedroom. Tears welled up in her eyes as she absorbed every detail. The space was barely large enough to hold her twin bed and small chest of drawers, but it was the only space that had ever truly been hers. The only corner of the world where she could close a door and be alone with her thoughts. The crack in the ceiling. The water stain shaped like a bird in flight. The loose stone in the corner where she used to hide small treasures as a child—a smooth pebble, a dried flower, a button that had fallen from a Beast's coat.
"Twenty-four years of existence and all we have to show for it is one sad burlap sack."
Vera's voice dripped with sarcasm, but pain lurked beneath the bitter humor. Adeline glanced down at her sack, the fabric bulging awkwardly where she'd stuffed her belongings without any real organization. A loud snort escaped her throat before she could stop it. She quickly threw her hands over her mouth to cover the sound, and the motion made Vera laugh harder. Within seconds they were both hunched over, hands pressed to their sides, laughing with a manic edge that bordered on hysteria. The sound echoed off the stone walls, too loud for the tiny space.
As Adeline had known it would, the laughter soon transformed into loud, fat sobs. She pulled Vera into a fierce embrace, burying her face in her friend's curly brown hair—still smelling faintly of the lavender soap they used in the laundry—and wrapping her arms as tightly as she could around Vera's waist. Vera returned the embrace with equal desperation, her fingers clutching at the back of Adeline's dress.
"I'm going to miss you so much," Adeline murmured into Vera's neck, her words muffled against warm skin.
Vera sniffled, her voice thick with tears. "Promise you'll write to me?"
"Of course!"
They both knew it was a lie. The cost of sending mail was far beyond what any human servant could afford—five copper coins for a single letter, more than a month's wages for most. It would take Adeline years to save enough money, and by then their lives would have moved in different directions. The connection they shared now, forged over two decades of shared existence, would fade into memory. That precious money, when she finally scraped it together, would go toward more immediate needs. Food. Clothing. Survival.
Adeline pulled away and held Vera's shoulders, taking one last long look at her friend. Vera's eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks stained with tears that caught the morning light. Adeline feared this image would be the one that haunted her, the version of Vera she would carry with her for the rest of her life.
She released Vera's shoulders and reached down, grabbing her burlap sack and throwing it over her shoulder. The weight was pitiful. Everything she owned in the world barely made the rough fabric sag. The strap bit into her shoulder through her thin dress.
No words passed between them as they left the bedroom and walked through the servants' quarters toward the side exit that led to the front gate. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway, past doors identical to Adeline's own, behind which her fellow servants were beginning their morning routines. The smell of breakfast drifted from the kitchen—porridge and bread, the same as always. At the doorway, Adeline turned and gave Vera a small nod. She didn't have the strength to say goodbye again. Her voice would break, and she wasn't sure she would be able to stop crying if she started.
Vera gave her a watery smile and turned back inside, disappearing into the dim corridor. Adeline watched her retreat until the door closed behind her with a soft thud. Even then, she didn't look away. Her eyes swept the length of the castle, committing every detail to memory. The gray stone walls, weathered by two hundred years of use. The narrow windows with their iron bars. The gardens visible in the distance, where morning mist still clung to the ground like a veil.
It was hard to believe this was the last time she would ever see this place. She had spent her entire life within these walls. Every memory she possessed had been formed here. Her first steps, her first words, her first understanding that she was not free and never would be. And now, with the snap of a finger, it was all being taken away.
Not wanting to dwell any longer, Adeline turned and headed toward the small group gathering by the gate. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and horse from the nearby stables. King Richard hadn't been exaggerating when he said only a few servants were leaving. Only sixteen people stood waiting, their breath misting in the cool air, John among them. His tall frame was easy to spot, his blond hair catching the early light.
Adeline couldn't help but wonder why King Heloix needed more humans. Usually, the system was self-sustaining. Servants were encouraged to reproduce with one another, often having four or five children—more mouths to feed when young, but more workers when grown. Those children grew up to replace their parents when they became too old or infirm to work. It was a cycle as predictable as the seasons. That process should eliminate the need to trade humans between kingdoms.
Maybe King Heloix was killing his servants at a rate faster than they could reproduce. Adeline's body shivered at the thought, goosebumps rising on her arms despite her long sleeves. While she desperately hoped the rumors of his cruelty were exaggerated, a larger part of her suspected they were all too true. The stories were too consistent, too detailed. Too many travelers passing through had whispered the same warnings.
"Hey." John's voice broke through her dark thoughts. "Sit next to me on the bus?"
Adeline nodded, unable to trust her voice. The word "bus" still felt foreign on her tongue—another human invention the Beasts had adopted for transporting cargo and servants between kingdoms. John seemed to understand. He didn't try to strike up a conversation. They simply stood next to one another in silence, their sacks thrown over their shoulders, deep bags shadowing both their eyes. Around them, other servants shifted nervously, whispered prayers, or stared at the ground in resignation.