Chapter 4 – The Other Maid
The ninth morning began like the eight before it.
I woke on the cot, the thin blanket pulled to my chin. My knees were sore, but the pain was now a familiar, dull throb rather than the sharp agony of the first day. I sat up, swung my legs down, felt the shift in balance — shorter legs, wider hips, the dress brushing my ankles.
I washed my face, dressed, made the bed, wiped the table. I prepared the tea with less herb and the same tiny spoon of honey.
I was setting the cup on the tray when the door opened.
She entered.
The Demon Queen. Black hair to her waist, red eyes, black velvet gown with silver embroidery. She stopped at the table, looked at the cup, took a sip.
"Good," she said.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
She nodded and opened her book.
I stood behind her, hands clasped, eyes lowered, the thin cotton gloves on my hands.
After a few minutes she said, "Come closer."
I stepped forward.
"Your hands," she said.
I lifted them.
She took my right hand, turned it over, felt the fabric of the glove.
"The gloves are still intact," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She released my hand.
"Kneel."
I knelt.
The stone was cold.
She read.
I knelt.
The pain came, faint now. I had learned how to position my knees on the least uneven part of the floor, how to keep my back straight without locking my muscles. I breathed, kept still.
She turned a page.
"You are still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and rubbed my knees through the gloves.
The order had been the same.
But today nothing new had happened.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees hurt less.
My body was learning.
I closed my eyes.
---
The tenth morning brought something new.
I woke, went through the routine, prepared the tea with less herb and the same spoon of honey.
When she entered, she drank, said "Good," and opened her book.
After a few minutes she said, "Come closer."
I stepped forward.
"Your hands," she said.
I lifted them.
She took my right hand, turned it over, felt the fabric.
"The gloves are still intact," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She released my hand.
"Kneel."
I knelt.
The stone was cold.
She read.
I knelt.
The pain came, faint.
She turned a page.
"You are still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and rubbed my knees through the gloves.
The order had been the same.
But today the door opened again after she left.
Another maid entered.
Mira.
Mira was in her early twenties, average height, slim but with the solid, capable build of someone who had worked in the palace for years. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a thick braid, not for appearance but to keep it out of her way. Her face was ordinary, not striking, but her eyes were gray and sharp, constantly scanning the room as if counting every movement. Her voice was low and quick, her words short and direct, without any softness. Her hands were rough, nails cut short, and a faint burn scar marked her left wrist. She wore the same black maid's uniform, but her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows for work.
She stopped when she saw me sitting on the cot.
"You're the new one," she said. Not a question.
"Yes," I said quietly.
"I'm Mira," she said. "I take care of the east wing. The Queen doesn't like us talking, but you'll learn that soon enough."
I nodded.
She set the basket of folded linens down and looked at my knees.
"You've been kneeling," she said.
"Yes."
"Every day?"
"Yes."
She clicked her tongue. "That'll ruin your knees if you don't pad them."
"I have the gloves," I said, holding up my hands.
Mira snorted. "Gloves are for your hands, not your knees."
She opened the basket, pulled out a folded square of thick wool, and tossed it to me.
"Put this under your knees. The Queen won't say anything, but she'll notice you're not wincing."
I caught the wool. It was rough, warm, heavier than it looked.
"Thank you," I said.
Mira shrugged. "Don't thank me. Just don't embarrass the rest of us by collapsing."
She picked up her basket and turned to go, then paused.
"One more thing," she said. "The Queen doesn't like eye contact. Keep your eyes down, even when she talks to you. If you look at her too long, she thinks you're challenging her."
"I'll remember," I said.
Mira nodded and left.
I sat on the cot holding the square of wool.
It was the first time anyone had spoken to me beyond an instruction.
I put the wool under my knees.
The stone was still cold, but the padding made a difference.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees hurt less.
My body was learning.
I closed my eyes.
---
The eleventh morning I used the wool under my knees.
I woke, went through the routine, prepared the tea with less herb and the same spoon of honey.
When she entered, she drank, said "Good," and opened her book.
After a few minutes she said, "Come closer."
I stepped forward.
"Your hands," she said.
I lifted them.
She took my right hand, turned it over, felt the fabric.
"The gloves are still intact," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She released my hand.
"Kneel."
I knelt, placing the wool under my knees.
The stone was cold, but the wool made it bearable.
She read.
I knelt.
The pain came, very faint.
She turned a page.
"You are still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady, no sway.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and removed the wool, folding it neatly.
The order had been the same.
But today the wool was new.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees hurt less.
My body was learning.
I closed my eyes.
---
The twelfth morning I used the wool under my knees again.
I woke, went through the routine, prepared the tea with less herb and the same spoon of honey.
When she entered, she drank, said "Good," and opened her book.
After a few minutes she said, "Come closer."
I stepped forward.
"Your hands," she said.
I lifted them.
She took my right hand, turned it over, felt the fabric.
"The gloves are still intact," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She released my hand.
"Kneel."
I knelt, placing the wool under my knees.
The stone was cold, but the wool made it bearable.
She read.
I knelt.
The pain came, very faint.
She turned a page.
"You are still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and folded the wool neatly.
The order had been the same.
But today the wool was part of the routine.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees hurt less.
My body was learning.
I closed my eyes.