Marie kept to the shadows.
She rose before the sun, working in the laundry and stables—anywhere far from the main halls. Her tasks were dull, her hands blistered, but the ache in her chest hurt more. Every hallway she cleaned, every corner she swept, she did with her head bowed and heart clenched.
Avoiding the Duke was harder than she imagined. He was not like the others—he did not linger in his wing or vanish with the hunting parties. No, he was present—in the Queen's antechamber, in the gardens, even among the musicians one evening, speaking with the composer as if court politics did not concern him.
But his eyes searched. Marie felt it.
Once, in the Grand Corridor, she turned a corner too quickly and saw him.
He stood talking to another noble, but the moment he saw her, his conversation halted. His eyes met hers.
Marie's breath caught.
She dropped into a curtsy—quick, practiced—but did not speak.
Then she turned and walked away.
She did not see the flash of confusion on his face. Or the quiet frustration that followed.
---
By week's end, the strain was beginning to show. Her movements slowed. Her eyes dulled. She no longer lingered in the garden. She no longer dreamed.
At night, she lay awake in her narrow cot, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wondering how long before they struck. How long before the lies arrived—written in ink she could not wash away.
Léonie brought her scraps of news from the upper halls.
"They haven't acted yet," she said one night, brushing Marie's hair as she once had when they were children. "But they will. They're waiting. Watching."
Marie closed her eyes. "Maybe if I stay silent, it will pass."
"No," Léonie murmured. "It will only grow louder."
---
And then, on the eighth day of silence, a note arrived.
Pressed into her palm by a younger servant girl with wide, frightened eyes.
> You can avoid me if you must, but you cannot hide forever.
—M.
She didn't need to ask who it was from.
She read it twice. Then burned it with a shaking hand.
...