The Court Laughs
Cassandra had risen in Blackstone Palace by understanding the uses of humiliation.
A whispered insult could ruin a girl.
A public correction could train a servant for life.
A laugh from the right corner of the room could make cruelty look like etiquette.
She turned Elsie's wrist outward and saw the dirty cuff, the frayed seam, the small stitches done by a hand too careful for poverty. For half a heartbeat her eyes narrowed.
Then she covered the reaction with contempt.
"What were you hoping to take?" Cassandra asked.
"Nothing, my lady."
"Nothing?" Cassandra's thin mouth curved. "Poor children do not drift toward jewels by accident."
"It is not a jewel," Elsie said before she could stop herself.
The hall quieted a little.
Cassandra tilted her head. "Not a jewel?"
Elsie swallowed. "I only mean... it looked familiar."
That was worse.
Cassandra's face hardened as if the child's words had put a knife on the red carpet.
"Familiar," she repeated.
A ripple traveled through the court. The gown had been displayed that morning to mark the fifteenth anniversary of Princess Helena's death. Nobles had come to bow before it, to speak softly of innocence lost, and to confirm that grief, when framed in gold, made them feel honorable.
Now a poor girl had claimed familiarity with it.
Cassandra released Elsie's wrist only to slap the basket aside with her gloved hand. The remaining cords scattered over the carpet.
"Kneel," she said.
Elsie stared at her.
"My lady?"
"Kneel and apologize to the House of Black for presuming your hands belonged anywhere near its sorrow."
A few nobles laughed again, but softer now, waiting to see whether the child would obey.
Elsie looked toward the servant doors. Two footmen stood there, frozen. Mistress Fenn, the old wardrobe seamstress who had gotten Elsie the day's work, had one hand pressed over her mouth. Her other hand clutched a rosary so tightly the beads cut into her skin.
Cassandra followed Elsie's gaze and smiled.
"Do not look for rescue among people who survive by silence."
Elsie's knees shook.
She thought of Mara Thorn's kitchen. Of steam rising from wet linen. Of the red button hidden under cloth. Of the warning: Someone will know it.
The court waited.
Elsie lowered herself to the red carpet.
A small sound left Mistress Fenn.
Cassandra bent close enough for only Elsie to hear.
"Good," she whispered. "Now remember what height you were born to."
Elsie stared at the hem of the royal gown inches from her face.
Behind her tears, something hot and stubborn remained standing.
May you like
"I was born somewhere," she whispered back.
Cassandra's smile vanished.
