Amilia recalled her own days as a servant in the castle. As a kitchen worker, she had rarely cleaned rooms but occasionally had to fill in for a sick chambermaid. She used to loathe working in a room with a noble present. It always made her self-conscious and frightened. She could never tell what they might do. One minute they might seem friendly. The next they could be calling for you to be whipped. Amilia had never understood how they could be so capricious and cruel.

She watched the girl set about her work. The maid was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a brush, the skirt of her uniform soaked with soapy water. Amilia had a stack of inquiries to attend to, but the maid distracted her. She felt guilty not acknowledging the girl’s presence. It felt rude.

I should talk to her. Even as Amilia thought this, she knew it would be a mistake. This new girl saw her as a noble, the chief imperial secretary to the empress, and would be terrified if Amilia so much as offered a good morning.

Perhaps a few years older than Amilia, the girl was slender and pretty, although little could be determined, given her attire. She wore a loose-fitting dress with a canvas apron, her figure hidden, a mystery lost beneath the folds. All serving girls adopted the style except the foolish or ambitious. When you worked in the halls of those who took whatever they wanted, it was best to avoid notice.

Amilia tried to decide if the girl was married. After Modina’s speech, the ban on servants leaving the castle had been lifted, and it was possible that the maid had a family in the city. She wondered if she went home to them each night, or, like Amilia, she had left everything, and everyone, to live in the castle. She likely had several children; pretty peasant girls married young.

Amilia chided herself for watching the maid instead of working, but something about the girl kept her attention. The way she moved and how she held her head seemed out of place. She watched her dab the brush in the water and stroke the floor, moving the brush from side to side like a painter. She spread water around but did little to free the dirt from the surface. Edith Mon would whip her for that. The headmistress was a cruel taskmaster. Amilia had found herself on the wrong end of her belt on a number of occasions for lesser infractions. For that reason alone, Amilia felt sorry for the poor girl. She knew all too well what she faced.

“Are they treating you well here?” Amilia found herself asking, despite her determination to remain silent.

The girl looked up and glanced around the room.

“Yes, you,” Amilia assured her.

“Yes, milady,” the maid replied, looking up.