After Caelum left, the room stayed quiet for a little while. The kind of quiet that hummed. It wasn't the silence of loneliness. Or the hush of people holding back. It was just… still. Like the room was waiting for me to move first, to decide if it should feel like a place or just another room someone told me was mine.
Then the door creaked open. Soft footsteps entered—three sets. One careful. One light. One practiced. I didn't stand or flinch. I just sat at the edge of the bed, my ribbon-wrapped wrist resting in my lap, watching. The two maids and the servant from before stepped in.
They moved calmly, not rushing, not dragging their heels, like they'd done this before but didn't want to assume anything. The tallest one, a boy no older than sixteen, stepped forward first and bowed with perfect posture.
"Good afternoon," he said. "My name is Gabel De Orath. I'm to serve as your primary attendant when His Grace isn't available."
He gestured gently toward the two girls standing beside him.
"My younger sisters," he added. "Lillian and Mathilda. Though she prefers Tilly."
Tilly huffed softly, not unkindly. "No one calls me Mathilda except when I'm in trouble."
She looked like she meant it. Freckles, pale honey-brown hair tied into two small buns, and the kind of expressive eyes that always showed what she was feeling, even when she tried not to. Lillian was quieter. Taller than her sister, with darker hair that curled around her collarbone and gray-blue eyes. She wore a soft blue apron over her cream servant uniform, and her posture was slightly stiff, like she wasn't sure if she was welcome yet.
I just blinked. He didn't tell me what to say in this kind of situation. I didn't know how to greet people who bowed to me. So I nodded once. It was small. But it was enough.
Gabel continued, still calm. "Our family was formerly of the Baron De Orath line. After the estate was dissolved and our title stripped, His Grace offered us sanctuary under his house. All eight of us."
He listed them carefully, as though reciting a poem.
"Our mother, Marybell, serves as the head maid of the Western Palace. Our father, Elloise, is part of the kitchen staff. Two of our elder brothers, Levipath and Manuce, are knights stationed on the outer guard. Dean works in the stables."
Then he offered a faint smile.
"And the three of us will be your personal attendants from now on."
Attendants. Not babysitters. Not nannies. Not caretakers or guards or minders. They didn't say "we'll be watching you." They said, "we'll serve you." It made something tighten in my stomach. Not with discomfort. Not with fear. Just with confusion. Because no one had ever served me before. I didn't even know what that meant, not really.
They waited, standing by the bed like they didn't want to crowd me, until Gabel asked gently, "May we help you prepare for a bath?"
I nodded again. They approached together, like they had practiced this timing, like a trio of dancers moving through soft music. No harsh movements. No cold hands. Lillian unfastened the ties on my tunic with care, while Tilly carefully removed the satchel from my shoulder and set it by the closet door.
Gabel took a folded robe from a shelf I hadn't noticed before and set it beside the sink in the bathroom, then stepped back to give his sisters space. No one scolded me for the old stains on my sleeves or the way the dye had started to crust at my roots. No one wrinkled their nose when my undershirt stuck to my back. They just… helped.
When I was undressed, Lillian laid the robe over my shoulders and guided me gently toward the bathroom. The tub was already full, the water warm and faintly steaming. There were flower petals floating in it—white and blue—and the scent of something clean. Something light.
I didn't ask what it was. Tilly helped me step in. The warmth hurt, but not in a bad way. It just touched parts of me that had been cold so long they forgot what softness felt like. My knees. My ribs. My wrists. I curled into it, fingers pressing gently against the stone lip of the tub.
The dye started to melt away first. Lillian used a smooth cloth soaked in warm water and gently massaged my scalp. No scrubbing. No tugging. Her fingers worked slowly, patient, as the black and brown sludge slipped through the water like ink.
Rivulets of color swirled around me—old, uneven dye that had clung too long to strands that didn't want it. When the last of it disappeared down the drain, I saw what remained. My real hair. Moonlight. Not silver. Not white. Not gray. Moonlight.
It shimmered softly in the water, catching the low light in strands that danced between silver and pale violet. Lillian stilled for a second, then continued combing it through her fingers like it didn't surprise her. Tilly hummed quietly beside her, rinsing a folded cloth.
Neither of them spoke about it. They didn't say the color was pretty. Or odd. Or strange. They just accepted it. They washed my arms and legs next. My back. My neck. They moved slowly, with care, and when they saw the first of my scars—across my shoulder, old and narrow—they didn't flinch.
They said nothing when they noticed the smaller ones. The newer ones. The ones no toddler should have had. The bruises hidden under elbows. The light lines around my ankles. They said nothing. But I saw their eyes soften. They didn't pity me. They were just… gentle.
Even Gabel, who reentered to bring a towel, folded his arms behind his back when he saw my shoulders and said only, "We'll prepare your clothes."
The tub was drained. I was dried carefully, wrapped in a warm towel so thick it felt like a second bed. They didn't rush. They didn't crowd. When I was clean, they brought in the clothes.
Cream-colored tunic, soft to the touch, with light embroidery along the hem. Overalls of pale beige with small silver fastenings. Wool socks so thick they nearly reached my knees. When they slid my feet into the boots, I expected stiffness. But they were soft inside. Warm. And they fit. I wiggled my toes once and didn't feel the floor. I didn't say thank you aloud. But I think they knew.
They brushed my hair next. The moonlight strands were damp but free of knots now. Gabel offered to trim the ends for me, and I nodded. He worked silently, not a single tug or sharp motion, cutting away only what was frayed or uneven. He moved like someone who had once been taught with care.
When he finished, Tilly took over with a soft-bristled brush, sweeping the strands back in long strokes. "Would you like it tied?" she asked. Her voice was light.
My throat caught. Because I did. I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask—Can you braid it? Can you make it look like a crown? But I didn't. Because that wasn't something boys asked for. Because I thought… maybe she'd laugh.
Maybe Gabel would hide a smile. Maybe Lillian would tilt her head in that quiet way people do when they don't want to say it out loud but think something's odd. So I stayed quiet. I stared at the carpet instead. And then… I saw it. From the corner of my eye. Lillian's smile. Not loud. Not mocking. Just gentle.
And she asked, "Would you like it braided?"
"A-a crown braid..." I mumbled.
Tilly clapped her hands softly. "I think it would suit you,"
Lillian was already parting my hair with careful fingers. Tilly braided one side, Lillian the other. Gabel waited quietly near the door, folding a spare blanket for the bed. No one laughed. No one called it girly. No one called it anything but mine.
When they finished, they turned the mirror toward me. My reflection blinked back. Soft moonlight hair braided like a crown. A cream tunic. Pale overalls. Fluffy socks. And a ribbon still tied at my wrist. It didn't feel like pretend. It felt like I had always been like this. Only now… someone saw it.