The word clung to her like a burr.
It echoed in her head, sharp and bewildering. Something given, something to keepâas her own? Her breath quickened at the thought. The last time she had owned anything, anything at all, it had been stripped from her so quickly she had learned not to reach again. The memory was an old bruise: a small carved charm sheâd once kept hidden under her pillow, discovered, broken beneath Masterâs heel.
âNothing is yours. Nothing belongs to you.â
Her body remembered the lesson well. And so her head stayed bowed, eyes pinned to the rug. She dared not lift them, dared not betray the tangle of longing and terror that throbbed in her chest. This name, this gift, felt too much like a trick. She repeated it in her mind, heartbeat quick and panicked: Sprig Sprig Sprigâuntil the syllables blurred into nonsense.
The heavy doors of the chamber creaked, pulling her back into the present. She did not flinch, only pressed her knees harder into the rug, folded her hands tighter. Lunch had arrived.
Mirryn stood gracefully, her movements unhurried, desperate to remind Sprig there was no danger here. The maid who entered was Marie, her favoriteâquick-witted, sharp-eyed, and one of the few in the palace who never needed constant, direct instruction. A cart rolled softly across the polished floor, carrying with it the smell of warm bread and roasted vegetables.
The meal was simple but generous: a round loaf torn into quarters, bowls of carrot and lentil stew steaming faintly, a dish of soft cheese, and a plate of sliced apples glistening with honey. Nothing extravagant, yet the sort of food that filled a personâs stomach and left them comforted.
Mirryn had told her deliberately to bring something gentle. And Marie had done well. Mirryn wasnât sure when Sprig had last been given real foodâor any food at all. Too much richness could make her ill. Marie laid everything across the table with brisk efficiency, arranging bowls and platters until it looked neat but not excessive. Then, straightening, she brushed her hands together lightly.
âWill that be all, Your Majesty?â she asked. Her tone was respectful, but her eyes flickeredâjust for a momentâtoward the girl still kneeling on the rug. Sprig had not shifted once, her gaze fixed on the weave of the carpet as if it might swallow her whole. Mirryn caught the meaning in that glance. Marie was too wise to say aloud what she was thinking:
The queenâs answering look was reassurance enough. No more was needed. Marie inclined her head, satisfied, and left without further question. The chamber was quiet again.
Mirryn moved to the table, her every gesture careful, deliberate. She fixed a small plateâjust a ladle of stew, a torn piece of bread, a slice of apple. Not enough to overwhelm, just enough to say: You are thought of. You are provided for. She crossed the room slowly, the dish balanced in her hands.
âSprig,â she said gently. The girlâs head twitched at the sound of the name, but she did not lift her gaze. âWould you like to sit at the table?â Mirryn asked. Her voice was soft, coaxing, as though speaking to a startled bird perched on a windowsill. âThere is a chair for you.â
At once Sprigâs eyes darted upwardâwide, glimmering with alarmâand then back down again. Her breath caught in her throat. When she spoke, her words tumbled out in a rush, desperate to reassure.
âNo, noâI know my place. Iâm a good pet, I donât have wants, not ever! Please IâI can be good!â Her voice cracked, trembling and urgent. âI donât⊠I donât use furniture likeâlike a human. Iâm good.â
Her shoulders hunched, as if bracing for the queenâs disappointment. As if waiting for punishment for even daring to imagine such a thing. Mirrynâs heart ached, twisting inside her chest. She desperately wanted to kneel down, to cup Sprigâs trembling hands in her own, to promise her safety until the girl believed it with every breath. She wanted to say that her worth did not depend on denial or obedience, that she was not a pet but a person.
But promises, Mirryn knew, were too much for her right now. They would sound like lies, or worseâlike another trap. So instead, the queen only nodded, keeping her face composed. She lowered the plate carefully to the rug in front of the girl.
âThen do what makes you comfortable,â she said softly. Sprigâs eyes flickered to the food, then away again. Her hands trembled in her lap. She did not touch it yetâlike she was unsure it was truly hers to take.
The food sat before her, steam curling from the small bowl, the bread soft and warm, the apple slice glistening gold with the promise of sweetness. The smell was rich and filling, curling into her nose like something foreign, dangerous. She locked her hands together in her lap, trembling, waiting.
The queen said nothing more, only settled herself at the table across the room. She did not push, did not command. Sprigâs heart hammered.
Is this a test? Do I eat before Mistress? After?
She kept her eyes low, fixed on the rug, until Mirrynâs voice came againâgentle, almost uncertain.
The words fell like a stone into still water. Sprigâs breath shuddered out of her. She reached carefully for the bread first, her fingers brushing the rough crust, the heat seeping into her skin. She broke off the smallest piece and raised it to her mouth, biting down slowly. It was soft, yielding, with a tang of yeast that spread across her tongue. She chewed carefully, swallowing with effort. Her throat felt tight.
And with the taste came memory.
The scent of bread had once meant parties in her Masterâs hallsâtables groaning with meat and wine while she knelt in silence, head bowed to the floor. Sometimes he would summon her forward, like a dog called to preform a trick. He would lift a morsel to her lips, smiling, as though granting her a treasure. She would obey, taking it gratefully. And if hunger made her swallow too quickly. Made her too eager. His boot would find the back of her head, pressing her face hard into the stone until her teeth cut her lip.
âEat like a wild thing,â he would hiss, voice low and venomous, âand youâll go hungry.â
The bread caught in her throat now, the remembered weight of leather grinding her face into dust. She forced herself to chew slower, slower, until her jaw ached.
She took the stew next. The warmth was startling after so long with only scraps of cold food, thin broths, and bitter dregs. The carrots were sweet, the lentils soft. The flavor filled her mouth, almost too much. She swallowed with care, holding the spoon steady in her trembling hands.
But despite her efforts to keep herself planted firmly in the present, the taste carried her away againâback to the long banquet tables, where she was made to kneel silently beneath them, the laughter of guests spilling like wine over her head. Sometimes, to amuse themselves, they dropped scraps onto the floor before her, laughing as she bent to lap them up without a word. Sometimes, if she hesitated, they would grind those scraps into the stone beneath their shoes, and she would have to lick the floor clean to prove her obedienceâher gratefulness.
Her hand shook. The spoon clattered softly against the bowl.
âEasy,â the queen murmured from the table. âYouâre okay.â Sprig glanced up only briefly, then down again, bowing her head in shame.
âIâm a good pet,â she whispered quickly, almost to herself. The words spilling out. âIâm good, I can be good.â
She forced herself to lift the spoon again. Bite by bite, she worked through the stew. Each swallow was heavy, a battle between present warmth and past cruelty.
At last, only the apple slice remained.
Sprig stared at it, her breath quickening. It was dripping with honey. The danger of it glistened golden in the light. She could smell its sweetness even without picking it up.
Panic prickled at her chest. Honey was dangerousâshe knew that. To the fae it clouded the mind, softened the edges of thought like wine did to men. And when the mind was clouded, she could not fight back, could not think. She remembered too well what happened then. Her lips parted, whispering silent protests. But it was on her plate. The queen had placed it there. To refuse would be worse than foolish. So she took it in trembling fingers, lifted it quickly, and bit.
The sweetness burst across her tongue, cloying, dizzying. She chewed fast, too fast, and swallowed hard, desperate to finish it before the haze could take hold.
Mirryn, watching from across the room, tilted her head. âYou liked that?â she asked softly, a note of hope in her voice.
Sprigâs stomach turned. But she only nodded, eyes downcast.
The queen smiled gently. She rose, cut a few more slices from the apple, and carried them over. She laid them neatly on the edge of Sprigâs plate, a threat swathed in false kindness.
Sprigâs mind whirled. More honey. More clouding. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Why? Why does she want me dulled? What will she do when I cannot think? Her throat felt tight, but she lowered her head, whispering a broken thank you. She forced herself to obey, because disobedience was always worse.
She lifted another slice, hands trembling, and as the honey touched her tongue the memories rose up stronger than beforeâ
The hall was full of smoke and laughter. Music trilled, sharp and cruel, while Masterâs guests circled her like hunters. They had drugged her drink; she remembered the warmth spreading through her veins, the fog that made her limbs heavy. She swayed where she knelt, powerless, while jeweled hands stroked her hair, tugged at her chin to make her lift her face for inspection.
âIsnât she pretty when sheâs quiet?â one man chuckled.
âShe canât even fight,â another said, his hand slipping along her arm. âLike a broken toy.â
The king himself sat at the head of the table, watching, smiling faintly. He did not intervene. His amusement was permission enough. They laughed when she flinched, when she tried to shrink away, when the drug dragged her deeper into fog. Hands shoved her, pulled her back, spun her like a doll on display. Their voices blurred, cruel and bright, until all she could hear was her own heartbeat, frantic and helpless.
The memory closed over her like a drowning wave. She felt again the weight of hands on her body, the helplessness in her limbs, the way her mind screamed though her mouth could not.
And here, in the queenâs quiet chamber, with honey burning on her tongue, Sprig shook so hard the apple slice nearly slipped from her fingers. Silent tears burning in her eyes.
Ainât she just the sweetest folks?
In all honesty though, finally finishing editing this chapter was not the great chore I was telling myself it would be. So enjoy! Hopefully Iâll be able to stay on top of my shit and youâll hear from me again soon!
@oldspruceinn @wolfeyedwitch @whatwasmyprevioususername @written-in-the-stars135 @bookworm2107 @cryptozoolliegy @cupcakes-and-pain
