Marcelline moved like moonlight—quiet, fluid, and difficult to notice unless you were looking directly at her. Her cloak, a simple dust-colored thing, hung loose around her shoulders, blending easily with the other servants flitting through the palace’s long stone corridors. She kept her head down, her steps measured. No one looked at her twice. That was how she liked it.
She’d changed into the livery in the outer kitchens, helped by an old contact—a gruff woman with greasy hair, too many teeth missing, and a habit of winking like they shared a private joke. As she handed over a clean apron, she’d muttered, “Watch yourself near the west wing. Her Majesty’s taken to walking around barefoot again. That never means anything good.”
Marcelline had only nodded. She wasn’t interested in kitchen
