Lament for My First Life

The Servant Girl II

"Morning," Xylenne said.

He glanced at her hair and then looked down, embarrassed. "They want these in the blue room," he said. "For... for her." He did not say Marinel's name. He did not need to.

"I'll take them," Xylenne said, and she did.

In the blue room, Marinel stood in front of a mirror while a maid pinned a ribbon around her waist. The dress was soft as a sigh. The color made her eyes look bright.

"Does it need more pearls?" Marinel asked the air, turning a little to see herself from another angle. "It is perfect," the maid said, smiling. Marinel saw Xylenne in the mirror and made a face that flickered and then smoothed. "Oh," she said, light and easy. "There you are. Careful with that tray."

"I will," Xylenne said, placing the almonds on a side table.

"Mother says we may have visitors," Marinel went on. "Important ones. The Duke is expected at the gardens this week. Not here, of course. He would never come here without notice." She laughed softly. "But who knows? Men do sudden things when they are in love."

Xylenne did not answer. She knew the rules. She knew which responses were safe. She folded her hands.

Marinel watched her reflection for another moment and then turned, taking a few slow steps as if the room were a stage and she was learning how to move. "Do you think he will like this color?" she asked.

"It suits you," Xylenne said. "It does," Marinel agreed, as if the idea had come to her first. Then, playfully, with a sweetness that had a thin edge, she added, "You must stay out of sight when the guests come. Your hair makes people... talk. We wouldn't want anything to spoil the mood."

"I understand," Xylenne said. Marinel smiled. "Good girl." The words pricked, but Xylenne only dipped her head. She made the bed. She checked the candles. She moved through the room like the shadow of a thought. The day went on. The house breathed in and out. Light shifted across the floors. Footsteps came and went. Xylenne worked in the pantry, then the laundry, then the front hall. She learned to be quick and quiet. She learned to disappear.

At midday, she slipped into the kitchen and stood by the door, waiting for a chance to ask for something small to eat. A cook passed her a heel of bread and a cup of watered milk without a word. She ate standing, as always, with her back to the wall. The sun fell hot across the kitchen table. Somewhere, a clock chimed once.

"Did you hear?" a scullery maid whispered to another, close enough for Xylenne to hear if she pretended not to. "The Duke sent lilies to Lady Marinel."

"Lilies?" the other maid said. "So soon?"

"A whole basket," the first said. "With a note on thick paper. I wasn't allowed to touch it."

"Did anyone read the note?"

"No," the first maid sighed. "But Lady Varra did. Her face went pink." They giggled. Xylenne swallowed her last bite of bread and set the cup on the counter. She wiped her hands on her apron and left the kitchen. She knew of the Duke. Everyone did. Duke Aerond of House Calvent. He owned ships and vines and half the old baths near the river. He was handsome, people said. He was generous. He sent discreet gifts. He knew how to look at a young woman as if she were the only person in the room.

Xylenne had never seen him.

By late afternoon, clouds gathered and then broke apart again. The light softened. Xylenne returned to her room for a moment of quiet. She stood by her window and looked down at the garden. A gardener knelt and trimmed a hedge with small shears, clipping slowly, carefully, shaping the green into clean lines. She watched the little pieces fall like rain.

Her hand went to the shelf where she kept a few secret things: a ribbon too old to keep, a dried sprig of rosemary, a smooth pebble she had found near the fountain, and a folded page from an old book.

The page was from a story about a girl who left home to find a place where she was not a burden. The girl crossed a mountain. She met a fox that could speak. She learned the names of the stars. Xylenne did not know how the story ended. The rest of the book had fallen apart. But she liked this page. She read it so many times that she could whisper it without looking. She touched the edge with her finger and put it back.

"Xylenne!" Lady Varra's voice cut through the air again, closer this time. "Front door!"

Xylenne hurried down the back stairs to the entry. She opened the door to find a footman from another noble house holding a hatbox tied with blue ribbon.

"For Lady Marinel," he said, glancing once at Xylenne's hair and then away.

"I'll see that she receives it," Xylenne said. She took the box gently. It was light. Something soft moved inside with the shift of her hands.

On top of the box lay a card. The seal was gray wax, stamped with a ship and a star. She knew that seal from a page she had once carried to the study. House Calvent. "Don't gape," Lady Varra said from the staircase, appearing as if she had stepped from the wall. "Take it upstairs. And for the love of all that is presentable, do not linger."

"Yes," Xylenne said. She carried the box upstairs, careful on the polished steps. Her reflection followed her in the mirrors along the wall—white hair, blue eyes, soft tread. She knocked on Marinel's door. "Come in," Marinel sang. Xylenne entered and set the box on the bed. "A gift," she said.

Marinel clapped her hands. "From him?"

The maid who stood nearby with a brush made a small, happy sound. "The seal—"

"Yes," Marinel said, eyes shining. "Open it." Xylenne waited. Marinel lifted the lid and pulled out a veil the color of morning. It was gossamer, light as breath, with tiny beads sewn in stars. Marinel held it up to her face and looked at herself in the mirror. She laughed, soft and thrilled. "Isn't it perfect?" she asked the room.

"It is beautiful," the maid said.

Xylenne said nothing. She could feel the veil's softness even from here. It was the kind of fabric that would slip through your fingers and leave only a chill. "Mother!" Marinel called, rushing to the door. "Mother, look!" Lady Varra arrived, took it all in with one sweep of her eyes, and allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "Lovely. We must thank him properly."

Marinel pulled the veil away and looked at Xylenne as if she had just remembered she was there. "You may go," she said. "But—oh—do wear a cap when you pass the front hall. We don't want any of the deliverymen thinking strange things about the household."

"Of course," Xylenne said.

She left and tied a plain cap over her hair. The cloth dulled the shine, but could not hide the color. It made her look even paler. She passed a mirror and did not look at it.

The day stretched into evening. Guests did come, though not the Duke. The visitors were two women from a neighboring house and an aunt who smelled strongly of lavender. They sat in the front parlor and spoke about garden parties and silks. Xylenne carried tea on a small tray and poured without spilling. She set down sugar and lemon. She took away empty plates. She did not meet anyone's eyes.

"Who is that?" one of the women asked in a whisper, not soft enough. "House help," Lady Varra said smoothly. "She's shy."

"Ah," the woman said, as if that explained everything. Xylenne felt the words slide over her like rain on glass. She did not react. She counted breaths. She noted the time by the angle of light. She listened.

"The Duke is very kind," one of the women said to Marinel. "He is known for his taste."

Marinel smiled as if the word "taste" were sweet to hold on her tongue. "He is thoughtful," she said. "There is nothing quite like a thoughtful man."

The aunt nodded. "Love is a matter of timing," she said, and stirred her tea as if she were stirring a spell.

Xylenne bent to collect a plate. As she stood, a droplet of tea spilled and kissed the back of her hand. It was hot enough to sting. She did not flinch. She stepped back. She kept moving. She was a small boat in a crowded harbor; the only way not to be crushed was to learn the flow and slide with it.

When the guests left, the sky was turning pink and gray. Xylenne carried the last dishes to the kitchen. The house eased into a softer quiet. Lady Varra's voice no longer rang. Marinel's laughter drifted upstairs and faded behind a door.

Xylenne returned to her room once more. The sunlight had slipped away. Only the pale afterglow remained, like a memory of light. She sat on the edge of her cot and opened the cracked mirror. She touched her hair with careful fingers.

White hair. A tasteless color, they said. Bad luck, they said. She thought of the painting in the hall, the white-haired woman with the book and the grave, kind eyes. If hair could be a shame, it could also be a banner. She did not know yet how to lift it. But the thought warmed her, the way a single coal can warm a palm in winter.

She pulled the cap back on and stood. There was more to do. There was always more to do.

In the hallway, the lamps had been lit. Their glow pooled on the floor like small moons. Xylenne liked the way the light softened the sharp edges of the frames and the corners. It made the house feel less like a cage and more like a place someone might live without being hurt.

She walked past the painting again. She slowed, as always. The woman's eyes seemed to follow her. Xylenne almost smiled, then didn't.

"Xylenne," a voice said softly.

She turned. It was the young servant boy from that morning. He was holding a stack of folded linens. "Mistress says the guest room at the end of the west hall needs new sheets."

"I'll take them," Xylenne said. He shifted the stack into her arms, then hesitated. "They're saying the Duke will come tomorrow. To the gardens. Not here, but near enough that... well." He glanced at her hair and then back to her eyes. "They'll be busy. Be careful."

"Of what?" Xylenne asked.

He seemed surprised by his own boldness. "Of being seen," he said. "Sometimes being seen is the worst thing." Xylenne nodded. "Thank you."

He nodded back and hurried away, as if he had said too much. She held the linens against her chest. They smelled like soap and sun. She walked on. The west hall was quieter. Fewer portraits. A long runner on the floor. The guest room at the end had a window that looked over the street. Xylenne could hear the soft rattle of wheels and the faraway call of a seller praising sweet pears. She stripped the bed and smoothed the new sheets. She tucked the corners with tight hospital folds the way one of the older maids had once shown her. She lifted the pillow and fluffed it. She shook the coverlet until it fell into place like a cloud.

When she finished, she stood by the window for a moment and looked out. The sky had turned the color of watered ink. One by one, lamps came on in the city. The streets narrowed to dark ribbons. A cat moved along a wall, a soft blur, then vanished.

Xylenne pressed her palm to the glass. It was cool. Her breath fogged a small circle. With her fingertip, she traced the letter X and then wiped it away, startled by the boldness of her own name.

She turned from the window and left the room.

In the hallway again, she found herself walking more slowly. The walls seemed to lean close, listening. Her steps were quiet. She passed a table where a single lily lay, forgotten, its stem wrapped in damp cloth. She touched a petal. It felt like skin. For a second, she wanted to take it with her, hide it in her room, press it in her book page. But she left it there. Taking it would be noticed. They always noticed the wrong things.