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IT was nighttime.
Sophie was in her bedroom, gazing at her mirror, when there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she called.
“It’s Martha, milady,” came the answer.
“Oh, please, come in.”
The door swung open with a click. Martha stepped into the room, along with a woman in a maid’s uniform Sophie didn’t quite recognize. Not quite a surprise—Sophie had long since grown used to the younger maids being kept out of her orbit.
“And who might this be, Martha?” Sophie asked.
It was the woman who replied. “My name is Emma, milady. I’m a maid here. I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance.”
She gave a soft, picture-perfect bow—textbook Martha’s tutelage. She was in her early thirties if Sophie had to guess. Her eyes, a steady, earthy brown, rested on Sophie with quiet awe as though she were looking at something full of light.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Sophie replied. “Sophie Olzon.” She turned to Martha. “Um, so what is this…?”
“Yes,” Martha began. “As you are well aware, milady, once Sir Ozhorn completes his term of service here, he will be returning to the capital. When that time comes, you shall be accompanying him.”
“Right.” Sophie flushed faintly.
Kurt’s term was due to end in two months. And once the household had been informed of that fact, it had set off quite the frenzy: the trousseau had to be prepared, packed, and ready to depart in the same carriage that would bear them both to the capital.
“Regardless of the precise timing,” Martha continued, “it is, of course, our responsibility to assign a maid to accompany you.”
“Yes.” Sophie nodded.
“That is why Emma is here.” Martha inclined her head toward the young woman. “She is diligent, discreet, patient, and possesses a welcome tenacity. I believe you shall find her most suitable.”
“But… Martha…” Sophie’s voice cracked slightly. “You’re not coming with me?”
It was not uncommon for a bride of a wealthy household to be sent off with a maid or several. But if only one were to accompany her, Sophie had always assumed it would be Martha. And Martha surely had held the same expectations.
But whatever stirred beneath, Martha gave no sign. She drew herself a touch straighter and replied in a voice as even and polished as Sophie had ever heard it:
“Milady.”
“Yes?”
“I am getting older.”
Sophie’s breath caught.
“My eyes tire quickly now. Threading a needle, reading fine print—small tasks are becoming large ones.”
“But surely that doesn’t mean—”
“A young lady,” Martha cut in gently, “deserves to be accompanied by someone who will grow with her. Who can walk beside her into the future, not be carried into it.”
There was steel in her voice. Fire in her eyes. And both left no room for protest.
Sophie remembered the scene at the city gates. Martha, left behind as she walked away with Kuro, just slightly hunched, watching that green seedling push up through the soil.
She understood it now, that strange tug she’d felt then.
In that seedling, Martha had glimpsed the shape of what lay ahead. Both for Sophie and for herself.
“Ms. Emma,” Sophie said quietly.
“Yes, milady.”
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry, but may I have a word alone with Martha?”
“As you wish.”
Emma bowed with quiet grace and slipped from the room, leaving Sophie and Martha free to face one another. Sophie could see the wrinkles on her face, the slight stoop of her frame. When had the strict head maid become so small, so frail?
“Milady,” Martha said gently, “may I have a closer look at your face?”
Sophie nodded.
It was in this room. On this very bed, nearly a year ago to the day, the two of them had wept together while changing bandages.
“You truly are Mr. Johann and Ms. Sherlotte’s daughter,” Martha said softly. “You carry the best of them both. Unwavering integrity, and a beauty as fine and flawless as porcelain.”
“Martha…” Sophie whispered.
An old maid’s worn, time-creased fingers rested gently against her cheek.
“Remember what I once told you?” Martha said, her voice low and resonant. “That I despised this cruel affliction for what it had stolen from you—your wisdom, hard-earned and rightfully yours. The beauty passed down from your parents. The compassion they instilled in you. All of it, hidden beneath the grip of that vile disease. Well, I no longer have to carry that grievance. Because now, someone else has seen it. Seen all of that in you. And chosen to love you for it.”
“I remember,” Sophie smiled softly.
“Though would it truly have been too much to ask for someone with a shred of aesthetic sense?”
“He is who he is, Martha.”
“Dressed like a clown, if there ever was one.”
“He’s surprisingly gullible.” Sophie gave a warm and bright laugh.
“Milady, after what happened today, I’ve found myself wondering…”
“Yes, Martha?”
“This wretched affliction, the one I’ve despised for so long—loathed with every fiber of my being—could it actually have been protecting you? Until this very moment?”
Sophie’s mouth parted, caught off guard. And in that moment, Martha’s gaze softened—a rare break in its usual sharpness, drifting toward something far off.
“Would you mind if I told you a story, milady?” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “It’s about a girl. A girl from a distant land. As lovely as a rose in full bloom and born to a noble house of some distinction. Her mother passed when she was still young, and it was a stepmother who mainly raised her. A cruel stepmother, calculating, and in her every act, something less than human.”
“Martha…” Sophie’s eyes widened.
“She tormented her for years upon years. And at the end of it, the girl was to be wed—sold, rather—to a lecherous man more than forty years her senior. She was to be a pawn in some political arrangement, nothing more. But. Just as this fate was to be sealed, a young sailor, no one of note, just a man utterly devoted to her, spirited her away. He took her and her loyal lady’s maid far from that place. It was no act they could speak of.
“Back in her homeland, it was said the noble daughter had fallen into the sea and vanished. Drowned, they said. They came to this land and made a quiet life together. Though they were close, deeply so, for years, they were not blessed with a child. When, at last, a daughter was born to them, the mother wept. Oh, how she wept.”
Sophie’s brow furrowed. “Because the child was born with abnormal skin?”
“No.” Martha shook her head, slow and sure. “Because the child was so breathtakingly beautiful.”
“What?” Sophie breathed.
“So beautiful… And so fragile-looking, so precious, the mother could hardly bear it. She wept as she held her, nursed her through tears, whispering: ‘Can the world truly contain a thing so dear as this?’”
Martha reached out and gently brushed the tears tracing down Sophie’s cheek.
“If that child’s beauty had shone from the start,” she said softly, “if the radiance she’d inherited from her parents had been plain to all, her name might have spread far and wide—even beyond this land. Her lineage could’ve been uncovered. And those foul people who once tormented her mother—who might lay claim to her blood, her beauty, her very life—might have reached out their claws to take her.”
Sophie brought a hand to her chest.
“But now that she’s to be married,” Martha continued, “with a husband ranked among the royal healers…they would not dare.”
She paused, then spoke again—slowly now, with care.
“It was a terrible affliction, yes. You’ve suffered greatly because of it. But what if… What if it was also a kind of protection? A kind of husk—a smoke screen—that encased you, shielded you until the time was right. It made the world look away—so you could find the man who would love you truly, without the noise or schemes of others.”
Her gaze turned distant again.
“A husk that repulsed, that isolated…because it had to. Because it was the only way it could protect you—utterly, absolutely, without condition or flaw. And now that it’s done its work… Now that you’ve found him, the one who’s chosen you for everything you are, it chose to destroy itself. It drew the apothecary to this town. It bid its own end just so it could save you—one final time.”
She gave a quiet breath, almost a sigh.
“Perhaps this is just the rambling of an old woman who’s seen more than her mind can neatly make sense of today. But even so, I must say it: Don’t resent that shell. Because milady…I think it was only ever trying to protect you.”
“Oh, Martha…” Sophie whispered again.
Gently, Martha turned her toward the mirror.
What stared back was a vision—a facsimile of both father and mother, beautifully combined.
“Please look, milady,” Martha said softly. “Look at that skin—smooth, radiant, like a newborn. And those eyes—emerald and gleaming, full of quiet wisdom. Those cheeks just touched with rose. Lips as plump and perfect as the ripest fruit. A woman like you only comes along every hundred years… No, every thousand. That healer of yours—he’s spent all his luck for this life and the next.”
In the reflection, Sophie could see the tears gliding down Martha’s weathered cheeks.
“It has been,” Martha said, her voice catching ever so slightly, “the pinnacle of my life to have helped raise you, milady. Take care of yourself in the capital. And never overextend yourself. Because if you do, I’ll know. And if I know, I’ll come find you. If you don’t want an old woman abandoning her post and crossing half the kingdom just to set you straight, then I suggest you remember that.”
A smile broke across Sophie’s face. She turned and pulled Martha into her arms.
There was no steel plate after all. Only a small, thin, aging woman. Sophie hugged her tighter, feeling every frail inch of her.
“This is highly improper,” Martha said at once.
“Yes. Just like that,” Sophie murmured.
“It does not befit a woman of your station.”
“Scold me just like that,” Sophie said, laughing softly through tears.
“What a handful you are, milady,” Martha said—and broke. Her arms came up around Sophie, returning the embrace.
There they stood, mistress and maid, locked in a final embrace. Tears mingling, breaths caught between laughter and grief. Both knew, without saying so, that their time together was rapidly drawing to a close.