The sun peeked from behind mountains lining the horizon. The black dark of Crosset faded to ash gray. Dying dewdrops clung to dear life on blades of lush grass dotting the hillside.

  The frozen stone of the keep burned Meya’s back. She straightened with a jolt, wiggling her thumb away from Myron’s as he lunged to pin it. May Fest was around the corner, marking the eve of spring, yet the cold of winter hadn’t left the manor for good. It would creep back during the night, and slink away by the dawn.

  Half a day must’ve passed since Meya and her whole family, including Hanna, had trudged from their cottage to the castle and joined the congregation of peasant families before the keep.

  Meya counted nine young women around her age. Judging from their tattered woolen dresses, they were just a little better off than Meya herself and were the newly hired maids. Ten young men in gray-green uniforms stood among them, swords hanging in scabbards from simple brown belts. Those were probably the guards.

  An old man who seemed to be the butler, an old lady who seemed to be the head maid, and another middle-aged man who seemed to be the head guard stood beside the keep’s towering double doors, watching over them, all dressed in the same dull gray-green and flanked by castle guards in gray-green.

  Every noble clan had its color. Crosset’s was the grayish Crosset Green, which reminded Meya of lichen and bread mold.

  At least she’d be wearing Hadrian’s color, Hadrian Red, for work. Some say ’twas the color of boiling blood.

  After two hours of miserable chitchat masked with excitement and whatever silly game one could play with one’s little brothers with bare hands, Lady Arinel and Lord Crosset emerged.

  Meya released Myron’s thumb, eyes wide. Her heart seemed to have cut free from its bonds and joined her churning bowels. She’d tempered a tiny hope some complication would arise and the journey would be postponed, as was typical of arrangements concerning spoiled nobility, but nothing of the sort happened.

  Meya longed to hug Hanna, but Mum wouldn’t let her approach Lady Arinel smelling of pig, so she grudgingly settled for a long pat and a nose kiss.

  Marcus and Myron let her ruffle their hair. Marin kissed her on the cheek. Mistral threw herself into Meya’s arms and ironed air from her lungs. Morel even managed a stiff hug and an awkward pat on her back. Mum’s embrace was longer than usual—with the collar around her neck, Meya no longer burned her. Still, Maro held on the longest, always.

  “Take care, may beetle,” he whispered. Meya nodded, not trusting herself to speak lest the tears burning in her eyes spill.

  “Stay safe. Don’t make trouble for the lady. Come home next Fest in one piece. Think you can manage that, at least?”

  Meya creaked out a wry grin. She’d try, but, knowing Freda, she couldn’t promise anything.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  A long shadow swept over them. Dad, lips pursed, eyebrows tied in a troubled frown. Maro’s strong arms slid away against her silent wishes.

  After all that had been said and done, it took her every last drop of courage to remain standing, staring down at Dad’s boots, and not bolt away in shame.

  Dad tidied up the unruly strands of hair on her crown.

  “You take care of yourself,” he grunted, his eyes stubbornly fixed on Meya’s hair. Meya sniffed, and a rebellious teardrop rolled down her cheek.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered. Dad gave her a few more affectionate pats. Following his gaze, Meya found the other nine maids milling beside the cobbled path, unsure who should be first in line. She took a deep breath and one last look at her family, then ventured off to join them.

  In her seventeen years, Meya had seen Lady Arinel once. Seven years ago, the spring before the Famine. Lord Crosset had Meya locked in the Liar’s Bridle, chained at the village square and whipped for working in the fields, forbidden for women at the time.

  Meya sneaked glances as she gathered her dress and knelt beside the ninth maid. The lady looked to be around her age. Her oval face was porcelain white, dabbed with healthy tinges of pink. Streams of golden locks blanketed her Crosset Green dress down to the bosom. Her eyes were a shade of blue striking and chilling cold as the Ice Pillory Meya had escaped, the fabled Crosset eyes.

  “Arinel, these women will accompany and serve you in Hadrian.”

  Lord Crosset croaked in his gravelly voice. His green silken tunic hung limp from his thin old shoulders. An anxious glint darted about his eyes as he watched his daughter.

  Flanked by a strict-looking, plump old chaperone and a young maid with a heavy wooden mask covering half her face, Arinel studied her new subjects. Cold, emotionless eyes swept the throng, pausing at each in turn.

  Meya lowered her eyes when her turn came, tugging her shabby cloak over her just-as-shabby dress to shield it from the frost of Arinel’s glare.

  “Father, I believe Hadrian isn’t in want of maids for the scullery,” said Arinel. The chaperone shared startled looks with the masked maid, and Meya understood why Lord Crosset had looked so worried.

  Noble ladies from powerful families would have younger noblewomen accompanying them as maids of honor. Arinel wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of showing up to her wedding with a string of peasant girls.

  Lord Crosset had fallen from favor with the king because of his inept handling of the Famine, but if he couldn’t even attract proper attendants for his daughter, perhaps he was worse off than Meya had thought.

  If so, why would Lord Coris want to marry Lady Arinel? Hadrian was now the most powerful clan in the central west. Was there a catch? Was Coris ugly, deformed, crippled? Was that why no-one looked thrilled their lady was marrying into a powerful family?

  That aside, this could be good for Meya. If Lady Arinel rejected them all, she wouldn’t have to go to Hadrian! Better yet, Lord Crosset might hire them to work in Crosset Castle, so they wouldn’t blab about this embarrassing spectacle and further tarnish his repute.

  The maids around Meya shivered and fidgeted. Guards stole quick glances at each other, but none let out a whisper.

  “They are to be your maids of honor, Arinel. Handpicked from our oldest, most respectable farmer and artisan clans. The Gretgorns and the Hilds didn’t help kidnap your betrothed in the Famine. Now it’s time to honor their virtue. They’ll look no different from us once they’ve been groomed.”

  Meya jumped at the mention of her family. Other than her, she’d thought they’d picked any girl bold enough to leave for a faraway town.

  Though tired and weary, Lord Crosset’s voice hid a note of finality. Arinel met her father’s pale eyes. With a deep sigh, she lifted her skirts and shuffled to her white, gold-gilded carriage, her chaperone and favorite maid following in her wake.

  When Arinel passed her, Meya saw resignation and defeat in those sharp blue eyes. The same despair she felt, forced to leave behind everything she knew. No matter the circumstances that led to this journey, Arinel, like Meya, wasn’t given a choice.