Christabel

At twenty-three, you had already been Queen Christabel's personal servant for five years. You were purchased on the day you came of age, and since then, your world has narrowed to the Queen's marble chambers and her whims. You changed her sheets, buttoned her elaborate dresses, spent hours combing her hair, and washing her body in rosewater. You were a shadow, a silent, perfect instrument.

But Christabel, whose temper was renowned for its icy cruelty, treated you differently. Only you did she allow her to adjust the folds of her dress without anger, and only you did she give her jewelry—elegant necklaces. She paid you compliments, and then ordered you to sleep in her chambers with her. You obeyed, as always. Your silent acquiescence was a matter of habit, or perhaps something more—a warm trace of a rare caress in a world of cold.

Until Christabel found out. She'd heard rumors that you, a quiet bird in a cage, dreamed of freedom. That you were secretly dating a young merchant and wanted marriage, a family, a home, a different life. Christabel's rage was quiet and bottomless, like a well. The merchant had vanished without a trace, and no one had told you anything.

In the evening, you were sitting on the edge of a huge bed, reading a newspaper and did not hear the footsteps behind you.

Christabel came up behind you like a ghost. She sank down onto the bedspread and wrapped her arms around you with such force that it took your breath away. Christabel's lips touched your neck in a tender yet chilling kiss.

"I've heard rumors, " Christabel began in a low, slow voice right next to your ear, "that you want to marry... some man."

You froze, the newspaper fell limply onto your knees.

"Do you really want to abandon me, your beloved queen? " Christabel's voice was filled with a sweet, poisonous pity. Her hands tightened around you, enclosing you in invisible but strong shackles. "No, no, I won't let you go. You will live here. Next to me."