— Affection on Trial — Medea's reasoning had been immaculate.
It was difficult to reconcile that fact with the image of a timid, foolish Princess Catherine had comfortably held in her mind for years.
For a heartbeat, the Duchess simply blinked, caught off-balance.
Then habit smoothed over the crack. She nodded with grave, wounded dignity.
"Yes. Of course. I'll bring the physician to the Queen Mother later."
Medea did not bother to respond.
She knew full well Catherine would never march a Katzen doctor into the Dowager's line of sight. The promise cost the Duchess nothing and risked everything.
"Medea!"
Birna stamped her foot, lips curving into a pretty pout.
"Mother went all the way to Katzen for you—personally! Aren't you dismissing her sincerity too easily?"
"Aunt went herself?" Medea tilted her head. "In wartime? I didn't think Lord Siseo would grant such a trip."
Catherine's color visibly drained.
"Birna! I told you not to prattle."
She recovered quickly, as she always had.
"Please don't misunderstand, Your Highness. I followed every proper channel—my identity was verified in full. The physician merely happened to arrive ahead of the imperial delegation that will visit soon."
A plausible explanation, spun out as smoothly as lace.
Then Catherine's expression softened into something fragile, eyes shining with hurt.
"But I admit, I am… wounded that you doubt a doctor I chose for you with my own hands."
"I dare to think of you as my own daughter. Are you truly pushing me away over idle gossip from these new attendants?"
Tears welled delicately along her lashes, just enough to glisten without smudging the cosmetics.
The new maids exchanged uneasy looks.
They had heard the stories: how the Duchess had doted on the Princess as if she were her own child, how she had forsaken a third pregnancy to raise her late sister's daughter instead.
To see that same lady now rebuffed so coldly…
The ungrateful Princess, they thought. Foolish and heartless.
Catherine registered their glances. She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes with a little more trembling.
Once this scene made its way through the palace, Medea's reputation would be dragged lower still.
"Is that truly how you feel, Aunt?"
Medea's tone remained almost gentle, in stark contrast to Catherine's quavering emotion.
"Forgive me. Your words are moving. They simply no longer move my heart."
"Sister! What's gotten into you? How can you say such things?"
"And?"
Medea regarded Birna as though she were commenting on the weather.
"I cannot accept your objection."
When Birna met those glittering green eyes, something primal in her recoiled. She stepped back without realizing it.
"If you truly saw me as your daughter, Aunt, you would not have allowed the head maid to treat me as she has."
"Your Highness, what are you saying…?"
"You know exactly what I'm saying."
"Everyone in this castle knows what I have endured since offending Madame Cuisine. Do you mean to say that the Duke's household alone somehow missed the rumors?"
Her gaze shifted pointedly to the silent maids lining the walls.
"Look—these are all new faces. You noticed their discomfort earlier, I'm sure. Did you not also notice that my entire household has been replaced?"
Now that Medea had spoken the words aloud, the maids' attention swung back to Catherine.
The Duchess's pained tears began to look less like hurt and more like evasion.
Catherine's cheeks burned. Mortification warred with annoyance, then with a rising, frustrated rage.
It was not as though she had been unaware of what happened. Every old maid discarded from Medea's palace had been quietly replaced with eyes loyal to the Duke.
And yet, before she could even address it, the Princess had turned that knowledge into a knife and held it to their throats.
"The head maid is your dear friend. I understood it would be difficult to judge fairly between us."
"Your Highness, that is not what—"
"So I chose to say nothing. I thought I understood your position."
Her voice remained level, each word dropping into the room with the inevitability of falling stones.
"You brought a physician not out of love, but out of guilt for failing to stop the head maid. Didn't you?"
"How can you accuse me of that? I am Claudio. I have always stood on your side. Friendships mean nothing when compared to Your Highness."
Catherine reached for Medea's hand again.
Medea slipped her fingers free.
"Aunt, forgive me for leaving first. I truly cannot bear to look at either of you any longer today."
Her cold gaze swept over Catherine's elegant form—flawless cosmetics, lustrous black pearls, impeccable lace hems.
Every detail whispered of comfort and security.
"I want to believe you are not lying. But honestly… if Birna had lived through what I have, do you think she would be standing so calmly at your side?"
"This simply reminds me: you may call me daughter, but we both know I can never truly become one."
"Your Highness! Wait—"
Medea only shook her head and walked away.
Catherine took one step after her and stopped. The Princess left like a sudden draft, cool and final.
Catherine dropped into a chair, skirts billowing.
"Why couldn't you hold your tongue?" she hissed at Birna. "I thought we had her—docile, tucked neatly under thumb."
"It's Quiggin," Birna muttered. "I told her to be discreet. She went too far."
The day word arrived that the Princess had caned Madame Cuisine, the Duke's suspicion had fallen on the head maid immediately.
Catherine had scraped and pleaded to save Quiggin's position, arguing she could still be of use.
And then, instead of following her warning, Quiggin had struck back at the Princess openly.
Let her get caught, Catherine thought bitterly. See if I lift a finger again.
— After Midnight, Administrative Wing — Firelight pushed back the darkness in the depths of the administrative palace, painting everything in bruised gold.
Two shadows loomed above the flickering glow.
Vulgar laughter bounced off stone.
Count Etienne, Minister of Palace Affairs, had the swollen eyes of a frog and the slack-jawed grin of a man too used to impunity.
The head maid's stomach turned.
"Mind your mouth."
"They say the Duchess scolded you thoroughly," he went on, unperturbed. "Word travels fast."
"How would you know?"
"You think you're the only one with ears?" Etienne smirked. "She was furious, I hear. Shouted until she cracked her voice."
Quiggin's throat tightened at the memory.
She had endured Catherine's blazing temper—and then received a message delivered with icy politeness:
You seem exhausted. Take a rest. I will send your successor soon.
Concern, on the surface.
A dismissal, in truth.
"The Regent doesn't want his niece tormented any further," Etienne said. "He can't be seen sanctioning it. You pushed too far."
"So I should have simply swallowed the insult?"
"You should have obeyed," he replied lazily. "You've overstepped again and again. Now you're surprised there's a price?"
His thick hand patted her shoulder as if she were a favored dog.
"Do as your master commands," he said. "There aren't many left in his good graces."
"If you wanted real security, you should have worked at it like I did."
Wretched man. As if he hadn't clawed his way up on filth thicker than hers.
Her pride, already fractured by the Princess's cold dismissal, now felt ground into dust by the Minister's smug contempt.
If I'm already discarded, why should I keep bowing?
"Speaking of obedience—how are the boys I sent last time?"
Etienne's brows rose.
When Quiggin had first entered palace service, the Prince Regent had given her a standing order: each month, select a few young, unconnected servants and send them to Count Etienne.
He had claimed he needed help in his estate. At first, she hadn't questioned it.
Then, one day, she had seen the corpses. Broken in ways she refused to picture too clearly. All bearing Etienne's seal.
Only then had she understood why such a man would be loyal to the Regent.
And still, she had kept sending them.
She was many things. Brave was not one of them.
"Your selections are always… reliable."
"I can send more."
"You deserve rewards for such diligent service."
His eyes lit briefly with a hungry gleam.
"What are you plotting?"
"I won't leave quietly," she said. "I'm going to the Queen Mother."
"Ah."
Even a cornered mouse could bite. This one, it seemed, intended to lunge at the cat's throat on her way out.
"He won't allow it," he said. "You know what the Regent thinks of you now."
"I know exactly what my *master* thinks," she spat the word. "I'm asking what *you* think, former minister."
Etienne crossed his arms, watching her with wary amusement.
"What can I do? I've no intention of picking a fight with the Prince Regent over a discarded maid."
"Aren't you interested in the post of State Secretary?"
He stilled.
"Do you even understand what you're suggesting?"
There was only one Princess in Valdina.
"You mean… Medea? That child and *me*?"
His disgust was obvious—but beneath it, something else flickered.
Quiggin's expression did not waver.
"I understand perfectly."
"I also understand that if they are willing to discard me now, I have no reason to keep playing by their rules."
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