By the time Seris turned twenty-one, she had forgotten what it felt like to sit comfortably.
Her back was always straight, her hands always folded, her chin always level. If she slouched, a switch struck her shoulders. If she spoke without permission, she went without supper. If she laughed, the punishment lasted longest of all.
Girls were not meant to laugh. Laughter suggested freedom. Freedom suggested thought. Thought led to heresy. So Seris learned stillness instead. Stillness was safe. Stillness survived.
Morning light slipped thin and grey through the shutters, cutting the cottage into narrow bars of shadow. Dust drifted lazily in the beams like dying snow.
She knelt on the stone floor beside the hearth with a wooden book balanced on her head. Not a real book, just a block of wood shaved into shape. Weight training, Sir called it. "If you can balance knowledge," he liked to say, "perhaps you will look like you possess some." Her thighs trembled. She did not move.
Across the room, Sir watched from his chair. He never used her name. He never used anything at all, really. Just silence and that constant measuring look, like she was livestock he expected to sell.
"Again," he said. She rose smoothly, walked the length of the room, turned, and walked back. Heel first, then toe. No sound. A lady must glide. A lady must not stomp like an animal. The book wobbled. Her neck burned.
But it did not fall. "Acceptable," he muttered. Not praise. Never praise. Just acceptable. Like mold on bread. Like rain in winter. She lowered herself back to kneeling. Her joints ached constantly these days.
Twenty-one years old and already worn thin as old cloth.
Outside, the village bells rang Prime. Men leaving for work. Doors opening. Life beginning. Seris remained inside. Girls did not wander. Girls did not mingle. Girls did not exist unless summoned. She had not stepped past the yard gate in three months.
Sir said the Crown paid for purity, not curiosity. Curious girls disappeared. She believed him. She had seen the wagons before. Black canvas. No windows. They never returned full.
"Recite," he said. Her voice came automatically. "The duties of a court woman are obedience, silence, grace, and service. Her body belongs to the Crown. Her thoughts belong to God. Her will belongs to her betters." "Again." She repeated it. Each word scraped something raw inside her chest.
When she was younger, she used to stumble on will. She used to think it meant choice. Grandma had corrected her once, softly. "It means what they take first," the old woman had whispered. That had been years ago. Before the coughing started. Before winter. Before the grave behind the cottage. Seris kept her eyes on the floor so Sir wouldn't see them shine. Thinking of Grandma during lessons earned punishments too. Sentiment made girls soft. Soft things broke.
"You will be collected today," Sir said suddenly. Her breath caught. Today. She had known it was coming. Every girl did. But knowing and hearing were different things. Her stomach tightened like rope. "I have kept you fed. Trained. Unspoiled. The Crown compensates accordingly." His gaze flicked to her like he was assessing meat. "Do not embarrass me." Embarrass him. Not die. Not suffer. Embarrass. She bowed her head. "Yes, Sir."
He stood and crossed the room. His fingers grabbed her chin, turning her face toward the light. Checking skin. Teeth. Eyes. Just like the inspectors would. "You are presentable," he said.
"Remember what you are." Property. Commodity. Offering. She waited. He released her. "Girls like you do not get second chances." Girls like you. Too valuable to kill at birth. Too useful to waste. She sometimes wondered if it would have been kinder if they had. The thought came often. It scared her less each time.
A knock sounded at the door. Heavy. Official. Sir straightened immediately, smoothing his coat like a merchant greeting buyers. He opened it. Two men in Crown colors stood outside beside a black carriage, gold insignia stitched over their chests, swords at their hips. Behind them, the horses snorted steam into the cold morning air. "Collection," one said. Sir nodded eagerly. "Prepared."
Prepared. Like she was a parcel. He stepped aside. Seris rose. Her legs felt hollow. She glanced once toward the hearth. For a heartbeat, she imagined Grandma there in her rocking chair, smiling softly, calling her little sparrow. The memory hurt worse than any switch. No one had called her Seris since the funeral. She wondered if her name still belonged to her. Or if it had been buried too.
"Move," Sir said sharply. She stepped forward. As she passed him, she heard him mutter, almost to himself, "Handsomely paid. Twenty years of coin well earned." Coin.
That was all she had ever been worth. Not love. Not family. Money. Something cold settled inside her then. Not sadness. Not fear. Something heavier. Harder. If this was all she was to them, then she would be the finest doll they had ever seen. Perfect. Polished. Unbreakable. And one day, when they least expected it, she would learn how to crack.
The guard helped her into the carriage without looking at her face. No one ever did. The door shut. Darkness swallowed her. The wheels began to turn. Stone gave way to road. Road gave way to distance. Seris folded her hands neatly in her lap. Back straight. Chin level. Exactly as taught. But as the carriage rolled toward the distant spires of the palace, something hot and restless stirred beneath her ribs.
Something she didn't understand but she didn't hate.
And when the palace gates finally rose into view like the jaws of some great beast waiting to swallow her whole, the air around her felt strangely warm. Like breath. Like fire. Like something waking up.