The next day, Minnie returned from her midday run to find the kitchen unsettled.

  The usual rhythm of chopping, stirring, and kneading persisted, but something was off. Conversations faltered. Hands lingered too long on familiar tools. The scullery maids stayed closer together than usual, as if proximity offered some protection.

  Minnie caught a few words in passing. A name she didn’t recognize.

  Someone from the cleaning staff had angered the Crone. Something terrible had happened in the main hall. The details were unclear.

  Minnie set down her tray with more care than usual and stood still for a moment, letting the realization settle. There was another death.

  Was this the castle routine?

  And now there was a gap in the cleaning crew.

  On paper, it sounded like a promotion. The cleaning work was lighter, the hours shorter, and the uniform was nicer. But nobody moved. Nobody volunteered.

  Because cleaning meant proximity.

  To the Crone.

  Minnie stood still, her heart beginning to race. She had not felt the pull in a while, but it was right there now.

  If she took this post, she’d be close to Finist. And she’d have more time. She’d know when the Crone left. She’d know when it was safe to act. The choice was obvious.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, her voice clear and low.

  Silence fell like a dropped dish. Heads turned. A few wide eyes blinked at her, startled. The head cook narrowed her gaze, searching Minnie’s face for signs of foolishness or bravado.

  But Minnie stood steady.

  The Head Cook gave a sharp nod. “Finish your work. Report to the Head Maid at sundown.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  And that was it.

  A new phase began. When the Crone was home, Minnie kept her head low, her body small, her movements precise. She scrubbed and swept in silence, never lingering, never looking. She made herself less than invisible. She made herself ignorable.

  But when the Crone was gone, the castle opened like a bloom.

  Then, cloaked in Herman’s magic, she became a ghost in the corridors, gliding past guards and lanterns, slipping through locked doors, watching and learning and biding her time.

  She visited Fin, as she took to calling him, whenever she could, offering him scraps from her own meals or whatever she could beg from the cooks at the end of their shift. She told him of her daily woes and of her nightly wanderings, though he gave no sign of understanding, or even recognizing her. In truth, he was less than an animal; animals at least learn to acknowledge the hand that feeds them. Fin remained unreachable.

  Still, she kept going.

  Partly because she could feel the change in herself. Her body was stronger. Tasks that once left her breathless passed without notice. She no longer bruised her shins on corners or tripped over her own feet. There was a steadiness in her now, a quiet grace she had never possessed. The grace of a god, perhaps.

  And perhaps there were changes in him, too. He still didn’t know her, but something in him seemed to soften. As if a thread were slowly tying him back to the world.

  Mostly, though, she kept coming because she always left that white room feeling better. Calmer. Steadier. As if something inside her had clicked into place, just enough to face Herman’s barbs without flinching.

  The Head Maid ran her new life like a general. A petite woman with sharp black eyes and a voice like cold iron, she seemed to glide across the halls rather than walk, her sleeves always rolled precisely to the elbow, her hands forever straightening something. She had little patience for incompetence, but Minnie, steady, quiet, efficient, earned her approval without ever asking for it.

  Eventually, Minnie was assigned to clean the noble quarter, mostly deserted, but important. She was entrusted with a ring of tiny silver keys, each unlocking cabinets of jewelled curios and dusty heirlooms. She didn’t abuse the access. She had nothing to do with those things, anyway.

  She began to feel the subtle signs of the Crone’s comings and goings: the way the stones seemed to sigh, the faint electric hum that threaded itself into the walls. One day, hidden in a small alcove with her polishing rag, Minnie saw it for herself.

  The veil began to unravel.

  Iron gates groaned open. A shimmer peeled away, like silk pulled from a wound, and behind it, layers of magic folded back one by one, barriers, sigils, seals. She watched in stunned stillness.

  Then, through the curtain of unravelling spells, the Crone appeared. Her face was too far to see clearly, but her gown shimmered like oil on water, and thair of menace was unmistakable.

  She climbed into a giant mortar, its rim carved with letters too distorted to read, and grasped a pestle longer than she was tall. With a single push, the mortar rose, floating a few feet above the ground, as graceful as it was horrifying. The pestle trailed behind like a drifting oar.

  Minnie pressed a hand to her mouth to still her breath.

  And then, just as quickly, the Crone was gone, vanishing into the sky like smoke from a blown-out candle. The veil rewove itself behind her, the magic knitting shut as though nothing had passed through at all.

  The castle seemed to exhale in relief.