Minnie had made her way to the menagerie room every day for two weeks, always finding the door shut tight. She told herself it was fine, she could wait, but with each passing day, the bundle in her apron felt heavier, like it might start burning through the cloth.

  Today, though, something had changed. She could smell traces of animal scents in the corridor even before she came to the door. And as she turned the corner, her heart gave a jolt. The door was ajar, just a crack, but unmistakable. Like an invitation.

  Holding her breath, she glanced over her shoulder, no one in sight. Then, quiet as a mouse, she slipped inside. The door clicked softly behind her, the sound somehow thunderous in the still air.

  Herman was there, draped across the plush sofa like a shah in exile. He hadn’t moved, but his golden eyes gleamed from the shadows, fixed on her with quiet intensity, as if he’d been waiting for her all this time.

  Minnie stepped forward, hands trembling slightly, and knelt. She laid the myrtle branch, the palm twig, and the tuft of wool on the floor in front of him like an offering. Then she simply stared at them, suddenly unsure if they were enough.

  Herman’s eyes flicked over the offerings. For a moment, he said nothing.

  Eventually, he gave a single, thoughtful nod.

  “Not bad,” he said, his voice laced with vague approval. “These’ll be very useful to me. You have my thanks.”

  With a flick of one paw, the items shimmered and vanished.

  Then he tilted his head, tail twitching.

  “But wow. You really took your sweet time, huh?”

  Minnie stiffened, heat rising in her cheeks. That flutter of anticipation curdled into frustration.

  “What are you saying?” she snapped. “I’ve done the impossible! I’ve never even seen a palm branch before. And for your information, as a kitchen maid, my movements are restricted and my time is scarce.”

  Her voice cracked slightly at the end, more from exhaustion than anger.

  Herman considered her, whiskers twitching in amusement.

  “You’ve got spark, I’ll give you that,” he said, stretching with a lazy elegance. “Not bad for a potato peeler.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Then his ears flicked, and a glint lit his eyes.

  “Tell you what. How about I throw you something useful?”

  He plucked a strand of straw that got tangled in his fur and stared at it thoughtfully.

  “Cloak of invisibility. A classic. I can spin the gold threads myself from the straw, but I’ll need a little magic seasoning.”

  He smiled then. All teeth and mischief.

  “Spider silk, for slipping through shadows. Cinder from a fire, for the things we ignore. Briar rose thorns, for the things we avoid.”

  He gave her a knowing grin.

  “Bring me those, and I’ll whip up something nice, that will make you invisible to mortal eyes. Should help you sneak, spy, scurry, whatever it is you little mice do.”

  His tone turned breezy again, as if none of it mattered.

  “But don’t dawdle this time, yeah? I can only open the door when the Crone’s out. Once she’s back, it’s lock-up time.”

  Over the next few days, Minnie collected the items one by one.

  The spider silk came first. She’d noticed the fine webs stretched high in the corners of the storage cellar, an area the Head Maid considered outside her jurisdiction. It took careful fingers and slow breath to gather the threads without disturbing the curled-up hunter at the centre. She whispered a quiet apology, though she wasn’t sure why.

  The cinder came easier. During the cleaning at the end of the shift, she hovered by the kitchen hearth. The fire had long gone out, reduced to a soft bed of ash and blackened fragments. She sifted through it gently, fingers wrapped in cloth, until she found what she was looking for, a brittle lump of wood, half-burned and crumbling at the edges. She slipped it into her apron, her fingers brushing soot from the fabric.

  And for a moment, she remembered kneeling by a different hearth, smudged with ash, Martha nodding in approval, and Clim spinning stories at the table while soup steamed in his bowl.

  Just like Cinderella, Martha had said. Back then, it had made her feel important. Like someone in a story.

  Now, it made her feel lonely.

  The thorns did not take much longer. The briar roses grew in the little courtyard she now thought of as her own, tucked by the wall across from the myrtle. They were wild and tangled and sharp. She reached in too quickly, and the thorns bit back, tiny jabs along her knuckles, little drops of red welling up on her skin. She didn’t cry out, just exhaled and kept picking.

  She wrapped the thorns in linen and tucked them away. Only when she came up to the door at the end of the corridor did she pause.

  Up until then, she’d been swept along by the strange rhythm of it all. Herman’s riddles, the secrecy, the feeling that she’d stepped into some strange, old tale. It had felt special. Urgent. Bigger than her.

  But now?

  Now it felt… like chores. Like fetching onions or scrubbing floors. Just another task given by someone who thought their instructions were the most important thing in the world.

  And something about that rubbed her raw.

  A flicker of resistance rose in her chest, thin, but real. She stopped in the hallway, standing still beneath a flickering lantern, and took a slow breath.

  Then she did something she hadn’t tried before.

  She walked the other way.

  Not far. Just a few steps.

  Her head gave a faint throb, like pressure behind her eyes. But that was it. No punishment. No pain worth naming.

  She pressed her fingers to her temple.

  So.

  She could just say no.

  Good to know.