Chapter 17 Lucy
Lucy
How to begin a journey: pack lightly, panic heavily.
Lucy and Basil had barely three hours before departure. It was a whirlwind of frantic packing, hushed planning, and dodging overly curious guards. Luckily, they had anticipated the king’s panic and prepared most of their belongings the night before.
The palace had always made Lucy itchy.
Not literally—though the laundry starch certainly didn’t help—but the kind of itch that settled beneath the skin when something was wrong and no one was fixing it. The walls watched. The guards listened. And the silence pressed in like it expected obedience in return.
Esther had gone quiet here. Smaller.
Lucy had noticed it years ago. The way Esther’s shoulders drew inward after lessons. The way her laughter thinned when specific halls swallowed sound. Lucy hadn’t known how to fix it then. She only knew she would never let it happen without witnesses again.
If the palace wanted obedience, it would get resistance instead. Lucy had never been noble enough to be protected by reputation. She survived by being inconvenient to remove.
Lucy had one last critical task before she set out on her princess-chasing journey.
The sun hung bright and merciless overhead, painting the white palace stones in blinding gold. It made her miss seeing her own gold.
Most guards were either stationed or clattering around the training yard, their shouts echoing through the corridors. Perfect.
Lucy slipped into the servants’ quarters, the air thick with the scent of unwashed linens, starch, and old soap. Her pockets bulged with peppers she’d ground into a vicious paste that burned even through cloth. She inhaled. The sharp, vinegary sting pricked her nose like fire. Excellent.
Lucy preferred deterrents to weapons. Weapons escalated. Deterrents humiliated. A guard who couldn’t sit, walk, or breathe comfortably would think twice before overstepping again. Pain taught faster than lectures.
Guards liked to pretend they were neutral. Lucy knew better. They protected titles, not people. They followed orders, not instincts.
Neutrality was a luxury afforded to those who never suffered the consequences of inaction. Lucy had seen guards look the other way while Esther cried herself hoarse behind closed doors. Pretending not to see was still a choice.
Esther had learned to smile at them.
Lucy had learned exactly how much pepper it took to ruin a man’s dignity without leaving permanent damage.
She smeared pepper juice generously into all the garments she could find: drawers dangling from lines, stacks of folded shirts, even the captain’s prized woolen socks. Nothing was safe from her wrath. The fabric absorbed the spicy oil instantly, releasing an aroma so potent that her eyes watered.
“May your next shift be lively,” Lucy whispered as she rubbed the final smear into sweat-stained underwear.
Then came step two. She tiptoed between bunk beds, the air growing mustier. One by one, she gently tucked slivers of poison ivy into pillows, careful not to touch the oils.
A faint, earthy, bitter scent rose from the leaves. “It’s what you deserve,” she muttered. “For ignoring her. For letting her be lonely.”
A flash of heartache pricked her. Esther had deserved so much better than these cold hallways and colder people.
Even Baroness Levon—the Cuckoo Bird—was better than them.
At least the Baroness had hovered. Hovering meant noticing. Lucy would take awkward concern over polished neglect any day.
Satisfied, Lucy wiped her hands on a vinegar-soaked cloth to neutralize the oils, then skipped out of the room, the echo of her footsteps bouncing down the hall like a gleeful little war drum.
She changed quickly in the women’s quarters. The scent of lavender soap and old cedar drifted from the wardrobes, slipping into practical travel clothes—not too different from her maid uniform, just without the apron or extra pockets.
Her bag sat ready: neatly folded clothes, toiletries, her beloved mascara, and a tiny vial of concentrated tears-of-onion for emergency dramatics. She was proud of being early. Punctuality was practically her religion.
But she was prouder of being Esther’s best friend.
Princess or maid meant nothing to her. Esther was her sister.
Lucy would walk through hell barefoot to protect her.
She might even burn the castle down if it came to that.
Not that she wanted to. Cleaning was her specialty, not espionage—but she would absolutely do it.
She stopped in the kitchen on her way out, the air warm and buttery from fresh rolls.
“Good afternoon,” she called.
“Good afternoon, Lucy,” Greta, the head cook, replied without looking up. That was the full extent of their relationship.
The other servants avoided her eyes as she passed, not out of fear, but out of caution. Caring too loudly about a princess who cried at night was a good way to lose your position. Or worse, be transferred somewhere quiet and forgotten.
Lucy didn’t blame them.
She just refused to be them.
Lucy grabbed six small, round, steaming rolls.
Esther never ate enough when she was anxious. Lucy had compensated quietly for years—extra bread, sugared fruit, honey stirred into tea. Small rebellions were still rebellions if they kept someone alive.
The scent of yeast and toasted crust clung to her fingers as she left. She rarely interacted with staff unless necessary. They talked behind her back. They resented how quickly Esther had taken to her. They muttered words like “pet” and “undeserving.”
Lucy had memorized who said which words. Who sneered. Who stayed silent. People thought maids were invisible. Lucy collected faces like receipts.
They didn’t realize the most significant difference between her and the other staff: courage. She hadn’t used tricks to become Esther’s personal maid; she simply treated her as a living, breathing person.
The palace didn’t need chains to keep people in line. It ran on softer cruelties—whispers, favors withheld, doors that stopped opening when you approached. Servants learned quickly which halls to avoid and which nobles liked their tea just wrong enough to justify a punishment.
Lucy had survived by being useful. Esther had survived by being obedient.
Neither of those things was safe.
She brushed past two guards in the hall. They straightened, puffing up like peacocks.
“Afternoon, Lucy,” one said with a wink.
She smiled sweetly, then stabbed him directly in the ego:
“Not interested. Try again when you grow a spine.”
Insults were another deterrent. Men hated being dismissed more than they hated being refused. Lucy wielded that knowledge like a blade.
He sputtered as she wheeled her luggage toward the gates. The worn wheels clacked over uneven stone, jerking with each crack.
Basil was already waiting. Lucy’s jaw dropped.
He leaned casually against the carriage, puffing a cigar that smelled warm and woodsy, smoke curling around him like he’d stepped out of a portrait of a dignified rake. The scent suited him disgustingly well.
Basil wore authority like a borrowed coat—heavy, uncomfortable, and clearly not his. To the court, he was dependable. Predictable. Safe.
Lucy knew better.
Men like Basil didn’t stay loyal to crowns. They stayed faithful to people. Basil had the look of a man who knew precisely how wrong things were and had chosen to proceed anyway. Lucy trusted people like that because she was the same breed.
“You’re early,” she accused, affronted.
He raised a brow. “You’re late to being first.”
She stomped toward him, offended. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Only on rare occasions.” He exhaled a swirl of fragrant smoke, then snuffed the cigar with precision. “Are you ready? Your luggage appears light.”
“I have money bags with me,” she jabbed a thumb toward him. “So I didn’t need much.”
He grumbled, which delighted her.
They boarded the carriage. The padded bench was soft, faintly scented of old perfume. They settled in while the coachman checked the reins.
Lucy hated that Esther wasn’t there to argue with her. To tell her she was overreacting. To ask if she really needed six rolls and three vials of onion tears.
The silence felt wrong.
Esther was always the quiet one—but she was never absent.
Absence was louder than silence. Lucy had spent years orbiting Esther’s presence—adjusting, compensating, protecting. Without her, the world felt poorly balanced.
Lucy had just begun imagining her future greatness as a traveling hero when a shrill screech split the air. Both she and Basil flinched. Lucy recognized the voice instantly and prayed she was wrong.
She stared in horror as Baroness Irene Levon sprinted toward them across the courtyard. She moved fast despite her heels, corset, two giant bags, and elaborate skirts swishing violently. Sunlight glinted off every jewel pinned to her bodice, making her look like a bedazzled runaway chandelier.
She looked ridiculous.
Ridiculous people rarely ran toward danger. Lucy clocked the bags. The speed. The refusal to stop. Something tightened in her chest despite herself.
Nobles didn’t move unless it benefited them. Which meant either Irene Levon was a fool—or she had decided Esther mattered more than decorum. Lucy quietly revised her mental ledger.
However, that did not mean Lucy wanted to get trapped with the Baroness on a wild princess hunt.
“Coachman, go!” She started hitting the carriage like her life depended on it. Because it did.
The coachman ignored her, dutifully finishing his inspection of the mare’s bridle.
The Baroness reached them in record time. Lucy cursed loudly, earning a disappointed look from Basil.
“Add these to the luggage,” she thrust her bags at the poor coachman.
“Absolutely not!” Lucy threw herself across the carriage door like a rabid ferret, cursing colorfully as she almost fell out. “What are you doing?”
“Language!” Irene scolded, horrified. “I am joining you, of course.”
“You must be confused. You are not joining us.”
“King Arcturus informed me of the ordeal,” Irene said primly, glancing at the coachman so she wouldn’t reveal too much. “I am coming with you.”
“We don’t need a cuckoo bird!” Lucy hissed. What Lucy meant was: we don’t need another cage pretending to be protection.
“Cuckoo? You ungrateful child, move aside.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Lucy!” Basil’s voice cracked like a whip. She stiffened. He didn’t yell often, so when he did, she knew to listen. She sat down reluctantly, arms crossed, glaring murderously.
Basil offered the Baroness a hand into the carriage like a gentleman, which Lucy did not approve of in any way.
“This carriage is cheap,” Irene said the moment her skirts swamped half the interior. “If I had known, I would have prepared a different one.”
“A bigger one, too,” Lucy muttered.
“Yes, well, we’ll fix that at the next inn—oh!” Irene suddenly brightened. She rummaged through her bag. “I brought something for you.”
Lucy blinked, eyes full of distrust.
The small cloth bundle smelled of vanilla and brown sugar. She opened it slowly.
Gingersnap cookies.
“Esther told me they were your favorite,” Irene said simply.
Lucy stared at them like they might bite. Esther remembered things like that. The realization hurt worse than any insult.
Lucy’s outrage cracked just a fraction. After a silent moment, she muttered, “Fine. You can sit near me, but don’t touch my bags.”
The Baroness smiled knowingly. She knew exactly how to handle disgruntled youths.
Basil hid his amusement poorly. Lucy mouthed some very choice words at him and shoved a gingersnap into her mouth.
And so the carriage rolled forward, carrying the three most unlikely allies the kingdom had ever seen.
Esther ran toward freedom, unaware of what awaited her.
Lucy ran the other direction—to gather answers, allies, and enough leverage to tear down anyone who tried to cage her again.
Someone had to do the unglamorous part of saving a princess.
Lucy planned to be very good at it.
Saving a princess didn’t require a sword. It required memory, spite, and a willingness to be underestimated. Lucy had all three.