The sun peeked out from behind the mountains over at the horizon, and the black-dark of Crosset faded to a dull gray. Dewdrops still clung to the lush grass dotting the hillside. The mossy stone slabs of the castle wall were cold on Meya’s back when she leaned against them.

Jolting at the freezing dampness, Meya pulled herself upright, all the while wiggling her thumb away from Myron’s as he lunged over to pin it down. Though May Fest was just around the corner and marked the beginning of spring, the cold of winter still hadn’t receded entirely from the manor. It would creep back in during the nights after sundown and slink away by the dawn before sunrise.

It felt like more than half a day had gone by since Meya, the Lattis band hidden underneath one of Marin’s shawls, and accompanied by her whole family, including Hanna, had trudged from their cottage to the castle and joined the group of peasant families already forming outside the west gate.

Meya noticed nine young women around her age. Judging from their plain, tattered woolen dresses, they were only a little better off than Meya herself, and were the newly hired maids. Ten burly young men clad in identical gray-green uniforms and cloaks stood mingled with them, swords hanging in scabbards from their simple brown belts. Those were probably the guards.

An old man who looked to be the butler, an old lady who looked to be the head maid, and another middle-aged man who seemed to be the head guard stood watch over them from the arch of the castle gate, all dressed in the same dull gray-green and flanked by gray-green-cladded castle guards.

Every noble clan had its own color, which also became the manor’s signature color. Crosset’s color was the grayish Crosset Green, which reminded Meya of tree lichen and bread mold.

Meya consoled herself that at least she’d be wearing Hadrian’s color, Hadrian Red, for work. They say it was the color of boiling blood.

After two hours of miserable chitchat masked with excitement, and whatever silly game you could play with your little brothers using your bare hands, Lady Arinel and Lord Crosset finally emerged from the castle gate, signaling the maids and guards to separate from their families.

Meya let go of Myron’s thumb she was pinning down with hers and spun around, eyes wide. She felt as if her heart had cut itself free from the veins holding it and plummeted down to join her churning bowels.

For the past two hours, she had tempered a tiny hope that, at long last, some complication would arise, and the journey would be postponed, as was typical of arrangements concerning important people. But nothing of the sort happened. It was time.

Meya longed to hug Hanna, but Mum wouldn’t let her walk up to Lady Arinel smelling like pig. So, she grudgingly settled for a long pat and a nose-kiss.

Marcus and Myron let her ruffle their hair. Marin leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Mistral threw herself into Meya’s embrace and squeezed the air out of her lungs. Morel even managed a stiff hug and an awkward pat on her back. Mum’s hug was a few breaths longer than the usual split-second; Meya’s body was too hot for anyone to embrace her comfortably. As always, Maro held on the longest.

“Take care, little sis.” He whispered. Meya nodded, not trusting herself enough to speak lest the tears burning in her eyes spill out.

“Stay safe. Don’t make any trouble for the Lady. Come home next Fest in one piece. Think you can do that?”

Meya creaked out a wry grin. She’d try, but, knowing her luck, she couldn’t promise anything.

A long shadow swept over her. Meya turned around only to find Dad, his lips pursed, his eyebrows tied in a troubled frown, and Maro’s strong arms slid away against her silent wishes.

After all that had been said and done, it took every last drop of courage for her to simply remain standing, staring down at Dad’s boots, instead of bolting away in shame.

Dad reached over and tidied up the unruly strands of hair on her crown.

“You take care of yourself.” He grunted, his eyes stubbornly fixed on Meya’s hair in embarrassment. Meya sniffed as a rebellious teardrop rolled down her cheek.

“Thanks, Dad.” She whispered. Dad gave her a few more affectionate pats, then withdrew his hand. Following his gaze, Meya turned to find the other nine maids milling about beside the cobbled path, unsure who should be first in line. She took a deep breath and one last look at her family, then ventured off to join her colleagues-to-be.

In her sixteen years, Meya had only once seen Lady Arinel. That was seven years ago, the autumn before the Famine. Lord Crosset had Meya locked in the Liar’s Bridle, chained at the Town Square and whipped for working in the fields; Crosset didn’t allow women to work the fields back then.

Meya couldn’t help sneaking curious glances as she gathered her dress and knelt down beside the ninth maid, a fellow redhead. The lady looked to be around her age. Her oval face was porcelain white, with healthy tinges of pink on her cheeks. Her Crosset Green silk-and-lace dress was blanketed down to the bosom by her copious amount of freefalling golden locks. Her eyes were a distinctive shade of blue, striking and chilling cold as that of the Ice Pillory Meya had escaped; she had inherited the fabled Crosset eyes, that was evident.

“Arinel, these women will accompany you and serve you in Hadrian.”

Lord Crosset croaked in his tired, gravelly voice. His green silk tunic hung limp from his thin old frame. An anxious glint darted about his eyes as he watched his daughter.

For a whole minute Arinel stood, flanked by a strict-looking, plump old chaperone, and a young maid with a heavy wooden mask covering half her face. She studied her ten new subjects; cold, emotionless eyes sweeping over the throng and pausing at each of them in turn.

Meya averted her eyes when her turn to be scrutinized came, pulling her shabby old cloak to cover her just as shabby dress when she felt the heat of Arinel’s glare lingering on it.

“Thank you, Father, but I believe Hadrian already has enough peasants in the scullery.” said Arinel, her voice calm and cool. The nurse tensed up and shared startled looks with the masked maid, and Meya understood why Lord Crosset had looked so worried.

Noble ladies from powerful families would have younger noblewomen accompanying them as maids-of-honor. Arinel, it seemed, wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of showing up to her wedding with a string of peasant girls.

Meya knew Lord Crosset had fallen from favor with the king because of his inept handling of the Famine, but if he couldn’t even attract proper attendants for his daughter, perhaps he was even worse off than she had thought.

The notion opened a floodgate to even more questions. Such as, why Lord Coris Hadrian would want to marry Lady Arinel at all? After all, Hadrian was now the most powerful clan in the central-west.

Was there a catch somewhere? Was Coris unbearably ugly, deformed, or crippled? Was that why no-one looked in the least thrilled their lady was marrying into a prosperous family?

That aside, this could actually be good for Meya; if Lady Arinel rejected them all, she wouldn’t have to go to Hadrian! Better yet, Lord Crosset might hire them all to work in Crosset Castle instead, so they wouldn’t blab about this embarrassing spectacle and further destroy his non-existent reputation.

As the maids around her shivered and fidgeted, Meya glanced at the Lord’s subjects. The butler was as collected as ever, but the head maid was twisting her skirt. The guards at the gate stole quick glances at each other, but no-one dared utter a whisper.

“They’re to be your maids-of-honor, Arinel. Selected from the oldest and most respectable farmer and artisan clans we have here in Crosset. The Gretgorns and the Hilds, for instance, hadn’t joined in the kidnapping of your betrothed back in the Famine, and now it’s time to honor their virtue. They’ll look no different from us once they’ve been groomed.”

Lord Crosset corrected her. Meya jumped at the casual mention of her family name. Other than her special case, she’d thought they’d just picked any lass willing to leave for a faraway town.

Though as tired and weary as ever, there was a final, decisive note to Lord Crosset’s voice. Arinel turned to meet her father’s pale eyes, then, with a deep sigh, lifted her skirts and headed for her white, gold-gilded carriage without another word, her nurse and favorite maid following in her wake.

When Arinel passed by her, Meya caught a glimpse of a look she knew well in those sharp blue eyes. It was a look of resignation and defeat. That same look she herself had on when Dad demanded her to take this job and leave everything she had behind.

No matter the circumstances that had led up to this journey, it seemed Arinel, like Meya, was not given a choice.