Johanna's new job was an upgrade, compared to most she'd had. Her current boss was better—the other masters she'd attended in her lifetime hadn't given her such liberties.

She'd been through her fair share of terrifying households; in her first, in Limesdale, they beat her, bruised her, mocked her, locked her up. She had friends but couldn't enjoy them; she loved to cook and bake, but they didn't permit her to.

Her second appointment brought her to the Torrinni Castle, the dwelling of the Totresian royal family. She scrubbed the kitchen floors and was never allowed upstairs, never able to see the light of day. No one damaged her there, but she'd forgotten what fresh air smelled like, and realized she'd taken for granted any moment she'd spent outdoors.

She cried when the royals shipped her to Limesdale once more, but near squealed with joy when they sent her to a cabin in the forest on the outskirts of the city, instead. She was to keep out of sight, not interact with anyone; and if she had to venture into town for supplies, she had to be unrecognizable.

Some time passed, and barely used to her isolation—and the deliveries from mystery men with food—they snatched her again and threw a sack over her head and tossed her into a carriage.

"You are to work in the Dowager Queen's service," said a feminine voice she thought she knew, but struggled to place. An exotic tone, deep and seductive, with a slight accent she couldn't decipher.

They didn't bring her to the castle—the trip was shorter, and the air smelled different. Forest-like and soothing; not the cramped, stale odors from Torrinni City.

They whisked her through rooms filled with mold. Scurried up stairs that twisted to the left, then down a hallway to her right. They shoved her into a stuffy, small room, where they removed the sack and slammed the door, locking her in.

She wished to scream, but what good would that do? She was a serving-girl, a person of low-birth, scum that sponged floors and cleaned chamber-pots and slept on the ground. No one cared for her distress.

Instead, she took in her surroundings. A great oak desk sat to her left, covered in paperwork. A sitting area and hearth were to the right, emitting a hazy smoke and a scent of days-old coffee. Farther down from the fireplace, in a corner, she saw a half-open door leading into what seemed to be a bedroom.

What is this place?

The main door blasted open again, revealing a dark-skinned maiden, not much older than she, with ebony locks flowing down over her shoulders and eyes bright like summer limes. "Welcome, Johanna."

"Wh-where am I?" Johanna wasn't sure whether to curtsy to this individual, or back away and flatten herself against a wall.

At first glance, the young woman had soft features and a dashing smile; but as she approached, her posture became rigid, unfriendly, prompting Johanna's heart to stop. "The Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls. This is the Director's office."

Johanna recognized the tropical intonation as the lady spoke—she was in the carriage that had brought her here.

The Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls?

Johanna remembered her lessons; the ones her mother gave her in secret, against the rules. The books she read in the confines of her basement dwelling at the castle, tomes of information she'd stolen to study in her isolated cabin. The royals had established the Academy decades ago. A renowned school to train debutantes, to teach them proper Totresian manners, to breed wives for Totresian men. It bordered the city of Serese, that Johanna had always wanted to visit; a town known for its operas and plays.

"What am I to do here?"

The unknown young woman's maroon skirts swished over the floors as she pivoted towards the exit. "You are to wait for your assignment, which should arrive soon." Gripping the knob, she pulled the door open. "I am Mary, your sole link to the Dowager Queen of Totresia, who is your main employer. I will visit you often, and unannounced—so best be ready to see me a lot."

With that, she hastened off.

Johanna groaned. She would have preferred her lonely predicament in her shack in the woods. An assignment from the Dowager Queen of Totresia? That could not bode well.

A few hours later, after twirling her darkened strands around her dirt-ridden fingers, staring at her ashen reflection in the minuscule window, and blinking so much her gray irises turned to black marbles, she startled at the door opening again.

A man, with an outdated white wig atop his head, slipped inside, accompanied by a butler who deposited on the coffee table a tray of meats, cheeses, biscuits, and grapes.

"Hello, Johanna," said the wigged fellow, his voice pleasant, but his tired chestnut eyes lacking warmth. He motioned at the food, smiling. "I figured you might be hungry."

She didn't recall her last meal, and her stomach hadn't stopped grumbling since they'd departed the peripheries of Limesdale. Unsure who the man was, she proceeded with caution, and avoided scarfing down every morsel of the food he'd provided.

"Hello," she managed between bites, "Sir?"

He nodded. "Sir Knowles, yes. Welcome to the Academy."

After stuffing two pieces of Gruyere and a wad of cured hams down her throat, she lowered onto a sofa in the sitting area. "Why am I here? What is happening? Where is the Dowager? She is my employer, no? Why am I not with her, at the castle?"

The man readjusted his suit jacket and brushed a few stray fake hairs from his face. "So many questions." He plucked a grape and squeezed it before plopping it into his mouth. "The Dowager has other tasks for you. Tasks that required you to be out of the castle."

Huffing, Johanna leaned against the cushions, sensing a hole in one of her stockings, exposing her foot to the cold wooden floor. She'd long since removed her shoes—itchy and uncomfortable and sweaty—but worried the man would wrinkle his nose in disgust at any odors her feet might produce.

"What tasks?"

He cleared his throat, dropping onto the seat near her, keeping a proper distance. "You will work here, to aid someone at her request." He plucked another grape and sighed as he ate it, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

"Have I done something wrong?" She yearned to eat more, but an unease settled in her stomach, pulling at her innards. She hadn't disobeyed any rules when she lived in the cabin. No one reprimanded her, nor had she received letters of warning.

His posture was rigid and unwelcoming, but the man's expression didn't convey anger or displeasure. Gentle wrinkles formed by his eyes as he allowed a weak smile. "You have not, no. Consider this a promotion." He set his hands in his lap and leaned closer. "The person you are to help and serve is our new Director."

"Why me?" She jabbed a finger into her chest, confused. "I am no one."

The gentleman cocked his head. "I do not ask such things. I used to lead this school, but the Dowager sent word that would change, and I did not pry, because I do as she commands." He flinched and pulled away. "She picked you, Johanna. Best not question it."

Picked me?

No one ever favored her. She never stood out. She was a basic, low-level servant. Her mother was a servant, too. She didn't know her father, but she imagined all her ancestors served, like she did.

"The new Director will arrive any moment," said the fellow, rising to his feet. "If the two of you need anything while adjusting, ask for me. As I stated, I am Sir Knowles, the Assistant. My office is in the Library. I will check on you again later, once she has arrived."

"She?" Johanna also stood, eyebrows gliding up. "The new Director is a woman?"

With the slightest of frowns, he acquiesced. Pride? Confusion? Jealousy? Johanna couldn't tell how he felt.

"Yes, a woman. With little experience, too. She will need a firm ally, a person to never betray her and aid her in her work. Be her emissary. They will not authorize her to leave the premises, and she is to remain far from crowds. Dowager's orders."

Away from crowds? Odd, that sounds like what they did to me.

Before she could say anything else or ask for more instructions, Sir Knowles backed out, leaving Johanna with her questions.

Minutes later, she arrived. Pushed in by three gruff guards grumbling at her to move, move, move! She was shoe-less, her stockings ripped, the rim of her golden gown soaked and shredded. Her hands, glove-less, had soot-covered scrapes and muddy patches.

Johanna would never forget the girl's features upon her arrival. Her bright, jade eyes, glittering like precious jewels uncovered in a deep-sea cove. Twinkling like stars in a clear midnight sky. Hints of turquoise glimmering in the depths of a faraway ocean. Her tears—so discreet in front of her captors, but soon streaming down her high cheekbones like drizzling raindrops on a window. Plummeting the floor like a downpour, with such force and vigor Johanna feared a flood.

Her shoulders drooped, her weakened arms hung limp at her sides, and her knees buckled—the poor thing couldn't stand up straight.

Johanna had never seen such a sight. Not when her former master's wife died. Not her own mother's death. She'd come across hordes of peasants and sickly citizens when running errands in town, but this girl was so pale she might have been transparent. Her skirts were so stained she might have been in a muddy ditch, starved and thirsty for weeks.

She sported a fuzzy man's cloak, drenched in rainwater, and golden strands of wispy hair slipped from beneath the hood. Her feet squished with each tiny step into the room and she winced with her every breath.

To top it all off, she was of obvious noble descent—even dirtied and ripped, Johanna could tell the fabric of her faded gown was exquisite. Yet the fellows flanking her handled her without care, yanking her, thrusting her into Johanna.

Heavens, what happened to her?

A tortured young thing, she was. Seventeen, eighteen years old, at the most. Johanna would know—she was nineteen, herself.

Suffering, embarrassed, afraid, the new Director's lower lip quivered. No matter how shriveled she was, everything about her reeked of aristocracy. The delicate woven threads she wore, how she stood with poise though her sobs shook her to the core, the jewelry dangling from her neck, gleaming beneath the heavy coat draping over her.

The guards dragged her to the bed, in the adjoining chamber. Then Sir Knowles popped up, grimacing. He had trouble looking at the new Director, so he addressed Johanna as the men removed the saturated cloak from the girl's frame.

"No outside contact, understood?" He crossed his arms. "She is to receive no letters until I have confirmed them, meaning you will accept no notes from anyone but me. Her only pre-approved visitor is Mary, whom you met earlier." He fidgeted as the girl whimpered in the background. "No communication with students unless necessary, and no one is to question her identity. She will stay in the shadows, and I will operate the school until she is ready."

The soldiers, decked in the famed crimson and navy colors of the Royal Guard, filtered out after that, and Sir Knowles squinted at Johanna, waiting for her response.

"Yes, Sir. I will obey."

One corner of his lips crinkled up to a half-hearted smile, and he departed.

The instant the door shut, Johanna rushed to the girl. "Miss? Madam? Would you like... Can I draw you a bath?"

The young lady said nothing but nodded. Once, twice, three times—then erupted into a fit of sobs and gushing tears.

Johanna froze; she'd never faced such misery, and not from someone she would call master.

She recalled the conflict plaguing her in that moment, kneeled at the girl's side. Comfort her? Ignore her? Shake her out of her sorrow without knowing what caused it?

Heart-beats out of control, she took charge, rushing to the main door to stick her head out into the dim-lit corridor. "Hello?" Stiffening, pushing herself out farther, she cleared her throat. "I need a tub! For the Miss... she needs a bath—"

A maid who shuffled by pointed at a closet down the hall. "In there. I will fetch the water." She swung around and disappeared down the staircase.

Time had passed since that day, and Johanna would always remember it, blurry as it became as time went by. Especially when preparing baths for her mistress.

She sprinkled petals into the Director's favorite wooden tub, realizing it felt like decades had passed since she'd first drawn her a bath. Since she helped the trembling thing into the scorching water, scrubbed her arms and shoulders, lathered her head with scented soaps and rinsed her off. Huddled, shivering, the girl picked at the scratches on her wrists and legs—akin to those caused by tree branches and poisonous plants. Thick violet bruises spread over her thighs and spine, and she hissed whenever Johanna swept a cloth over her calves.

She was running.

How had Johanna figured it out? Because she once ran, too. She hadn't gotten far, as her master's staff-members were sharp, and his men found her quick. The lesions on the Director's skin reminded her of her own; some of which never healed.

What had made the Director run? She was no servant, that was clear. Had she committed a crime? Spoke ill of the royals?

A while after her arrival, trunks of lavish clothing and accessories piled up in the chamber. Whoever she was, she possessed many dresses and wouldn't lack for something to wear.

Whatever she'd done, Johanna swore to herself to protect her. To ensure she'd heal, grow strong, stop crying, and take on her new role as Director of the Academy.

The first night they spent in the institute together had been turbulent. The girl wept and tossed and turned, and Johanna, struggling to get comfortable on one of the couches, had no idea what to do to ease her suffering.

"Help," the girl moaned, seconds after Johanna fell asleep. "Help... no... leave me be... leave me be!"

Johanna shot up from the sofa and wormed over to the nightstand where she lit a candle to better see the young lady, to address her fears.

"Miss? Miss, are you all right?"

The lady heaved herself up and clung to Johanna's night-gown, her breaths harsh and hurried. "I... no, no, I am not." A slither of moonlight peered through the curtains behind the bed, splashing over her tense expression.

"How can I help, Miss?" Johanna hesitated to settle beside her, unsure how close she'd allow her to be.

The Director released her and scooted a few inches away, patting the mattress. "Please... stay next to me. I cannot be alone."

Johanna obeyed, slipping into the warm covers beside her mistress. It was odd to be so high up—the most luxury Johanna had ever experienced was a flimsy cushion on the floor in the kitchens of the Limesdale home she served in.

The girl lay back down and craned her neck in Johanna's direction. "I am sorry for being so rude, so whiny, but..."

Johanna touched the girl's arm, and flinched, unsure if such a gesture would get her in trouble. "You have nothing to apologize for, Miss. I only wish I could better assist you."

"You will." She sighed and returned her gaze to the ceiling. "My name is Marguerite. Miss M., they said I am to call myself."

Paralyzed, jaw dropping, Johanna immobilized.

Marguerite?

She'd heard that name before; one rarely seen in Totresian history. Johanna had looked at the drawings depicting her, the paragraphs describing her, the lists of her accomplishments. She'd read of her in one of the documents she'd stolen from Torrinni Castle—

The girl was none other than the Duchess of Torrinni, who resided with the royals. It explained so much, but perplexed Johanna more. The Duchess, a captive? Working in disguise for the Dowager?

Weeks later, the gossip had reached her and provided answers—someone had fled the year-end Masquerade and caused chaos at court. Someone had sent the royals into a panic. Whoever it was, his or her name had disappeared from books, and no one knew who it had been.

It took Johanna half a second to associate the rumors with the golden-haired woman she now served. All the puzzle pieces fit, and Johanna's urge to keep the girl safe only intensified.

"Johanna? Is my bath ready?"

The voice drew her back to the present; to the bathwater she'd thrown too many petals and salts into and prayed her mistress wouldn't snort at. She did have a temper, though she reserved it for other members of the staff.

"It is, Miss. As you prefer it."

"Good," said Miss M., appearing in the threshold between her room and her office, pulling the pins from her elaborate up-do. No longer a broken girl, but a woman; strong and confident, even if only on the outside. She wore a mask to hide her true self, and it worked. Johanna was proud. "I need it—Mary swung by earlier."

"Mary?" Johanna whisked over to help the Director disrobe. "I thought she was to communicate with me?"

Miss M. scoffed. "Ah, well, you were in the kitchens, and she took advantage of your brief disappearance to corner me as I returned from my talk with Sir Knowles. The Dowager wanted to get a message to me, without using you as an intermediary." She pursed her lips, her gaze meeting Johanna's. "Perhaps because few of her demands ever reach my desk? Would you know anything about that?"

Johanna chewed on her lipto not smirk. "I have no clue what you refer to, Miss." She shooed her nakedmistress into the bathtub. "No clue at all."

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