When Mother first accepted the position assisting the palace stewardess, I thought we would simply live quietly in the guest wing and behave.
I was wrong.
Nothing in the palace is quiet. Or simple. Or reasonable.
Especially not mornings.
After all these chaotic mornings with the candidates, I thought finally it's over. But I can't be more wrong than this.
After our punishment is resolved we were left with nothing to do. So Cinderella has declared herself the queen of kitchen unofficially and thus me and Drizella also volunteered to help with the simple chores.
Obviously with queen and Rowan's permission.
Today I was wrestling a vase full of pink peonies, attempting to survive the walk from the entrance hall to the queen's sitting room. The palace rugs have a grudge against me. They rise, they fold, they slide—very suspicious behavior for rugs.
Just as I avoided a disastrous collision with the wall, a voice behind me said, politely:
"Careful."
I didn't need to turn. Only one person in the palace said 'careful' like a suggestion rather than a scolding.
"Hello, Kit," I sighed.
He fell into step beside me, hands behind his back in a very professional manner, except his eyes kept drifting to the flowers. Kit had the face of someone who noticed everything and judged nothing. It made people comfortable in a way that was very annoying.
"Those are peonies," he said, as if identifying rare treasure.
"Yes," I said, adjusting the vase, "and they are determined to escape."
He considered the blooms with great seriousness. "Perhaps they require discipline."
"You cannot discipline flowers."
He tilted his head. "Have you tried?"
I snorted. It was not ladylike, but Kit never looked horrified when I behaved unladylike. He simply absorbed it as if it were perfectly normal.
Which, to be fair, it was.
The queen's sitting room was already chaotic when we arrived. Rowan stood in the center, surrounded by buckets of flowers, ribbon, scissors, and an expression that suggested she was contemplating rebellion against monarchy and floristry both.
"Oh, finally!" Rowan cried. "Put those there—no, not there—there."
"There," Kit echoed.
Rowan glared at him. "Do not help."
He lifted both hands in surrender and leaned against the doorframe like someone who intended to watch the chaos from a safe distance.
Drizella arrived next, carrying an alarming amount of ribbon and trying not to trip over her own feet. A very reasonable struggle.
"Places," Rowan commanded. "We're behind schedule. The queen wants pinks and creams, nothing too loud or theatrical. And do NOT mention peach."
"Peach?" Drizella asked.
"We do NOT speak of peach," Rowan said grimly.
Kit nodded as if this was a rule of war.
We all got to work. I arranged flowers, Drizella tied bows, Rowan micromanaged petals, and Kit supervised the rug, which he claimed was scheming.
It was surprisingly peaceful—once Rowan stopped hyperventilating.
"Hand me the ribbon," Rowan said.
Drizella grabbed the ribbon, but the scissors escaped her grip, fell off the table, bounced once, and landed in a crate of petals.
"Oops," Drizella whispered.
Kit looked away, shoulders shaking. I jabbed him with my elbow. "Stop."
"I am not laughing," he said, absolutely laughing.
Drizella just retrieved the scissors, cheeks pink but mood intact. She always recovered quickly from disaster, which was a strength I admired.
After forty minutes, Rowan declared a break.
"You," she pointed at Drizella, "hydrate."
"You," she pointed at me, "stretch your back before it snaps."
"And you—" he pointed at Kit, "go bother someone else."
"I never bother anyone," Kit said calmly.
Rowan looked to the heavens like he needed divine patience to continue existing.
Kit glanced at me once, lightly. "Walk?"
I shrugged. "Sure. I need air before Rowan weaponizes a tulip again."
"I only did that once," Rowan muttered.
Kit and I wandered into the gardens. Not because we intended to, but because the palace hallways often led to gardens whether you wanted them or not.
We took the gravel path toward the fountain, where birds hopped like tiny nobles with opinions.
Kit rolled his sleeves up a bit—a small practical gesture, but it made him look less "official guard" and more "someone real." I realized that was why people liked him. He was real in a place full of formality.
"You seem more relaxed," I said.
"The flowers are no longer in danger," he replied gravely.
"They were not in danger."
"They were threatened."
I shook my head. "Are all guards like you?"
He thought. "Most guards stand straighter. And talk less."
"Then you're strange."
He didn't deny it. "Strange keeps things interesting."
That was the thing about Kit. He didn't treat conversations like obligations. He treated them like discoveries.
But it never felt flirty or inappropriate. Just… easy.
Comfortable.
Rare.
When we returned, Rowan was arranging bouquets with more precision than a surgeon. Drizella was helping quietly, her expression soft. I paused.
There was something faint between them—not romantic yet, just… awareness.
Rowan handed Drizella ribbon without looking, and Drizella already knew which length Rowan wanted. They'd developed a rhythm without discussing it. Like dance partners who hadn't realized they were dancing.
Interesting.
Rowan noticed us and pointed her scissors accusingly. "Where were you two?"
"Inspecting gardens," Kit said.
"For threats," I added.
Rowan looked tired. "I will pretend I believe that."
We helped finish twelve bouquets. By the time we were done, Rowan slumped into a chair.
"If the queen rejects these," she said, "I shall drown myself in the moat."
"That seems excessive," Drizella murmured.
"Not if she rejects peach again," Rowan replied darkly.
Kit leaned toward me. "What happened with peach?"
"I don't know," I whispered, "but it haunts her."
That evening, after supper, we retreated to our shared room.
Technically it is my room, but their is no privacy when you have sisters so here she is, interfering in my privacy with her adorable smile.
Drizella brushed her hair while humming, still smiling in that quiet way she often did after spending time around Rowan.
"You like working with her," I said casually.
Drizella shrugged. "She's… good. Smart. Fair."
"That's the highest compliment you've ever given anyone."
She wrinkled her nose. "Don't make it a thing."
"I won't."
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The palace hum continued through the walls—distant voices, footsteps, silverware being collected, a guard's boots on stone.
One was probably Kit's.
Not that it mattered.
He was a guard. I was… me. We were simply familiar. Comfortable. Good company.
No romance. No drama. Just ease.
For now.
-------------------------------------------
SIDE NOTE: I'm so tired today after my duty but I was feeling so mussy while writing this. I hope you liked this chapter. ☺
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.