The water was warm against my skin. I sat still in the tub, blindfold pressing lightly against my eyes, chains resting along the rim. For a moment there was only the quiet sound of water settling and the faint scent of soap in the air.
Then a wet hand touched my shoulder.
I flinched. The contact was steady, neither rough nor hesitant. Soap followed, spread across my back in slow, even strokes. Her palm moved with the same calm precision she used when speaking, as if this were simply another task that required careful attention.
“I can do it myself,” I said.
“No.”
The word was quiet and final. Her hands did not stop. They worked across my shoulders, down the length of my arms, then back up again. There was no lingering in any one place, no pause that felt deliberate. Only thoroughness. When she reached the nape of my neck her fingers were gentler, almost careful, and the unexpected softness made my throat tighten.
I tried again. “At least let me-”
“I already told you.” Her voice came from just behind me. “I will not have what is mine neglected.”
The sentence settled over me like the water itself. I stopped speaking. There was no point. She continued in silence, washing my back, my arms, the curve of my neck. When she moved to my hair she took more time. Warm water poured over my head. Her fingers worked the soap through the strands with a patience that felt strangely out of place. The rhythm of it was almost soothing, and that unsettled me more than anything else. I did not want to find anything soothing in her touch.
I kept my body rigid. Every small movement of her hands reminded me that I could not see her face, could not judge her expression, could only sit there and endure the quiet care of the same woman who had put a knife between my ribs two days ago.
“Stand.”
I hesitated. Her hand closed around my upper arm and guided me up without force, but without room for refusal either. Water streamed down my skin. A thick towel settled around my shoulders at once. She dried me with the same methodical patience, pressing the cloth along my arms, my back, the length of my legs. She did not speak while she worked. The silence felt heavier than conversation would have.
When she finished she wrapped the towel more firmly around me and led me out of the bathroom. The air in the corridor was cooler. The chains made soft sounds against the floor with every step. A door opened. Another closed. She stopped me in the center of a larger room and placed something soft in my hands.
“Dress. Call when you are finished.”
The door shut behind her.
I let the towel fall and unfolded the garment. It was not another plain nightdress. The fabric was heavy and fine, a deep blue that seemed to hold what little light the room possessed. The cut was elegant, the stitching precise. It looked like something meant for a formal evening in the capital, not a locked room in an unknown place. For a moment I only held it, uncertain. Then I put it on. The material settled against my skin with a quiet luxury that felt wrong after the stone walls and the metal at my wrists.
“I’m done,” I said.
The door opened almost at once. Seraphine stepped inside and closed it behind her. She did not speak. She crossed the room and stopped behind me. Only then did I notice the tall mirror on the far wall. In its reflection I watched her lift a necklace, open the clasp, and settle it carefully around my throat.
The metal was cool. At the center sat a single stone, deep and clear, the kind of gem that appeared only in the most restricted collections. I had seen one like it before, set into the circlet the crown prince wore on formal occasions. Stones of that quality were not given lightly. They were not given at all to someone kept in chains.
Seraphine’s hands were steady as she fastened the clasp. In the mirror I saw her face over my shoulder. For a brief, unguarded second she was smiling. The expression was soft, almost content, and it looked so much like the girl who had once searched the long grass for my lost bracelet that my breath caught. Then her eyes met mine in the glass. The smile disappeared. Her features smoothed back into the calm, unreadable mask I had come to expect.
“Seraphine.” My voice sounded thinner than I wanted. “This is too expensive. I cannot accept it.”
“I am not giving you a choice.”
“But this kind of stone-”
Her fingers caught my jaw, gentle but firm, turning my face just enough that I had to look at her reflection instead of my own.
“I maintain what is mine,” she said quietly. “Properly.”
She held my gaze in the mirror for another moment, then released me and stepped back. The necklace rested against my collarbones, heavier than its size should have allowed. The blue dress moved slightly when I breathed. In the glass I looked like someone else entirely. Someone cared for. Someone claimed.
Confusion tangled with everything else already knotted inside me. If her only goal had been to remove me from the crown prince’s path, none of this made sense. The careful washing. The fine dress. The rare stone at my throat. The smile she had not meant for me to see.
I stood in front of the mirror, chained and dressed in things I had not chosen, and tried to understand what she believed she was protecting by keeping me here.
She watched me for a little longer in silence. Then she turned toward the door.
“Rest,” she said. “I will return later.”
The key turned in the lock. The sound was soft and final.
I remained where I was, staring at the stranger in the mirror, the weight of the necklace cool against my skin, and the memory of her brief, unguarded smile lingering longer than I wanted it to.