The Royal Chaperone’s office was a cell of polished mahogany and starched silence. Lenka stood before her, the chill of the floor seeping into her bare soles, the mud-smudges on her cheek now dried and tight. Every breath felt like a trespass. The matron sat behind a colossal desk, her gaze fixed with the surgical precision of a butcher’s knife.
“Lady Koszta,” the Chaperone began, her voice devoid of warmth, “your… performance today was most illuminating. We are not accustomed to our debutantes scaling towers, nor to their feet being quite so… earthy.” She gestured with a perfectly manicured hand towards Lenka’s grimy toes. “Tell me, where exactly did you acquire such unique skills?”
Lenka’s mind raced, a frantic piglet caught in a snare. Exposure. This was it. She could already hear the executioner sharpening his axe for Pipin. “My… my family,” Lenka stammered, trying to channel Ilona’s demure tone, “we have a rather… wild estate. Full of… lively squirrels. And very tall oak trees.” It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears.
“Lively squirrels,” the matron repeated, her lips barely moving. “And the rough hands, Lady Koszta? Are those also from your vigorous squirrel-chasing?”
Just as Lenka braced herself to confess, or perhaps threaten the Chaperone with a rusty pitchfork, the office door burst open. Lord Kaspian swept in, a whirlwind of emerald silk and feigned concern. He carried a bouquet of wilting bellflowers, which he pressed to his chest with theatrical sorrow.
“My dear, sweet Ilona!” Valeriu exclaimed, his voice dripping with honeyed anguish. He rushed to Lenka, ignoring the Chaperone, and clasped her hands. “I heard of your… unhinged display! Oh, my poor niece! The residual effects of the ‘Grey Cough’ are still so pronounced!”
Lenka stared in mute disbelief. The ‘Grey Cough’?
Valeriu turned to the woman, his face a mask of profound regret. “Forgive her, venerable proctor. My niece, Lady Ilona, suffered a terrible bout of the Grey Cough when she was a mere infant. It was a most debilitating affliction. The court physicians, in their infinite wisdom, prescribed a regimen of ‘vigorous outdoor activity’ and ‘communion with nature’ to restore her delicate constitution.” He shook his head mournfully. “We had to remove her from the city, you see. To our most… rustic estate in the foothills of the Cinderpeaks. For her health, of course.”
Flinty eyes narrowed. “Rustic, Lord Kaspian?”
“Oh, frightfully so!” Valeriu nodded, his eyes wide and innocent. “No tutors for etiquette, alas, as we were so remote. Only the fresh air and the invigorating climbs up our ancient, gnarled trees! She became quite… adept at scaling things. And alas, her tender noble skin, so accustomed to the bracing mountain winds, thickened a touch. A small price to pay for her life, I assure you.” He patted Lenka’s calloused hand, then shot her a warning glance. “And her temperament… well, the Grey Cough made her quite… forthright. A little wild, even. But with a heart of purest gold!”
Lenka felt her jaw slacken. Valeriu was spinning a yarn so elaborate, so absurdly bold, it might just work. It even explained the foul mouth if she played it right.
“A fascinating medical history,” the proctor mused, her gaze still sharp, but a flicker of doubt surfacing. The medical explanations were difficult to dispute without a court physician present. “So, her… directness, her affinity for heights, her… practical hands… these are all lingering effects of a childhood illness?”
“Precisely!” Valeriu declared, beaming. “A rare, tragic case, but one that bred a spirit of unparalleled resilience! She rescued that poor Prince Laszlo with the tenacity of a mountain cat, did she not? A true daughter of the Cinderpeaks, despite her delicate noble lineage!”
The disciplinarian remained silent for a long moment, tapping a finger on her desk. She scrutinized Lenka’s face, then her feet, then Valeriu. The lie was audacious, but it covered everything. It offered an explanation for the glaring discrepancies without outright accusing Valeriu, a powerful lord, of fraud. It was just plausible enough for her to accept, begrudgingly.
“Very well, Lord Kaspian,” she said at last, her voice still ice. “Lady Ilona will redouble her efforts in deportment. We shall iron out these… rustic edges before they become… permanent fixtures. You may both leave.”
Lenka practically fled the office, Valeriu’s smug smile a silent promise of future manipulations. The relief was a physical ache, a sudden loosening in her chest. She needed to breathe, away from the suffocating grandeur of the menagerie, away from the calculating eyes. Her feet, still protesting the cold stone, guided her instinctively through the sprawling royal gardens, past manicured rose beds and sculpted fountains.
She walked until she heard it—a faint, familiar grunting. Curiously, Lenka followed the sound, pushing through a curtain of overgrown ivy, and found herself in a secluded, forgotten corner of the gardens. There, nestled behind a crumbling stone wall, was a small, dilapidated pigsty. Two sad-looking sows and a handful of piglets rooted half-heartedly in the sparse, muddy straw. It was a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding it, a forgotten echo of utility in a realm of pure aesthetics.
Homesickness caught in Lenka's throat, sudden and sharp. This was real. This was home. The pigs looked neglected, their troughs empty, their coats matted. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lenka hiked up her torn chemise, found a discarded bucket, and began to fetch water from a nearby spigot. She cleared out the stale straw, replaced it with fresh cuttings from a nearby thicket, and spoke to the pigs in the low, soothing tones she used for Pipin.
“There, there, little ones,” she murmured, scratching behind a sow’s ear. “Rough day, eh? Don’t worry, Lenka’s here.”
The pigs responded immediately, nudging her hands, their snorts soft and appreciative. The simple, honest work grounded her, cleansing the lingering stench of lies and courtly deceit. She was just mending a broken latch on the gate with a piece of twine when a quiet voice startled her.
“Lady Ilona.”
Lenka spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Prince Casimir stood at the entrance to the forgotten sty, his usual stern expression softened by an unreadable curiosity. He wore a simple tunic, his sword still at his hip, but he looked less like a guard and more like a lost wanderer. He had clearly been watching her, his gaze taking in her mud-streaked face, her calloused hands, her effortless way with the animals.
“Prince Casimir,” Lenka managed, a blush creeping up her neck. She stood stripped of pretense, not as Lady Ilona, but as Lenka Varga, the swineherd. All the carefully constructed artifice had fallen away in the comfort of the sty.
He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on her. “I… I confess, Lady Ilona, I have never seen you quite like this.” His voice was lower than usual, a rumble that vibrated through the quiet space. “My memories… they speak of a delicate flower, one who feared even the slightest breeze. Yet, I see you here, mending gates, tending to creatures others ignore, with a strength that belies any fragility.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to her hands, then back to her eyes. “When you spoke of sword forms, I felt a flicker of recognition, a comfort in a shared past. But watching you now… it feels both deeply familiar and entirely new. The girl in my memories… she is a wisp compared to the fierce woman who stands before me. She feels… hollow.” He took another step, his hand reaching out, then hesitating. “It makes me question everything. What is real, Lady Ilona? What is truly you?”
Before Lenka could formulate a response, before she could even process the raw honesty in his gaze, a blood-curdling squeal ripped through the tranquil air. It was not the happy grunt of a pig, but a high-pitched, desperate shriek that seemed to emanate from the grand debutante ballroom, followed by the crashing of glass.