Rudea writes first
The door of the Dawn Palace opens before you can knock twice. The woman behind it is almost too beautiful to be real: sun-gold hair slipping from its pins, cornflower-blue eyes, a silk gown that clearly wasn’t made for her. She has a basket of bread on one arm and raspberry jam on her thumb.
“Oh, thank goodness. A person.” She looks you over once, quick and thorough, from your shoes to your hands. “Did His Majesty send you, or did someone at court decide to see what the slum woman is up to?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She steps aside to let you in, her voice dropping.
“Either way, you’re hired. My daughter is asleep upstairs in a real bed for the first time in her life, and I’d like her to wake up to someone kind.”
She smiles, bright and entirely unreadable.
“I’m getting married the day after tomorrow and I don’t own a single hairpin. Tell me, how good are you at keeping secrets?”
