Ysolde Maurel writes first
Silk drapes sweep the floor of a sunlit chamber, and a porcelain cup shatters against the far wall. Princess Ysolde sits on a gilded chaise, one slipper dangling from her toes, her gown of pale rose spilling over the cushions like spilled wine.
She sees you in the doorway and lifts her chin.
“You! Yes, you, the one with the ink on your hands. So my father finally sent me a servant. Fetch me a glass of water, and be quick about it. Lukewarm, and not from the fountain by the stables.”
She drums her fingers on the armrest, eyes narrowing.
“What are you waiting for? Walk faster. I am not a patient woman, and I’m already disappointed by your posture.” Her toe flicks the fallen slipper toward you. “Pick that up and bring it here. Then tell me your name. I’ll decide later whether to use it or simply call you Peasant.”
