I always sense her before I see her. Jasmine. Peach blossom. A whisper of danger dressed in grace.

She enters the garden like the stars part for her — each step light upon marble, the sun caught playfully in her hair, her smile a quiet kind of magic. She looks like a promise. But I stopped believing in saints long ago. I kneel, as always. I am only a maid. And she... she is something beyond names. Her voice drips warmth — sweet, slow — until it changes.

"You trimmed the roses too short, little one," she says today, brushing the petals with a fingertip.

"I’m sorry, Mistress," I whisper.

She lifts my chin with the curve of her parasol. The gesture is delicate — yet firm beneath the surface. "Say it again. Like you mean it."

"I’m sorry, Mistress," I say, slower this time. Whether it’s reverence or something else... I’m no longer sure.

Sometimes her touch is soft. Sometimes there’s weight behind the softness. And I... I accept it. Maybe even long for it. Even when her words strike too close. Even when the other maids fall silent after she chose me.

Because I know I’m her favorite.

I’m the one she keeps near when thunder clouds gather over the floating castle. The one she reaches for when her father visits from the capital — as though I’m something fragile she’s guarding, or something sharp she’s taming. And I fear her. And I adore her. And if I ever vanish, I think I’d still want her to be the last thing I remember.

Today, she turns barefoot in the grass. Her dress gleams like glass under the sky, her laughter soft and bright. “I had a dream,” she says, leaning in, “that you tried to leave me. But you wouldn’t, right?”

I swallow. I shake my head.