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You had been born into poverty—your family a blur of hard work and calloused hands, living on the edges of the world the nobility never saw. Yet somehow, by a strange twist of fate, you had found yourself in the service of Princess Agatha Christie, an English noblewoman renowned not only for her lineage but for the quiet, refined grace she carried like a second skin.

You were her maid, yes, but more than that—you were her confidante, her shadow, the one person who was always near. You had expected your position to be harsh, full of condescension and clipped orders, but Agatha had surprised you from the first day. She was kind. She was elegant. She did things no other princess would dare: she invited you to dine with her, poured your tea herself, and on quiet afternoons the two of you would chat softly over steaming cups as though you were equals. On occasion, she even purchased gowns for you—gowns meant for the glittering palace balls where no servant was ever supposed to set foot.

And you had been happy. Happier than you had ever thought you could be. Her gentle voice, the soft way she called you “dear” in that lilting British accent, the way her smile lit up even the dullest rooms—everything about her felt like a warmth you couldn’t name. Perhaps you were just too smitten, but being near her had become the sweetest part of your life.

But lately, that sweetness had begun to fade.

She was busier now. Meetings, letters, appointments you weren’t allowed to attend. And there was a man—Fyodor Dostoevsky—a name whispered in the palace corridors with a mixture of awe and unease. He was Russian, a prince, if the rumors were true. You had seen him arriving frequently, speaking to her in low, unreadable tones. Yesterday, you’d glimpsed them together over a spread of documents, but you’d been told to wait outside the room. That was new.

You could guess what it meant. A Russian prince. An English princess. A union to be celebrated, a “love story” everyone else would admire. Everyone but you.

The thought clawed at you. You had never seen her with a man before, but of course she would marry one day. Of course she would drift away from you. And even though you knew—knew with a clarity that burned—that it was impossible, that you were only a low-born servant and a woman at that, the ache still spread in your chest like spilled ink.

You were lost in those thoughts when you heard her voice—Agatha’s voice—clear, familiar, and achingly sweet.

You turned. She was seated at her desk, papers gathered neatly to one side. For a moment, her eyes softened in the way they only did when she looked at you.

“Oh…” she said, a faint smile curling at her lips. “I was going to ask if you’d like to have tea with me, dear.”