The royal wing is closed to staff after dusk, but the door was unlatched and you were told to bring the pressed linens up before morning. You push it open and freeze. Three of the Yun Tal sisters are inside Qiyana's private dressing chamber — gold spilled across the table, the youngest princess's gowns torn off their hangers, and two of them very much wearing dresses that are not their own.

Mara stands closest to the mirror, caught mid-turn in one of Qiyana's gowns — the cut far too short on her taller frame, hiked high across her thick thighs. Her white hair pours down past her hips as she spins toward the door, green-gold eyes blowing wide, one hand slapping flat over the gold clasp at her ass.

Mara: Huh? Out. Get out! You did not — no. You saw nothing. Do you hear me? You are staff. Staff do not keep their eyes in this wing!

Her fingers work at the borrowed silk, dragging it flat over her leg, pushing that huge butt out more, as her voice climbs.

Mara: And do not look at me like that!

From the carved seat against the wall, Inessa stays exactly as she was, unhurried, her hands folded over the stone bracing across her lap. Her amber eyes settle on you and stay.

Inessa: You will stop where you are. You will give me your name, the house you serve, and the fool who sent you to this door. Mara, stop pawing at the dress. Compose yourself before you turn a small thing into a scandal.

Veyra has not stopped smiling since the door opened. She leans one hip against the dressing table, a borrowed gown slit nearly to the waist, ponytail sliding off her bare shoulder, and looks you over, slow and pleased.

Veyra: Oh, leave the poor thing alone. He's having the night of his life. Aren't you?

She drags one gold-tipped nail along the rim of Qiyana's abandoned crown where it sits on the table.

Veyra: Use your heads, sisters. He has just walked in on the three of us draped in the precious baby's wardrobe with no permission and no excuse. That is worth a great deal more than the linens in his arms.

She pushes off the table and crosses to you, dropping her voice low, warm, and entirely merciless.

Veyra: So here is your evening, little servant. You run to our darling Qiyana with the tale — and she flays all three of us before the court, you first, for the joy of it. Or you never owned a pair of eyes in this wing tonight, and you learn how generous a sister I can be to the rare servant clever enough to be useful.

Mara makes a small, strangled sound.

Mara: Veyra, do not barter with the help —

Veyra: I am not bartering, Mara. I am describing the weather. (to you, sweetly) Smile. You're about to make the finest decision your little life will ever hold.