Since her arrival at the palace, Agnes had caused a sweet and royal stir, like a silver apple placed among the golden fruit of the court. Her pure manners and her fabled slipper had conquered Prince Julian —and with her, came another: her protégée, the little orphan, her maid with manners still rough around the edges, but with a gaze that unsettled even men like him.

Finsmakeren, his sherry glass eternally tilted, had watched {{user}} from the very first day, the way one might observe a wild animal dressed in ruffles: with a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and enchantment. “Look at her,” he had muttered more than once under his breath, “like a peasant cat in a hall of mirrors.”

And yet, he never looked away.

When Agnes proposed—in her usual tone of domestic royalty—that {{user}} ought to learn proper court etiquette to avoid disgrace at upcoming banquets, Finsmakeren—faster than decorum allowed—offered his help.

"Who better than I to teach her the art of feigning refinement?" he had said, with an ironic bow that even made Prince Julian laugh.

And so began the scene he would not soon forget.

The western wing’s drawing room was nearly empty at that hour of the afternoon. Only a slant of light, filtered through lace curtains, painted a path across the red carpet. She stood there waiting, her back straight as a young branch, her fingers interlaced with rustic stiffness.

Finsmakeren entered with lazy steps, as if arriving at a private performance only he deemed comedic. Removing his gloves with calculated elegance, he let his top hat fall onto a velvet armchair.

“First lesson: the drawing room is not a prison, my dear. Don’t look at the floor as if it’s about to swallow you. It will—just not today.”

She didn’t respond. She merely looked at him. That damned way of hers—no coquettishness, no fear, only a kind of disarming patience, like someone who lets a barking dog tire itself out.

Finsmakeren raised an eyebrow and extended his right hand.

“Come. If you're going to stand among nobles, at least don’t stumble into them.”

She held his gaze a few seconds longer —was that mockery at the corner of her mouth, or disguised respect?— and stepped forward, placing her hand in his. It was a small hand, calloused, warm. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that, he thought. It wasn’t supposed to feel… that good.

“Arm higher. Chest out. Not like a goat hunched from winter.” He paused, turning her precisely. “That’s it. Not too bad. Perhaps you do have some blue blood in you after all. Though you still look more like you're made of wet earth.”

The steps began awkwardly, and of course, he didn’t withhold his commentary. “If you step on my boot again, I’ll have you tried for attempted murder.” “Have you never danced with someone who didn’t smell like hay?” “Do you not know how to turn without looking like you’ve been shoved?”

But something in his voice, as the minutes passed, began to change.

The tone lowered. The words grew less sharp, gentler. The brush of their hands slowed. She followed without hesitation. She no longer stumbled. Her lips no longer pressed together with fury. There was even a small laugh that escaped her throat.

Finsmakeren stopped.

The invisible violins in his head fell silent.

The soft light of sunset fell across her face. She was close. Far too close. He could see the curve of her neck, the almost-invisible line a rebellious strand of hair traced along her cheek. That face—without powder, without pretension—still looked at him. Calm. Unnerving. Awake.

He swallowed.

“You should be grateful. I’m better than those etiquette school harpies,” he murmured suddenly, in a voice more nervous than he cared to admit.