Carmine had heard it all. She had been standing in the hallway, frozen, her hand hovering over the hilt of her absent sword. She had heard the shouting, the raw pain in Marco's voice, and the cruel, biting words Colden had thrown back at him. She had heard the door slam and the suffocating silence that followed.
She couldn't go in there. She couldn't comfort Marco for this one; this was a wound she couldn't stitch. And she couldn't face Colden, the boy she had raised to be better than this.
She felt like she was drowning. Turning on her heel, she fled the corridor, taking the servants' stairs two at a time. She didn't stop until she burst out into the cool night air.
She found herself in the laundry area, a long, stone porch opposite the main castle wing. It was empty at this hour, the wooden racks standing like skeletal sentinels under the moonlight. The wind snapped the wet sheets, creating a rhythmic, snapping sound that usually calmed her.
But tonight, it wasn't enough.
Carmine leaned against the rough stone railing, her chest heaving. She tried to take a breath, but it caught in her throat, turning into a ragged sob. The tears came before she could stop them—hot, fast, and relentless. She wasn't just crying for Marco. She was crying for Elaine, alone in the Dome. She was crying for Francis, carrying his silent grief. She was crying because she was strong for everyone else, and she had nowhere left to put her own pain.
She wiped furiously at her face, annoyed at her own weakness. "I hate these tears," she whispered to the empty air, her voice trembling. "Falling unstoppably... like a damn broken dam."
"Are you okay?"
The voice was soft, hesitant.
Carmine jumped, spinning around. She hadn't heard anyone approach.
A maid was standing a few feet away, holding a basket of folded linens. She was pretty, with soft features and eyes that held a surprising amount of warmth. She looked young, yet there was a weariness in her posture that suggested she had seen her own share of heartache.
Carmine straightened up immediately, trying to compose herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah. I..." She took a shaky breath. "I'm fine. Just... the wind."
The maid didn't look convinced. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a clean, white handkerchief. She stepped forward and held it out.
Carmine hesitated for a fraction of a second. The maid had a strangely familiar smile—a gentle curve of the lips that felt like a memory from a dream she couldn't quite recall. It was disarming.
She took the handkerchief. "Thank you."
"It must have been a heck of a discovery," the maid said, her tone light but knowing, "that I found you here. Hiding in the laundry usually means something is wrong."
Carmine let out a short, wet laugh. She dabbed at her eyes, the fabric soft against her skin. "You could say that. It feels like everything is falling apart."
The maid adjusted the basket on her hip. She looked at Carmine with a genuine kindness that was rare in this castle of schemes.
"My name is Meredith," she said softly.
Carmine froze. The handkerchief stilled against her cheek.
*Meredith.*
The name echoed in Carmine's mind. It wasn't a common name. It was a specific name. A name that belonged to a garden memory, a girl who loved another girl, a ghost from Elaine's past. The girl who Viremont had slapped. The reason Elaine built her walls.
Carmine lowered the handkerchief, staring at the maid. She saw the resemblance now—the girl from the stories, grown up, working in the shadows of the castle that had tried to erase her.
Carmine smiled a little, a sad, bewildered smile, unaware that she was standing in front of the ghost that haunted the woman she loved.
"Meredith," Carmine repeated quietly. "It's... nice to meet you."
To be continued.