Book 1: Chapter 21 - Breaking In [Part 2]

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Seraphina had barely begun to shed her stained garments when a sharp, insistent knock echoed through her chamber, followed by a tentative voice.

"Milady Seraphina?" Miriam's voice wavered from the other side of the door. "There's... there's been a bit of a problem..."

Of course there was a problem. There was always a problem. The important thing was, what was it this time? Why did they never start with that? Seraphina thought, irritation flaring as she let out a sharp sigh.

"What is it now?" she replied, her tone edged with exasperation.

"It's the boy you picked up... He's making a scene. Cathy says she needs you..." Miriam said hesitantly.

"I'll be there in a moment," Seraphina replied, throwing a cream and peach-pink shawl over her shoulders.

With another long sigh, she opened her chamber door to find Miriam waiting anxiously in the corridor, tugging nervously at one of her braids.

"Well then, let's deal with this problem. Honestly, Catherina should have enough experience to handle an eleven-year-old boy..." the young noblewoman complained.

Seraphina's stomach rumbled audibly; in the whirlwind of her responsibilities, she had neglected even the most basic needs. She was slipping back into the relentless habits of her old world. "Perhaps I can grab something from the kitchens on the way..." she murmured, half to herself, half to the empty corridor.

With Miriam leading on, they walked swiftly through the castle's labyrinthine corridors. The late afternoon sun slanted through stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows on the stone floors. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors and landscapes of distant, unknown lands. One painting arrested her attention: a fearsome battle where her father, Anatoli, stood at the forefront, fighting valiantly for King Elidion.

The artist had captured the raw ferocity of her father, she admitted grudgingly. He was depicted as a towering figure, cutting down foes by the score with his near-legendary weapon—a massive slab of iron, forged into a crude, heavy blade nearly as tall as she was. They said it was a Titan's knife, unearthed from the ruins of their lost civilization. Her father, a man of simple tastes, had unimaginatively named it "the Titan’s knife" in a positively outrageous burst of originality. Now, in these peaceful times, it likely lay dormant in some vault beneath the castle, collecting dust.

They continued, passing through the bustling kitchens. The rich aroma of spices and baking bread enveloped them. Seraphina paused and asked Gastoc, the head cook, for a piece of fruit to tide her over until dinner.

An old soldier from one of her father's campaigns, Gastoc had traded his old battlefield for a new one. Now, the kitchen was his warzone, and managing meals for an entire castle was a daily battle of its own. He was a boisterous, towering man—surprisingly muscular and well-built, not gone soft like many in his profession. His eyes twinkled with mischief above a well-trimmed brown beard. Seraphina's image of cooks as jolly, rotund men was starkly at odds with the formidable figure before her.

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The grizzled man, ever doting, couldn't resist. "A piece of fruit, milady? Nonsense. Here, try this," he said, pressing a warm slice of fruit pie into her hands. "One of my latest creations. Let me know what you think."

Hunger temporarily assuaged, they headed to the servants' baths to see what trouble her latest charge was causing.

Stepping into the steamy baths, heated by the glow of imported Zajasite crystals and Fire Cores, the cacophony hit her like a wave. The boy's screams echoed off the tiled walls as he desperately fought off the matron, Catherina. From a distance, it seemed as though the stout woman was attacking a helpless, naked child with a pair of gleaming shears.

Seraphina sighed to herself. Of course, she had forgotten this small detail.

"Ibn!" she called sharply, the name slicing through the chaos. The boy froze, eyes wide. It was a name he had not heard since his mother had left him. How did this strange woman, whose voice echoed with the same timbre as his mother's lullabies, know his name? A flicker of hope ignited—was his mother’s spirit reaching out to him?

"Why, milady! I was just trying to cut his hair—a right old mess it is too—when he went all wild! Well, wilder at least!" the matron complained, her cheeks red and puffing.

Ibn had a deep, intrinsic fear of blades. The weapons that had taken his parents' lives were forever etched into his memory, a source of trauma. Ironic, then, that he would grow up to master what he despised. Ironic, and in Seraphina's opinion, rather pathetic.

Now, how did Este Lize deal with this? What trite, saccharine, and overly emotional thing did she do again? Remebering, Seraphina almost gagged inwardly. That was much too much for her, but she needed to do something—a gesture of sacrifice that would bind the boy in chains of guilt as strong as any trap. She needed to show him, and shame him, that there was nothing to fear. And to make him indebted to her for showing him the way.

"The scissors, if you please, Catherina," Seraphina ordered, holding out her hand to the tubby woman. Miriam continued to stare at the boy as if he were a dangerous animal.

The portly woman handed her the shears, muttering something about naughty boys. What happened next surprised everyone.

Without hesitation, Seraphina raised the shears to her own head. The sharp blades bit into her golden locks, and she felt a strange liberation as the tresses fell around her like shimmering strands of sunlit silk. However, each snip that echoed in the hushed bathhouse still made her wince just ever so slightly.

The boy watched, mouth agape, as she transformed her cascading hair into a rough, practical bob. She knew she would face an onslaught from Eloise later, but in this moment, she did not care. In a world devoid of modern comforts like a hairdryer, practicality outweighed vanity.

Both the maid and the matron gasped in unison.

"Lady Seraphina!" Miriam cried out.

"Little Sera!" the matron all but wailed.

Ignoring them, she fixed the boy with a piercing gaze. "I do this for you," she declared, her voice steady. "See? These are not to be feared. Feel shame for your cowardice. The only way to conquer fear is to face it head-on. Remember this, and never forget." Her eyes bore into his. "You are a boy—start acting like one," she snapped.

She noticed with satisfaction a flush of shame coloring his cheeks. Este Lize had employed a more gentle touch in the story, but Seraphina had neither the time nor the inclination for such roundabout methods. Shame, guilt, and obligation would bind him to her.

Seizing the moment, she grasped his head firmly. Before he could react, she began cutting his hair with swift, decisive strokes as if he were a sheep. The shears snipped rhythmically, echoing his subdued sniffles. Dark, matted strands fell away, revealing the contours of his face. He stood there, tears falling down his face, too shocked to resist.

“Oh, will you not stop crying!” complained the young noblewoman. Really now, the lad should be grateful that she had personally come down to see to this.

Despite the rough treatment, he uttered not a single word, almost as if he were mute.