"Well, well, well," a dramatic voice drawls from the direction of my bed. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence." Iza lounges across my mattress sprawled out in a way that takes up as much space as possible. A chocolate puff from Mr. Bieri's bakery hovers near her lips, her fingers dusted in sugar as she flips through a battered, scandalous novel with a cover that would make a few blush and a lot faint.
She glances up, takes in the grime and filth in my presence, and her mouth twists in disgust. "Ew."
"Enjoying yourself?" I close the door, walk to a chair, and collapse on it, with a sigh.
She blinks her expression deadpan, before shrugging and going back to her book. "You know, I could have died of boredom waiting for you to get back. Nothing's funny, " She wiggles the chocolate puff at me like it's her only lifeline, then pops it into her mouth, crumbs scattering over my sheets.
"Hmm..."
I hum, watching her without much energy to respond. Iza has a way of turning the most ordinary things—like eating chocolate puffs or reading trashy novels—into some grand performance, as though every moment deserves an audience.
She grins, completely unrepentant. "As a matter of fact, yes. I am enjoying, " She flips to a particularly lurid passage and waggles the book in my direction. "You know, Lady Rosé, you could learn a thing or two from these novels. Might even help with that stiff, high-society posture of yours."
I roll my eyes, but can't help the hint of a smile tugging at my lips. "And you might learn a thing or two about respecting my bed. Boots off."
With a dramatic sigh, she kicks her feet over the edge of the mattress, brushing crumbs from her maroon and white maid dress. She settles her headdress with exaggerated care, batting her eyelashes at me. "As you wish, Your Grace." She drags out the title like it's a joke, her eyes glinting with mischief.
I scoff, nudging her with my foot. Iza is a wild card—a girl from the Undercity with more fire in her little finger than the rest of the mansion combined. Half the time, she feels like a wild animal kept on a too-short leash. I'm not sure if she's here to serve me or to make my life more complicated, but she's the closest thing I have to an ally in this place. When I was young, I used to think about why she existed under my mother's wing—especially when my mother sent knights to "clean up" the Undercity when she was bored.
Iza was the exception, allowed into our domain yet never fully accepted. I cannot say that I did not think that Iza was here to keep me in line or to serve as a reminder of what my life might have been if I'd been born in a different part of the city.
But as we grew older, Iza's face began to mimic mine in shape; her hair was bound the same way, dyed to match the exact shade of mine. Her posture was molded to reflect mine—every gesture, every habit, trained to be a mirror image of me, a shadow that followed me but would never stand fully in my light. An unbreakable tether to the world outside these walls, with all its grit, rebellion, and freedom.
Iza finishes unlacing my shoes, and as she slides them off, I feel her eyes on me, studying me in the way she has that always seems to see more than she lets on. "Long day?" she asks, "I saw Jeremy earlier. Who's dead?"
I sigh, sinking further into the chair, my eyes drifting to the painted purple roses on the ceiling. The exhaustion clings to me like a cloak. "You have no idea. And no, no one died."
"Yet?"
"Yet," I breathe, unable to muster the energy to argue with her.
"Serves you right for leaving me," she mutters, pulling off my shoes with a huff. "Did Someone actually drag you through the wilds? You stink,"
"Something like that," I mutter, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The heaviness settles over me, not just from lack of sleep, but from the invisible weight pressing down on me. The weight of duty, as my mother would call it. The weight of something I never chose.
I feel Iza's fingers deftly unlacing the straps and buckles on my thigh, her hands moving with the practiced ease of someone who's done this a thousand times. My gaze drifts to the edge of her rolled sleeves, where a faint scar catches the light. Just above it, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo—an old, jagged mark of the Undercity, one she'd earned through grit and hardship long before I ever knew her.
"Your uncle," I murmur, a thought springing to mind. "He's still… down there, isn't he?"
Her mouth twists into a scowl as she pulls off my sock. "If you're asking if he's still breathing, then unfortunately, yes."
"And what does he do now?"
She adjusts my foot with surprising gentleness, then straightens me to unbutton my shirt with the same practiced efficiency. "Runs a pub. A den of rats who think they can claw their way out of the gutter. Why?" She raises an eyebrow. "You planning on making a visit?"
I snort, rolling my eyes. "Hardly."
She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with a mischievous glint. "Well, if you do need something down there, I can tell you who to avoid." Her tone is light, but there's an unspoken promise woven into it in ways that the cold halls of this mansion never could. We both share history in that field but when it's only me without her, some things like last night happen.
The demon with the pretty lips.
"Or who to find?" The words slip out sharper than I intended.
Crap!
She freezes for a heartbeat, her hands still against the fabric of my shirt. I hold my breath, cursing myself for letting that sliver of vulnerability show. She raises her patched eyebrow.
"... You want to get laid, Lady Emberthorn?"