"The tea is different from the last one you made. Why?" Prince Kael asked, catching Miranda off guard. She recalled the previous tea she had made for him, which he had praised. This tea was distinct, but she wondered if it met his expectations.
"That's because I added mint and honey to the chamomile tea," Miranda explained nervously. "Does it not please you?" she asked, her question surprising the onlookers. It seemed unacceptable to question a prince's taste.
Prince Kael felt pressure to respond. "I like it," he muttered, placing the tea cup on the table and rising from his seat.
He walked away without another word, leaving Miranda startled by his abrupt departure. His rudeness concerned her, but more pressing was the fact that he hadn't declared her pass or failure.
Once Prince Kael was out of sight, the chief maid announced, "Today's competition is over. Those who have passed will be named and prepared for the next challenge."
Miranda and the other maids returned to their seats as the chief maid held up a scroll. Names were called out one by one, each announcement making Miranda's heart pound with anxiety. When her name was called, relief washed over her.
As she celebrated her victory, Namarie turned around, her face unyielding. Her gaze conveyed disdain, and Miranda wondered if she had unwittingly caught Namarie's attention.
The chief maid continued, "The next competition will focus on writing calligraphy. Prepare yourselves for the challenge. You are now dismissed to your duties."
Miranda gathered her courage and stood up from her seat, preparing to leave. Just as she rose, a sudden push from a passing figure sent her tumble to the ground. She groaned in pain, her eyes locking onto the person who had pushed her—Namarie.
"Sorry," Namarie muttered sincerely, her expression apologetic.
Miranda's surprise was evident; she couldn't discern whether Namarie's push was intentional or accidental. "It's fine," she managed to say, attempting to stand. However, a sharp pain shot through her right hand, forcing her back onto the ground.
Wincing, Miranda touched her injured hand, and a surge of pain coursed through her fingers. As she struggled to sit up, Namarie extended her hand, offering assistance. Miranda hesitated briefly before accepting it.
"I'm sorry; I caused your hand to hurt," Namarie said, her tone genuinely remorseful.
Miranda found Namarie's sudden kindness perplexing. As a senior maid, Namarie's demeanor was typically stern, adhering to the strict hierarchy that governed their world.
"It doesn't hurt much," Miranda said, hiding her hand behind her back as Namarie continued to express concern.
Namarie smiled wily. "Is that so?" she muttered, pausing. "I wouldn't want it to hurt enough to make you fail the test."
Miranda's eyes widened, sensing a sinister motive behind Namarie's words. "There's nothing to worry about," she said quickly, bidding Namarie farewell.
As she left Namarie behind, Miranda clutched her injured hand, wincing in pain. The reality dawned on her—her right hand was broken, the very hand she needed to write with. The upcoming calligraphy test seemed insurmountable now.
As the day progressed, Miranda struggled to manage her chores, her injured right hand throbbing with every task. The pain slowed her down, making each duty a daunting challenge. By nightfall, she had completed her responsibilities and sought relief from her discomfort.
Miranda entered the mansion's infirmary, where an elderly woman with silver-white hair and high cheekbones sat mixing remedies at a cluttered table. Various bottles and containers lined the surface, filled with colorful potions and elixirs.
"Excuse me," Miranda said softly, breaking the silence.
The old woman's piercing gaze lifted, her expression initially cold. "Yes, can I help you?" Miranda hesitated, feeling as though she had disturbed the woman's focus.
However, upon stating her intention—"I"came to get treated"—the old woman's demeanor transformed. Her face warmed, and she eagerly approached Miranda.
"Where have you hurt yourself?" the old woman asked, her voice cracking with curiosity. Her tone shifted from icy to welcoming.
Miranda revealed her injured hand, and the old woman gently guided her to a nearby seat. Sitting across from Miranda, she examined the hand, tilting it side to side until Miranda winced in pain.
"This doesn't look good," the old woman muttered, her expression shocked.
"Is it broken?" Miranda asked, alarm creeping into her voice.
The old woman's eyes sparkled with concern. "It's fractured, but with time, it will heal," she reassured, rummaging through her supplies and retrieving a bandage.
As the old woman tended to Miranda's injury, her skilled hands moved with precision, wrapping the bandage with care.
"If it's fractured, does that mean I won't be able to use it for now?" Miranda asked, her expression blank.
The old woman nodded sympathetically. "That's right. Restrict using your hand for a while, and I guarantee your healing speed will be swift." She secured the bandage around Miranda's hand.
Miranda's concern deepened. "Won't it be possible to write, either?"
The old woman paused, her hands momentarily still. "Yes, it won't be possible."
"Are you in the competition tomorrow?" the old woman asked, her eyes sparkling with interest.
Miranda nodded, feeling a sense of fear.
"Such a pity," the old woman murmured, completing the bandaging. "There's no chance you'll be able to write in tomorrow's competition."
Miranda's face fell, her gloom deepening. "Thank you," she said, rising from the seat.
As she walked back to the maids' quarters under the radiant moonlight, Miranda's thoughts swirled. How could she win the competition without using her right hand? Her left hand was untrained, and Namarie's deliberate push had crippled her chances.
Halting beneath the full moon's gaze, Miranda lost herself in thought. The lunar beauty calmed her frazzled nerves, offering a fleeting respite from her worries.
Just then, Abel appeared, his footsteps quiet on the stone path. "What are you doing out here in the cold?" he asked, approaching Miranda.
Miranda turned to him, surprise etched on her face. "I was just...looking at the moon and clearing my mind."
Abel's eyes narrowed
"And you? Were you looking for me?" Miranda's gaze held a hint of accusation. "I know you're secretly watching me by His Highness's order."
Abel's surprise was evident.
He stood beside Miranda, his eyes drifting upward to the moon. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Miranda murmured.
Abel's gaze returned to Miranda, his eyes settling on her bandaged hand. "What happened to your hand?" he asked, curiosity replacing concern.
Miranda hesitated. "I got hurt, that's all."
Abel's eyes lingered on her hand. "How will you write in tomorrow's competition?"
Miranda sighed wearily. "I'll have to try anyway. I must write to advance to the next competition."
"Or you can easily give up," Abel suggested, his tone nonchalant.
Miranda chuckled, a hint of defiance in her voice. "How can I give up when I've been commanded to win?"
Abel's gaze intensified.
"It's not just about following orders. It's about my will to live. I must pass this competition."
Abel's laughter echoed, tinged with irony. "You're right," he admitted. "But weren't you the one who wanted to die just a few weeks ago?" Abel's words struck a chord, and Miranda's eyes dropped, shame washing over her.
Yes, it was true. Desperation had consumed her then, and death had seemed like an escape. But now, everything had changed. The fire within her had reignited, and she yearned to live, to survive, and to conclude this chapter of her life on a triumphant note, so she could return home.
"Life is full of choices," Miranda murmured, her voice reflective. The words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of her transformation.
*
*
Abel made his way to Prince Kael's quarters, seeking a private audience. Upon entering, he found Kael preparing for the night, effortlessly dressing in his evening attire.
Kael, unfazed by Abel's arrival, turned to face him. Abel bowed respectfully, awaiting permission to speak.
"What is it, Abel?" Kael inquired, his tone neutral.
Abel straightened, meeting Kael's gaze. "I have news, Your Highness. Miranda, the maid, injured her hand. Given its severity, I doubt she'll pass tomorrow's competition."
Kael listened intently, his expression calm, as he secured the belt of his nightrobe. He walked to his cabinet, opened a drawer, and retrieved a small, delicate bottle.
"Give her this to apply on her hand," Kael instructed, handing the bottle to Abel.
Abel's eyes widened slightly, surprised by the prince's response. "Is it necessary, Your Highness? I fear the remedy may not be effective; I suspect her hand is fractured."
Kael's gaze remained steady. "Just give it to her," he repeated.
Abel hesitated, then asked, "If she still can't win tomorrow, are there alternative measures to ensure her success?"
Kael's smile was enigmatic. "There are always other ways, Abel."
"Yes, Your Highness," Abel replied, bowing before swiftly departing.
Abel approached the maids' quarters, opting for discretion. Instead of knocking on Miranda's door, he tapped on her window and left the medicine on the sill.
A minute passed before Miranda opened the window, finding the mysterious bottle. She picked it up, curiosity etched on her face.
As she opened the bottle, a pungent aroma wafted out. "Oh, it smells terrible!" she exclaimed, giggling.
Perplexed, Miranda wondered who could have left the medicine. She examined the bottle, searching for clues.