After Serena's punishment and saved by the beautiful Queen, it was time for the lunch.
The lunch table groaned under the weight of enough food to feed a small village—roasted pheasant glazed with honey and herbs, mountains of buttered vegetables, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens, delicate pastries that sparkled with crystallized sugar, and fruits imported from distant kingdoms.
The princess attacked her meal with the same intensity she brought to tormenting servants. Her fork moved mechanically from plate to mouth, barely pausing between bites. I watched, transfixed and horrified, as she devoured portions that would challenge a grown man twice her size. This came mere hours after she had consumed what the kitchen staff whispered was enough breakfast to satisfy three people.
Standing at attention beside her chair, my hands clasped behind my back in the prescribed butler's pose, I felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. Should I speak? Could I somehow, delicately, suggest that perhaps such enormous quantities of food might not be... suitable for a young lady of her station?
I cleared my throat softly. "Your Highness, if I may—"
The fork stopped midway to her mouth. Princess Serena's deep violet eyes, so deceptively innocent in her heart-shaped face, fixed on me coldly.
"Did I ask for your opinion, butler?"
"No, Your Highness. My apologies." I bowed my head, swallowing the words that burned in my throat. In my previous life, I would have... what? I couldn't remember clearly anymore.
She held my gaze for a long moment, as if memorizing my face for future punishment, then returned to her meal with renewed vigor. I remained silent, watching her consume enough food to feed half the kitchen staff, my jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
The afternoon brought blessed relief in the form of Professor Mathias arriving for the princess's arithmetic lesson. The middle-aged scholar, with his graying beard and ink-stained fingers, represented one of the few bright spots in my daily routine. Unlike the morning's economics session, which had been a torturous display of my own ignorance, mathematics felt like returning home.
Professor Mathias had arranged his materials on the polished oak table in the princess's study—an impressive room lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, their spines gleaming gold in the afternoon light. Maps of distant kingdoms covered one wall, while another displayed portraits of previous monarchs, their painted eyes seeming to watch our every move.
"Today, Your Highness, we shall explore the relationship between geometric progressions and compound interest," Professor Mathias announced, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles.
As he began sketching diagrams on the slate board, I found myself unconsciously following along, my mind eagerly grasping concepts that seemed to flow as naturally as breathing. The professor's explanations of exponential growth, the elegant dance of numbers building upon themselves, filled me with a satisfaction I hadn't felt since arriving at the palace.
Princess Serena, to her credit, applied herself with surprising diligence. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked through problems that would challenge students twice her age. I watched her small hand grip the quill pen, forming numbers with careful precision, occasionally pausing to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.
"If a merchant invests 100 gold coins at a rate of 8% per annum, compounded quarterly," Professor Mathias intoned, "what will be the value of his investment after three years?"
I had the answer almost immediately—125.97 gold coins—but remained silent, watching as Princess Serena puzzled through the calculation. Her mathematical ability was genuinely impressive for someone so young, even if it paled beside her frightening aptitude for economics and manipulation.
When she finally arrived at the correct answer, a small smile played at the corners of her mouth—the first genuine expression of pleasure I'd seen from her all day. In that moment, she looked exactly like what she was: a brilliant ten-year-old girl, proud of mastering a difficult concept.
Professor Mathias beamed with approval. "Excellent work, Your Highness. Your grasp of these principles continues to astound me."
The lesson concluded with the princess successfully completing several more complex problems, her confidence growing with each correct answer. As Professor Mathias packed his materials and bid us farewell, I felt strangely good.
With her formal lessons concluded for the day, Princess Serena retreated to her private quarters, and I followed at the prescribed distance of three paces behind. Her chambers occupied an entire wing of the palace, a sprawling suite that spoke of wealth beyond imagination.
The outer sitting room where I was permitted to wait was itself larger than most noble families' entire homes. Tapestries depicting scenes from ancient legends adorned the walls, while Persian-like rugs in deep blues and golds covered the marble floors. Delicate furniture crafted by master artisans filled the space—chairs with legs carved to resemble swan necks, tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and bookcases that held what appeared to be a small library's worth of volumes.
Princess Serena settled onto a velvet sofa the color of midnight, tucking her legs beneath her in a manner that would have scandalized her etiquette instructor. In her hands was a book I recognized—The Rose and the Knight, a popular romance that had been circulating among the palace's younger staff.
Her three personal maids moved about their duties in the meantime. One was changing the linens on the princess's bed, visible through the partially open door to the inner bedchamber. The younger maids dusted furniture and arranged fresh flowers with the silent grace expected of palace servants.
I took my position near the window, standing with military precision, my hands clasped behind my back. This was perhaps the most tedious part of my duties—the endless waiting, standing silent and motionless while the princess occupied herself with leisure activities.
From my vantage point, I could observe her as she read, noting how her expression softened when she was absorbed in the story. Her usual mask of imperious cruelty melted away, replaced by the dreamy wonder of a child lost in fantasy. I found myself genuinely curious about what captured her imagination so completely.
Unable to resist, I shifted slightly, angling my head to catch a glimpse of the open pages. The ornate script, illuminated with colorful miniatures, told the tale of Princess Rosalind, imprisoned in a tower by a wicked sorcerer, awaiting rescue by the noble Sir Gareth. It was a classic story—beautiful maiden in distress, valiant knight, true love conquering all.
I supposed it made sense that even Princess Serena, with all her worldly sophistication and frightening intelligence, would still harbor the romantic dreams common to girls her age. Beneath the calculating exterior lurked the heart of a child who still believed in fairy tale endings, in knights who would brave any danger for love, in the transformative power of a kiss.
As a child, I had dreamed and still dreamed to be honest of knighthood too, inspired by my father's tales of honor and valor. The image of myself in shining armor, defending the innocent and serving the crown, had filled my young imagination. But what had I dreamed of in my previous life? The memories remained frustratingly vague, like trying to grasp mist with bare hands.
My quiet contemplation was interrupted when Princess Serena's eyes flicked up from her book, catching me in the act of observation. Her expression immediately hardened.
"Were you reading over my shoulder, butler?"
"I would never presume such familiarity, Your Highness."
She studied me for a long moment, those violet eyes searching for any hint of deception. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft sounds of the maids going about their work and the distant chiming of church bells from the town below.
Finally, she snapped the book closed with a sharp sound. "Prepare my afternoon tea, butler. The usual blend, and ensure the water is at precisely the correct temperature. I'll know if it isn't."
"Yes, Your Highness." I placed my hand over my heart and bowed deeply, grateful for the excuse to escape her penetrating stare.
Thankfully, Serena's quarters included a modest kitchen tucked into the far side of her living space. Had it not been there, I would've had to descend to the main kitchen below, where the staff moved like a well-oiled machine.
I stepped into the compact kitchen, its clean white marble counters still glistening from the morning's light. The air held a faint scent of lavender and polished wood. I moved with precision, reaching for the tea canister on the top shelf. Darjeeling, her preferred blend — strong, floral, with a hint of citrus — not too bitter, not too weak. Just right. Or so Sebastian would have reminded me, in that clipped tone of his that always seemed to make me feel like a bumbling child.
He had trained me in nearly every aspect of a butler's responsibilities — posture, poise, etiquette, even the angle at which I should knock on her door. But tea? Tea had become his personal crusade. "It's not just hot water and leaves," he'd barked at me once. "It's a ritual. It's diplomacy in a cup. When you serve the Princess, you serve the nation's bloodline."
Ridiculous? Perhaps. But the man had a way of making even a teaspoon feel like a sword.
I boiled the water, warmed the pot, measured the leaves with a practiced hand. Let it steep for precisely three minutes, no more. Then poured it gently into her favorite porcelain cup — a delicate piece with lilac and gold filigree, imported from the Eastern Kingdoms. Carefully, I balanced it on a silver tray and carried it out to Serena.
I stepped quietly to the low coffee table in front of her and, with a smooth, respectful motion, set the cup down.
She turned her head just slightly, her amethyst eyes flicking to the tea. She studied the cup as if it were a coded message rather than a beverage. After a pause, she lifted it — no words, no praise, not even a grunt of recognition.
This would be my first tea service alone. Until now, Sebastian had always prepared it for her — the master himself, with decades of polished, painstaking ritual behind each brew. I could never match his standard, not yet. But I had hoped, maybe, just maybe, it would be good enough.
She took a sip.
Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly — her brows drawing together, her lips tightening, a flicker of something sharp and displeased moving through her features.
Crack!
The cup shattered on the marble floor, the sound like a slap. Hot tea splashed across the white tiles, spreading like a wound.
I froze.
"Disgusting," Serena said, displeased. "Did you try to poison me?"
I stared at the broken porcelain, willing my heartbeat to slow. My hands remained at my sides, perfectly still. My mouth refused to open.
Her gaze was piercing. "Have you lost your tongue, butler?"
I lifted my eyes to meet hers.
There was no way I was lasting more than a month with her.