Charlie pressed a scrap of paper flat against her chest and tiptoed down the marble corridor. The palace floor was cold beneath her bare feet. Her candle flickered, painting dancing shadows on the tall walls. She reached the hidden corner behind the great tapestry — and unfolded her paper.
The corner was small and quiet. Charlie sank to her knees and laid the paper on the stone. She slipped her hand beneath her dress, found the tiny inkwell, and set it beside the page. The candle gutted once, and the dark world held its breath.
She dipped the quill into the ink and touched it to the paper. Scratch. The sound was too loud in the silence. One word rose from her tongue and flowed down the nib: Once. She let the word sit there, shining black and perfect.
She was just about to write the next word when — knock. The sound hit the door like a hammer. Charlie froze. Her quill jumped. A single drop of ink fell onto the paper and bloomed like a dark star.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Each one echoed on the stone and drew closer. Charlie's breath caught somewhere between fear and hope. She did not know who walked these halls at night — but she knew, somehow, that it was coming for her.
Charlie shoved the paper and quill into the hollowed-out book on the shelf. The cover closed with a soft thud. The door groaned. Lady Pemberton stepped inside with her own candle, her shadow falling across the threshold like a net.
Lady Pemberton scanned the room. Her eyes moved past the tapestry, past the candle, past the girl — and then stopped. They landed on the shelf. On the book. On the bulging spine. 'You have been writing,' she said. It was not a question.
Lady Pemberton picked up the book. She opened it, and the scrap of paper fluttered to the floor like a startled bird. Charlie did not move. She could not. Her throat had gone very dry and very small.
The governess bent down. She picked up the paper. 'Once,' she read, and her voice was barely a whisper. She looked at the girl then — really looked — as if seeing her for the very first time.
Lady Pemberton did not hand the paper back. Instead, she reached into her reticule and drew out a small pen with a silver tip. She placed it beside the paper on the floor. Then she stood.
'Write properly,' she said. The words hung in the air like a key turning in a lock. Charlie stared at the pen. She stared at the paper. She stared at the door as the governess walked away, her footsteps fading into the dark.
Charlie reached for the pen. She picked it up, and it felt right — lighter than the quill, smoother, like it had been waiting for her all along. She pressed the paper flat against her chest, just as she had when she came. And then she began to write.