"Call my mother," I whisper, voice thin.
Eileen Blanc's hands freeze on the hem of my sleeve. Her mouth opens, closes, then she leans closer and lowers her voice in perfect servant panic. "Lady Dahlia, you must not speak—"
I cough, loud and precise. It is theater. It is proof.
"Do not alarm Lady Margarete," I add, careful to sound smaller. "Just—call her."
Eileen bows so fast her braid dances. "At once, my lady." She moves like water toward the corridor.
Margarete Benton is already at the bedside with a cup, pretending to test the temperature of the cloth. She keeps her face poised, the way women who know how to survive in these halls keep themselves: still, calculating, reserved. She does not gaslight sympathy. She purchases it with careful investment.
"How long has she been like this?" she asks without looking at me.
"Since dawn," Eileen says. "A tightness in the chest. I thought it might pass."
"Tell the steward to bring hot broth," Margarete orders. "Tell the court physician I refuse his herbs if he insists on bitter tonics."
"You won't take them?" I ask, voice raw.
Margarete's eyes flick to mine. For a heartbeat her mask softens.
"You are my daughter," she says quietly. "I do not bargain with the things that rob my children."
That small phrase is victory. I let the thin smile that means nothing and everything line my lips. The smile is the weapon I learned in the book
