I was reborn into a world of mud and misery, a serf with a terrifyingly high chance of being sold into a brothel. My modern education hadn't included soap-making or gunpowder formulation, and the invisible hand of the market wasn't about to reach down and pull me out of the muck. Maybe if I’d been reborn as a member of the ruling class, I might have wanted to stay. But as it was, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: I just wanted to go home. 1 The moment I gained consciousness in this life, I saw the leaking thatch roof and the low, mud-caked walls of our hovel. I knew instantly that I’d been dealt the worst possible hand. As a tiny, scrawny child, there was nothing to do but endure. I’d just managed to reach the age of seven when the river flooded. When the waters receded, only my father and I were left from our family of six. My father wrapped the bodies of my mother and my little siblings in straw mats. Then, he took my hand, and we began our life as beggars on the road. The river of refugees grew with every passing day, a desperate tide of humanity where people fought to the death for a single mouthful of food. After three days of gnawing hunger, my father sold me for four hard, tasteless buns. His sunken eyes were too dry for tears. "Don't hate me, girl," he rasped. "Stay with me, and you'll starve. You be good, listen to your new master, and maybe you'll have a chance to live." As I was led to the fleshmonger's cart, I couldn't bring myself to look back at him. He had no choice. The eyes of the other refugees were already glowing with a feral, green light. If we'd stayed any longer, I would have been the next meal on their fire. So much for a fresh start. My bowl was shattered, and my life was now bound by a contract of indenture. From now on, my life belonged to my master. That was the first lesson the fleshmonger taught me. 2 The wheels of the cart groaned, day after day. The collection of little girls in the cart grew steadily larger. Two months later, with a full cargo of cleaned-up, terrified children, he sold us to the estate of the Marquis Valerius. I admit, I complained about my nine-to-five job in my past life, but surely I hadn't sinned enough to deserve this—a life as a literal serf with no rights to speak of. The matron who came to purchase us inspected us like livestock, checking our hands, feet, and teeth with a practiced, callous eye. She selected eight of us. The girls who were rejected wept uncontrollably. The Marquis's estate was a good placement. The remaining destinations were places of unspeakable horror, where you weren't even a beast of burden. You were just flesh. This accursed feudal society! But what could I do? I had no magic, no special skills. To survive, I had to accept the rules. I was one of the chosen eight. I clung to every word the fleshmonger had said, burning them into my memory. Learn the rules. Serve the master well. That was the only path to survival. 3 On my eighth birthday, I officially became a scullery maid at the Valerius Estate. That day, I was given a bowl of thin, almost translucent gruel, and it was the most blissful meal of my life. It was prepared by Matron Celia, the stern woman in charge of our training. Day by day, the gruel grew thicker. It wasn't until the seventh day that we were each given half a loaf of bread. Though her face was like stone, Matron Celia was a good person. I knew she was being careful, easing our starved bodies back into eating, afraid that rich food would shock our systems and kill us. The House of Valerius was built on military glory, and it was run with iron discipline. The slightest mistake from a servant was punished with twenty lashes. On our third day, we were forced to watch as two indentured servants were beaten to death for a minor infraction. All eight of us were plagued by nightmares. Two of the more timid girls wet their beds in terror and were punished by being forced to wash laundry for two days straight. 4 I had no idea how to get home. All I could do was be a good, quiet maid. Just as I had been a diligent drone in my past life, I now poured all my energy into my new tasks. I swept the courtyards, stoked the fires, drew water, and fed the birds in the aviary, performing each duty with meticulous, repetitive precision. I tried to console myself. It wasn't so different from drafting proposals, wrestling with spreadsheets, and creating PowerPoint presentations. A cubicle serf and a manor maid—just different kinds of labor. But I knew the truth. In my old life, labor laws might not have protected my overtime, but the civil code protected my life. A citizen's rights were sacred. Here, my master could kill me as easily as swatting a fly, and no one would bat an eye. 5 Survival of the fittest. I was too afraid to die, so I had to endure. I had to claw and scrape for every breath. Four years passed. I was promoted from an unpaid apprentice to a scullery maid earning 100 coppers a month. Then, because the Dowager Marchioness praised how well I fed her birds, I was elevated to a second-rank maid in her personal service, with a monthly stipend of 400 coppers. 400 coppers wasn't a small sum. One copper could buy a piece of flatbread; by modern standards, it was like making 800 a month. With money came motivation. I worked even harder. My degree was in management, a liberal art. The invisible hand of the market was useless to me here. I didn't know the first thing about making soap or gunpowder, and I was clumsy with a needle and thread, the standard skills for women in this era. The only thing I truly excelled at was making pastries. So I poured my heart into it. If the old lady expressed even a flicker of interest in trying a new confection, I would spend a dozen hours perfecting it. In this household, the masters were the heavens. My performance review was whatever they said it was. Only by pleasing them could I hope for a better life. 6 In my fifteenth year, my superiors once again gave me a stellar review. The Dowager Marchioness herself praised me: "No one is more diligent or well-behaved. Her eyes see what needs to be done, and her heart is loyal to her masters. Promote her to a first-rank maid and send her to serve the Young Lord." 7 The Young Lord, Lord Adrian, had been raised under the doting eye of the Dowager Marchioness. The century-old House of Valerius had but one heir, the Marquis's only son. Compared to us, whose lives were worth less than dust, the Young Lord was a treasure beyond price. His new residence, the Jade Vine Pavilion, had been under construction for three years. It was a sprawling complex of layered courtyards, with carved balustrades, painted pillars, winding covered walkways, rock gardens, and ponds, beautiful in every season. The Dowager and the Marchioness spent two months carefully selecting a full staff to serve him. The inner court had two matrons, two first-rank maids, four second-rank maids, eight third-rank maids, and twelve scullery hands. Of the two matrons, Matron Celia was the Dowager’s old, trusted servant, sharp and capable. The other, Matron Willow, had been the Young Lord’s wet nurse, and she was gentle and attentive. The first-rank maids were Lyra, sent by the Marchioness—she was beautiful as a flower, with nimble fingers skilled at embroidery—and me. To complement Lyra's name, the Young Lord named me Elara. My specialty was cooking and the art of tea. Lyra, with her beauty and quick, charming wit, soon grew familiar with the Young Lord, attending to his most personal needs. It was she who assisted him with his bathing and washing, she who was the "fragrant sleeve" by his side as he read. I, on the other hand, took over the tedious management of his three daily meals, his refreshments, social arrangements, and the inventory of his possessions. It was a thousand threads of trivial work, but I never complained. Every task is difficult at the start; only the dedicated succeed. A beast of burden must do every job to the best of its ability. Before long, I had a precise grasp of the Young Lord's tastes and habits. He favored blue tunics, practiced calligraphy, enjoyed the sight of snow on green bamboo, preferred Lion's Peak tea, and had a weakness for four-colored shortbread pastries. A slight shift of his eyes, a subtle lift of his brow, and I knew what he was thinking. He found me increasingly indispensable. 8 I had reached the pinnacle of my career path as a maid. It was time to find a new way forward. I was sixteen, the age when maids were typically matched for marriage. This meant that not only did I have no human rights, but I also had no say in who I would spend the rest of my life with. From here, there were only two paths. The first was to be married off to a footman or a guard. If my husband did well, I might become a housekeeper. I would spend my life as a serf, and then give birth to a new generation of serfs to continue serving the masters. The other path was to become a "bed-servant" for the master. If the future lady of the house was tolerant, I might be elevated to a mistress, becoming a semi-master myself. But if she was not, I wouldn't even be able to keep my life. Lately, Matron Celia had been telling me in secret that the Dowager Marchioness had instructed her to choose a suitable girl for the Young Lord's bed. "It is the custom of the house," she whispered. "Before the heir weds, two maids are chosen for his chambers. It's to... settle his heart, to prevent him from being corrupted by the women in the taverns and brothels. "These are hard times. Your indenture contract is unbreakable, but even if the master were merciful and freed you, what then? Another famine, and you'd see husbands selling their wives and children. It's better to stay in the manor. And if you're simply married off to some random footman, you'll be a slave for the rest of your days. "The Dowager values your loyalty. She sent you here with the intention of making you one of the chosen. You've served her with all your heart. Now, turn that devotion to the Young Lord, and you might make something of yourself." She was right. What would happen if I left? My parents were common folk, toiling their whole lives only to be torn apart by a single flood. Matron Celia had always looked out for me. This was the path she was laying out for me with all her heart. I had to consider it carefully. What was so bad about being a mistress? As long as I could live in peace. That night, I tossed and turned, tracing the Young Lord's name on my palm. Adrian Valerius. A name as lofty and unreachable as a mountain peak. But it was better to take a gamble on a motorcycle than be shackled to a broken-down cart I didn't choose. 9 Once my mind was made up, I slept soundly. When I awoke, I smoothed rouge onto my cheeks, applied color to my lips, and went out to conquer a new battlefield. Lyra must have heard the news as well. She had been dressing in brighter, more alluring clothes these past few days. The moment we saw each other, our intentions were laid bare in each other's eyes. What little friendship we had evaporated in an instant. Her gaze was now sharp with suspicion. In the competition to win a place in the lord's bed, we were now rivals. It was every woman for herself. The moment Lord Adrian returned, Lyra rushed to his side, pouring his tea, helping him change his clothes, fluttering around him like a moth to a flame, leaving me no room to get close. In response, I poured even more care into preparing his tea and pastries, inventing new variations on his favorite flavors that earned his constant praise. 10 The turning point came on a night when the Young Lord was out for a social engagement. Lyra and I were supposed to alternate night duty; it was my turn. When he returned, staggering from drink, she rushed forward, asking if he wanted some soup. Her dress was far more sheer than usual, her hair and makeup done with a provocative flair. I knew something was amiss, but Lord Adrian, his stomach churning from the wine, requested a light lotus-leaf porridge. I had no choice but to go and prepare it. After I left, he went to bathe. Lyra followed him in. They were in the bathing chamber for two hours. The wet nurse and Matron Celia slipped in to check, then hurried away to report to the Marchioness. When I brought the porridge, I snuck a peek. Lyra stood behind the Young Lord, her face flushed, her hair in disarray, her clothes askew. It was clear she had been taken by him. The very next day, the Young Lord began paying Lyra a monthly allowance of two silver pieces from his own purse—the stipend of a mistress. Although she couldn't be formally recognized before he married, she already had the status of a woman of his chambers. A wave of disappointment washed over me. This was his first time; it would surely leave a deep impression, perhaps securing her for life. I had missed my chance. I scoffed at myself. If you're going to be a mistress, what does it matter how you get there? The method that works is the one that matters. Years of full meals had made me forget. This place was far more brutal than any corporate office. The opportunities to change your fate were fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye. 11 Matron Celia saw my dejection. She pulled me aside and whispered in my ear. "A conquest won by such obvious means might not sit well with the Dowager and the Marchioness. You just do your job. It's not over until it's over. Don't you dare lose hope." Her words were a splash of cold water. It wasn't hard to become the Young Lord's bed-servant. The hard part was being accepted by the lady of the house. A clumsy, blatant maneuver would only make you a target. You could end up dead without ever knowing why. Like still water runs deep, I pushed all my bitterness and disappointment down and focused on serving the Young Lord with even greater care and attention. 12 The next year, the Dowager and the Marchioness began the search for a proper wife for the Young Lord. I heard that ever since the Midwinter Gala, the Marchioness's desk was piled high with invitations to garden parties and social gatherings at other noble houses, the "flowers" on display being their eligible daughters. The Dowager was just as active, inviting old friends and relatives to bring their daughters for visits. Chewing on ginseng slices to keep her energy up, she would chat for hours, so busy that the maids in her wing had no time for idle gossip. The House of Valerius was at the height of its power, and the Young Lord was intelligent and well-mannered. There was no shortage of prospects. 13 In the Jade Vine Pavilion, Lyra's night with the lord was like a stone tossed into a still pond, sending ripples through the entire staff. Lord Adrian was a reserved, serious man who rarely smiled. But since that night in the bath, a new warmth had appeared in his eyes. He started teasing Lyra, setting aside special treats and trinkets for her. His favor seemed to make Lyra forget she was still a servant. She began to subtly challenge the authority of the matrons, criticizing the other first- and second-rank maids. She was even more imperious with the junior maids, scolding and striking them at will. Matron Willow was not only the lord's wet nurse but also a distant relative of the Marchioness, a woman of some standing. After being publicly contradicted by Lyra several times, she cursed in frustration, "She's not even a proper mistress yet and she's already this arrogant!" Seeing Lyra's success, the other maids grew restless. Each tried to outdo the others, their minds consumed with fashioning themselves into beautiful flowers, plotting "accidental" encounters with the Young Lord. The courtyards went unswept, the birds unfed, the hearths cold. The maids' dresses became more revealing and thinner by the day, and several of them caught colds. Matron Celia and Matron Willow scolded them repeatedly, but the feverish, ambitious undercurrent could not be stopped. 14 One day, I noticed a strange taste in the lunch a junior maid brought me. Without a word, I took the food into my room, scraped it into the chamber pot, and ate some of my own pastries to quell my hunger. That afternoon, Lyra began making repeated, frantic trips to the latrine. After several bouts, her face was pale as a sheet. I pretended to have a stomachache as well and retired to my room. That night, when Lord Adrian returned from an outing, two second-rank maids, Faye and Briar, dressed in flimsy gowns, approached him with a cup of tea. Before the cup reached his lips, Matron Celia and Matron Willow stormed in with guards and seized them. The tea had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. The incident that afternoon had seemed suspicious to more than just me. The two old matrons had seen the signs immediately. As Matron Celia put it, "It was only a matter of time before these restless fools caused a disaster!" The Dowager Marchioness was furious. Faye and Briar were given twenty lashes and sold off. All the servants of the Jade Vine Pavilion were made to watch the punishment. At first, the two girls screamed. After ten lashes, their cries faded to weak gasps. Lyra, still weak from her illness, was dragged out by two burly servants on the Dowager's orders and forced to watch from the front row. The display—killing the chickens to scare the monkeys—was terrifyingly effective. The entire staff was cowed into submission, trembling with fear. 15 The Jade Vine Pavilion returned to a state of tense tranquility. The servants now attended to the Young Lord with renewed, fearful diligence. Not long after, the Young Lord's uncle, who had married his aunt, completed his tenure as governor of a southern duchy and was promoted to a high position at court. The entire family returned to the capital. The Dowager Marchioness was overjoyed to be reunited with her long-absent daughter. But what delighted her even more was the celestial beauty her daughter brought with her: her granddaughter, Lady Seraphina. She was like an angel, a fairy from the painted screen in the Dowager's own chambers. I was on duty at the family banquet that day. The moment Lord Adrian saw his cousin, he froze. Lady Seraphina, blushing, shyly lowered her gaze. The maids in the Dowager's service whispered that the old woman and her daughter had already settled the matter. Preparations for the betrothal gifts were already underway. 16 With the Young Lord's marriage settled, I became even more cautious, terrified of making a mistake. According to the house rules, the heir must have two bed-servants before his wedding. Lyra had already been taken, and the Young Lord pleaded with his mother to grant her an official, albeit lowly, title. With his support, the recently subdued Lyra became arrogant once more. On the day the betrothal was formally announced, Lord Adrian left early. I was in my room reviewing accounts when I heard Lyra ordering another maid, Briar, to water the flowers, then scolding her for dressing provocatively and having "no work in her eyes." Briar endured it for a moment, then snapped back, "You're one to talk! You seduced the master right into his bed!" Lyra flew into a rage. The two of them started pulling hair and tearing at each other's clothes, fighting in the middle of the courtyard. The Dowager was furious. On such an auspicious day, to have such a shameful incident occur—it was a disgrace. She immediately ordered both girls to be given ten lashes and sold off. When Lord Adrian returned, he rushed to the Dowager's chambers and knelt for a long time, pleading and begging until he had exhausted every flattering word to save Lyra. But poor Briar was not so lucky. As she was dragged away, beaten and limp as a dead dog, her desperate eyes found mine. But I couldn't save her. Just as I couldn't save myself. 17 After this, the Dowager strictly forbade Lyra from attending to the Young Lord. She then instructed Matron Celia, "We need another, more stable girl to serve by his side." After the storm, a new path opened. Matron Celia came to me, her face alight with excitement. The Dowager wanted to see me. This was it. This was my chance to be formally presented to the Young Lord. In the preceding weeks, while the other maids had been a riot of color and flirtation, I had remained in my plain servant's uniform, toiling in the small kitchen, managing the lord's meals and expenses. Matron Celia had told me in private that on the day of the floggings, the Dowager had remarked before leaving, "In this entire courtyard, only Elara is still diligent and useful." I checked my appearance. My clothes were clean but well-worn, not bright, but tidy. My hair was in a simple twin-bun style, adorned with a few small, inconspicuous pearl pins. I had been preparing for this moment since the day Lyra was punished. I entered the main hall and knelt properly to one side. The Dowager seemed not to see me, sipping her tea in silence. After what felt like an eternity, she finally nodded for the matron to let me rise. She said I was dutiful and honest, that I served well. Now, as was tradition, the Young Lord needed two women in his chambers before his marriage. Lyra had proven unsuitable. It was my turn now. I must not fail her. I kowtowed. The old lady bestowed upon me a set of hairpins and a new gown, a mark of her favor. I had passed the test. I had gotten what I wanted. But, if I could be so sentimental, I felt no relief. To place your fate in the hands of others, to constantly scheme and read their every mood—it was an exhausting, bitter existence. And besides, the path of a master's companion was only just beginning. 18 That night, when Lord Adrian returned, I had already bathed and changed into the gown the Dowager had given me. In the mirror, the seventeen-year-old girl staring back was in the prime of her youth, with a natural, peach-like bloom. Dressed in a dazzling, eye-catching garment instead of my usual drab uniform, I looked... almost captivating. When Lord Adrian saw me, he paused, a look of genuine surprise and admiration in his eyes. "Elara, you so rarely wear such bright colors. This lavender is gentle, it sets off your skin like snow." I lowered my gaze demurely and offered him a cup of tea. "It was a gift from the Dowager." Lord Adrian was intelligent. With that one sentence, he understood. I was the new companion his grandmother had chosen for him. He took my hand and led me into the warm inner chamber. He sat on the couch and then pulled me onto his lap, looking at me with a gentle expression. I had served him for three years, but this was the first time we had ever been this close, so close I could see the individual lashes framing his eyes. "Elara," he said softly, "all these years, you've served me with such care and propriety. I thought you had no interest in me. I would never force you. If you were unwilling, I was planning to arrange for your release from the estate in a few years." A small tremor went through my heart, but my face remained a mask of calm. I had assumed I would never leave this place. Suddenly, he had offered me another path. But if I left, what would I do? No. The cart had reached the edge of the cliff. It was too late to turn back. I tilted my head up slightly, bit my lip, and looked at him with all the adoration I could muster. I had practiced this look in the mirror countless times. This was my most fetching expression. "My Lord, you are the finest man I have ever known. This house is my home. I never dared to overstep. As long as I could serve you, I would have been content to be a scullery maid my entire life. Now that the Dowager has given me this chance, how could I be unwilling? My only fear is that I am not worthy of you." He looked at me, his eyes filled with pleasure. He pulled me closer, and his kiss said more than a thousand words ever could.
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