Within a week, Minnie had learned the route well enough not to get lost, though she still bumped her leg on the same table every time she passed the linen alcove. Her fingers bore a new constellation of bruises from the meal trays, and more than once she’d nearly tripped on the stairs. But she kept her balance, and the food stayed upright, and that was good enough for now.

  Brent had given her the upper floors, probably out of spite, but she didn’t mind. After weeks hunched over potatoes, it felt good to move again. Her legs ached, but in a satisfying way. And besides, all the awful people Brent had warned her about didn’t seem the type to climb stairs unless they had to.

  Gradually, the rhythm of the deliveries had become familiar: stop, knock, set the food down, move on. It gave her just enough to focus on, just enough to feel useful without having to think too hard.

  But one day, as she reached the final stop on her route, something was different. The door at the end of the corridor, always shut tight, always silent, was ajar.

  She stared. The air leaking through the narrow opening was heavy with strange scents: damp straw, wet fur, the acrid sting of dung. It didn’t belong to this place of stone and silence. It was earthy. Alive. It stirred something deep in her chest. Before she realized it, her hand was on the handle.

  And then she stopped.

  It was the pull again, low and quiet, like a string drawn tight around her waist. It was no longer unfamiliar, but it was still alien. It wasn’t hers. She could feel the difference now, like the echo of someone else’s voice inside her own mind. It didn’t speak, but it wanted something. It always wanted something.

  She swallowed hard.

  She could walk away. Of course she could. Take the stairs back down, redo her route, pretend she hadn’t noticed. But even as she thought it, the idea turned sour in her mouth. If she didn’t look it would gnaw at her. The not-knowing. The open door. The ache of mystery unsolved. It would crawl into her chest and nest there, and she would carry it for the rest of her life.

  The door was open now. Just this once.

  So she pushed it. Because whatever lay beyond it, not knowing would hurt more.

  And stepped inside.

  Beyond the door lay a small menagerie. A dozen large cages lined the walls, most empty, but three still occupied, with creatures that seemed to tug at the edges of reality. In one cage, a long-bodied and delicate creature was stomping nervously. It was shaped like a gazelle, but with a head at each end. One head was chewing fitfully, while giving her an occasional nervous glance. The other head stared at her, glassy-eyed and confused.

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  In another cage sat a white rabbit, nose twitching. Its red eyes locked onto hers with a quiet, piercing intent. Predatory intent. Its fangs glinted faintly, too sharp for a herbivore. She knew at once that it was dangerous.

  The last cage held a damp-furred lump of an animal, round and low, its wide bill pressed to the floor of a shallow puddle. It lay still as death, except for the tiny ripples that rose when it exhaled. Its black eyes were watching her, unblinking.

  At the centre of the room, draped across a luxurious sofa, lounged a cat — large, black, and scarred. Hairless patches marred its flanks. A deep, jagged scar split its nose. One ear was torn clean through. Its yellow eyes, slightly crossed, stared straight at her.

  Minnie froze.

  The air around the creature seemed charged. Not with threat, exactly, but with presence. She didn’t feel like she was looking at an animal.

  Her heart pounded. She didn’t move.

  The rest of the room was silent. The creatures remained oddly subdued, their eyes dull and distant. But the cat’s gaze never left her.

  And then, to Minnie’s astonishment, it spoke.

  The voice was a youthful tenor, high, sharp, and clear, almost musical in its precision.

  “Are you here to rescue us, little mouse?”

  A hush fell over her mind. A talking cat. Somehow, out of all the strange things in that room, this felt the most unreal.

  She couldn’t speak at first. Her mind spun in circles, but her body fell back on old habits. She dipped into a small curtsy, shaky but sincere.

  “I’m called Minnie, mister cat,” she managed in a feeble whisper. “Of course I want to help you… but I’m just a kitchen maid. I don’t know how.”

  The cat’s gaze softened. His eyes glowed faintly, like embers in the dark.

  “Well, thank you for coming, Minnie,” he drawled, somehow injecting the simple sentence with undeniable sarcasm. “I thought I felt a new wind blowing,” he added with a purr. “So I nudged the guard, left the door swinging, and here you are.”

  Minnie took a step back, nerves prickling. The guard. She hadn’t even considered how the door had come open, but now that she knew, it scared her.

  The cat flicked a torn ear. “You look like a little mouse,” he said. “And you act like a little mouse. But you carry the scent of Lady Luck.”

  His tone shifted, lower, thoughtful. Almost fond.

  “That’s good enough for me. I’ll take the chance.”

  Minnie straightened, swallowing her fear. She didn’t care to be called a mouse, especially not by a cat, but now wasn’t the time to argue.

  “Call me Herman,” the cat added, with a lazy flick of his ears. “It’s not my name. But it will do.”

  He sniffed the air. “The guard will be back soon. If you wish to help, bring me a twig of myrtle, a branch of palm, and a lock of wool. That should be simple enough, even for a kitchen maid.” His tail twitched once, like punctuation. “Do this, and we’ll talk. Now go.”

  Minnie slipped back through the door, heart pounding in her throat. The thought of meeting the guard turned her stomach, not just because it would be hard to keep her face straight, but because she didn’t want him realizing anyone had seen his lapse. If Herman was right, the door had been left open for her. But if the wrong person noticed…

  She made it back to the kitchen without incident. Her pulse had settled into a steady rhythm, just enough to pass for normal. No one looked up. No one asked questions. She had been gone just long enough to be missed, but not suspicious. She let out a breath and wiped her hands on her apron, reaching automatically for the next task. Her fingers moved through familiar motions, stacking trays, sorting spoons, but her mind drifted. Back to the menagerie. To the silence. To the way the cat’s crossed eyes had seen straight into her soul.

  A twig of myrtle.

  That one, at least, she might manage. Myrtle was easy to spot, small, tough, glossy-leaved. It grew everywhere in the countryside, and she was almost sure she’d seen some in the castle’s overgrown garden when she arrived, peeking through the hedges like a curious little imp.

  But getting outside, that was the real problem. She had no reason to be out there. And in this place, being where you had no reason to be often meant a quick death. Even if she could bluff her way through, returning would mean disinfection. And the memory of that searing pain made her drop this line of thought.

  But… there was the back door. The one that led to the kitchen courtyard, where food waste was dumped for compost. The area was within the castle’s magical barrier that no living thing could pass. But plant seeds didn’t care about barriers. And by the drain, where kitchen water trickled out into the mud, she’d seen a tangle of unmistakable green.

  She would take her time. No need to rush. She was beginning to think that the pull will make sure that opportunities will come her way. She bent back to her work, quiet and steady, letting the rhythm ground her while her thoughts spun out plans.