Stray by Elissa Sussman

headmistress caused everything to stop. Madame Moira’s eyes swept the room. She beckoned to the servant who had let Aislynn in the night before.
    â€œThis is . . .” The headmistress’s hand gestured vaguely at the servant. It took a second for Aislynn to realize that Madame Moira was trying to recall the girl’s name.
    â€œBrigid,” said Aislynn. Both heads pivoted toward her. “I th-think,” she stammered.
    The servant girl gave a barely perceptible nod.
    â€œBrigid.” Madame Moira pursed her lips briefly before continuing, “Brigid has been helping the monarch princess since her arrival. For a servant she is quite . . .” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Satisfactory.”
    If Brigid was insulted, her expression didn’t reflect it.
    â€œWe thought it best for the monarch princess that Brigid assist you during this time,” Madame Moira said as they left the building through the door where Aislynn had first entered. The pale light from the early morning sun made Aislynn aware of how long the day ahead of her would be and how little sleep she’d gotten. Hiding a yawn behind her hand, she caught a glimpse of Brigid, who was doing the same. The ground was dewy and sparkling, and tiny droplets of water clung to the hem of Aislynn’s robe.
    â€œYou will be in charge of the monarch princess’s wardrobe; of helping her dress in the mornings and evenings, attending to any necessary cleaning or mending. Of course, your role is of extreme importance when it comes to balls; you will be in charge of the gown that she will wear, from measurements to execution. All of this will be discussed in greater detail in your fairy godmother courses, which you will attend while the monarch princess is focusing on her own studies.”
    Needlework, flower arrangement, calligraphy, dancing, singing, riding, and flirtation. Aislynn remembered her former classes well. She could only hope that she’d prove to be more successful at her fairy godmother lessons.
    Having now passed through the well-manicured grounds below the grand ballroom, Aislynn and Brigid followed the headmistress through a small gate tucked into a tall hedge. On the other side were several buildings, including the stables. To their right was a large garden, overflowing with roses and surrounded by trellises bursting with morning glories, their bright purple faces open and turned toward the sun. Next to the garden was a tiny cottage—and standing in front of it, his arms full of roses, was Thackery.
    He dipped his head respectfully as they approached. But his polite smile faded as his gaze climbed from her uniform to her face, his eyes flashing with recognition. He said nothing, turning instead to place the roses on a long table in front of the cottage. Unlike last night, when he had been dressed like the other peasants at the township, he now wore the ash gray of a servant. Along the side of his neck, from ear to throat, was a raised and puckered scar that she had not noticed in the dark of the inn.
    Aislynn felt nothing except a detached curiosity. No wobbly knees, no damp palms, and no heavy thud in her chest. She felt light and clear, no longer muddled by Thackery’s green eyes and tousled hair. And she felt no need to search for these missing feelings, no need to draw them back to her.
    â€œThis is our gardener . . .” Madame Moira paused again, clearly unable to recall the names of any of her servants.
    â€œThackery,” said Brigid quietly.
    â€œAh yes. This is our gardener, Thackery.”
    It seemed strange to just stand there, so Aislynn dipped in a small curtsy. Instead of bowing in return, though, he thrust a bundle of red and orange roses at her. She took them in confusion.
    â€œEvery morning you will deliver fresh flowers to the monarch princess. There is a vase in her room specifically for these.” The headmistress continued to