The couple in the master bedroom is trying to be quiet. You can tell, you think, because every apparently accidental vocalization is followed by a hasty “shhhh.” Unfortunately for them, all the shushing is much more conspicuous than their actual voices. It’s what compelled your ear up against the closed door in the first place.

“Margaret,” you hear him moan, and yes, that is the king’s voice.

And yes, that is your sister’s name.

Your face is burning red, and you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or anger. How could you not know? You spend most of your day by her side, the two of you chatting mindlessly over the seemingly endless parade of clothes to be washed and silverware to be shined. At night, your pillow is five feet away from where she sleeps. You tell her everything. She tells you everything. You thought.

You know the king has a fondness for the younger women in the court. He leers at them from across the hall and “accidentally” brushes into them in corridors that are much too wide for such close contact. You’ve been the target of a drooling look or two yourself. You just never imagined he might actually act on it.

You like the queen. You help her into her corsets in the morning and she pats you on the head like a child. It should be patronizing, but it’s not. At 16, it’s been much too long since anyone else has treated you with such gentle compassion. You’re a woman now. You’re supposed to act like it. And yet, she lets you let your guard down. Sometimes, she even allows you to try on one of her less formal gowns and watches while you spin around until you make yourself dizzy.

You don’t want her to know the king is cheating on her. You don’t want the king to be cheating on her at all.

…which is why you almost knock your head into the door when you hear her voice rising alongside his.

“Oh, sire, what would you like me to do for you today? Should I shine your shoes? Or perhaps give you a massage? Your muscles are looking awfully tense. My hands are nice and strong now from all the washing. Let me help.”

It doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how the queen speaks. It’s not even really the tone of her voice—it’s certainly her, but you can tell she’s trying to make her voice sound higher, less refined, more like…

“Margaret,” the king moans again, and you can hear the queen giggle.

“Yes, your highness?” she asks.

Your sister is nowhere to be found. In fact, you’re sure if you tiptoe back to your room now, you’ll find her getting ready for bed and wondering why it’s taking you so long to draw the curtains. You were trying to close the castle down for the night when you were distracted by all their stupid shushing.

And now you have to know that the queen roleplays as your sister in bed with the king and somehow acts perfectly alright with that. That the king would prefer your sweet, plain sister to his own wife. That you will have to look the queen in the eye tomorrow and compliment her choice of dress and know that last night, she was pretending to be someone else, just to get him to love her again.

You have to tell your sister. She has to know. What if he asks her to do a chore for him alone, and he decides it’s really maybe better to have the real thing? What if she doesn’t want to and he doesn’t care?

If the secret gets out, the queen will be mortified. You don’t think the king will care, probably. He has too much power and too much conceit to feel shame. The queen, on the other hand, will want to climb down the well and never come out. And she’s the one you care about.

But not as much as you care about your sister, so you slowly pry yourself away from the door. You rehearse what you’ll say all the way back to your room.