Thrice the bell rung, its bright, hollow sound reverberating through her ears just like it did every morning. Ottilie groaned, pushing the scratchy, stiff blanket off her legs and stumbling out of bed, eyes still somewhat encumbered by the burden of sleep.

“Time for dreaming’s done,” she grumbled, reaching for her white linen bonnet and fastening it on top of her blackberry colored curls, before feeling a gentle tug at the hem of her cotton skirt.

“Could you tie my dress?” Cressida asked, her needy, youthful eyes wide and hopeful. Ottilie had to suppress a sigh.

“Ask Alinor. Can’t you see I need to dress myself first?” It wasn’t that she didn’t like the child, she simply had never been good at interacting with anyone younger than ten years of age. It was a very good thing, she thought, that she was employed as a storyteller and not a governess like Alinor.

“Alinor’s asleep still,” Cressida said, thin shoulders shrugging weakly. This time Ottlie did sigh.

“Then go wake her up!”

Regrettably, Ottlie’s mornings were always like this. Senseless banter, all three servant girls finding ways to pull at each other’s hair. Although, a job working for the queen paid substantially more than working as a milkmaid in the low country, so she supposed complaining too much was hardly warranted.

But those girls did test her patience—and constantly.

Lacing up her leather ankle boots, she plodded out the door, pinching her green skirts up as not to trip, and sauntered down the moss-kissed cobblestone road to the palace enterance. The cool air bit her freckled face as she walked, and the whispers of a harsh wind filled her ear. Ribbons of orange light colored the sky from just beneath the horizon, the glaring sight shaking any remaining sleepy irritation from her mind, replacing the frustrated thoughts with ideas for today’s stories. Should she tell about a flying prince with magical gifts, who will cure a princess of her loneliness? What about a stern giant guarding a garden so lovely it could rival that of Eden? It had to be good, or who knows what the Queen would do. She remembered the old jester Octavia and her boisterous protests as she was hauled off to the dungeon for failing to coax a laugh out of her royal audience—that wouldn’t be her. She had a family to feed.

After a few more moments of stewing in her own thoughts, she finally reached the famed palace entrance, the tall, mahogany doors trimmed with gold that seemed to look down upon her. The iron-clad guard, recognizing her, murmered a halfhearted “hello” before letting her in. She thanked him, stepped inside, and drew in a sharp breath. The throne room greeted her once again; glittering jewels dripped from nearly every surface. No matter how much the nobles’ wealth irked her, she had to admit its lavish display took her breath away every single time.

“Your majesty,” she said, lifting her skirts and curtsying low. Nodding curtly, the Queen clapped her hands once, twice.

“You may begin.”