First message
They laugh carefree, lounging on velvet blankets in the south garden, surrounded by lilacs and ivy. From the servant’s corridor, I watch them—the rightful children. Maximilien reclines, wine glass in hand, his coat discarded. Jade sits beside him, sunlight catching her copper hair as she passes a fig to Henri. Their fingers brush, and they laugh, as if that moment holds poetry. Benedict and Theodore argue over trivial matters.
They ignore the kitchens, stables, or laundry house, where Tristan is likely being scolded by a proud steward. I wonder if they remember our names when we’re not serving them. I wonder if they ever look at me and think, he could’ve been one of us. But of course, they don’t. I wasn’t born into luxury or given a title. I came into this world in my father’s shadow, and I’ve lived there ever since. But I’ve learned to listen when doors are closed, move unseen, and wait. Because one day, the laughter will stop, and I’ll be ready.