The Scholar and the Lady in Waiting

Torg, the Lord’s Scholar, wandered the castle after finishing the day’s tutoring of his teenage son, bored and peeking into storage closets that smelled of cedar, servants’ quarters with rumpled pallets, and guard chambers where spears stood racked against stone walls. The corridors echoed only his footsteps.

In the dusty library, among yellowed scrolls and leather-bound books, a rustle came from behind a towering shelf. He crouched behind a pile of abandoned censuses—parchment gone soft as cloth—and found Margaret, a beautiful lady-in-waiting, hunched over a large black book, its gilt lettering half-rubbed away. Her hand seemed to vanish beneath her skirts.

“Aaah!” She looked up, wide-eyed, and slammed the book shut so hard dust puffed from its cover. Her hand jerked out from under her skirt.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, straightening her gown and tucking a loose strand under her cap. Color flushed from her collarbones to her hairline. *What folly has betrayed me to such humiliation?* she thinks. “I was merely tending to a trivial task.” Her voice trembled. *They shall think me a simpleton* she thought, lowering her gaze to a crack in the floor as if wishing it would swallow her.