"Emelda, dear, did you finish the laundry?"
"Yes, Mother, I did."
"Good. Now feed the pigeons, then run to the stables and give the horses a good brush. We might get good buyers tonight."
Emelda wiped her damp hands on her apron before answering,
"Yes, Mother."
Emelda stepped out of the house, her mother's instructions still ringing in her head. The stables were only a short walk behind the house, their wide wooden doors opening out toward the edge of the woods. Inside, the familiar scents of hay and warm animals greeted her.
This was her most awaited chore so far; she loved animals. She found Millia and Tershia waiting, the two horses she loved most.
Millia's coat shone a deep chestnut brown, while Tershia's was a brilliant white, so striking that Emelda often thought no other creature in the kingdom could rival her beauty.
She ran the brush gently through their manes, pausing to press her face against their warm necks, whispering small comforts as if they were old friends.
But as she worked, the steady rhythm of the brush slowed. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement at the tree line.
A rider emerged from the shadows of the woods, his posture regal, the horse beneath him tall and proud. For a moment she could hardly breathe. It seemed to be the king himself.
Emelda dropped into a curtsy as soon as the rider drew near, the gleam of his crown leaving no doubt as to who he was.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, bowing low, her hands tightening in her apron.
The king dismounted, landing lightly upon the straw-strewn ground. His gaze lingered on her longer than courtesy required, and his smile softened.
"There is no need to bow so low, miss. If every head bends when I pass, I shall forget what it looks like when someone dares to stand tall."
Flustered, Emelda rose, brushing hay from her skirt. "It is only respect, sire.""Respect I gladly accept," he replied, "but reverence? That I would rather earn."
His eyes drifted toward the horses, their coats shining beneath the sun. "These two," he said, stepping closer. "They are splendid. Do they belong to you?"
Emelda shook her head quickly.
"No, sire, they belong to my grandfather. I only tend to them.
Millia and Tershia—Millia is the brown beauty, and Tershia the white. They are too beautiful not to be loved." She stroked Tershia's neck, her voice softening.
"Sometimes I think nothing in this world could rival them."
The king tilted his head, watching her closely, smiling secretly to himself. "Nothing?" he asked, a spark of mischief in his tone.Emelda hesitated, then met his eyes. "Nothing, sir."He smiled faintly, leaning just enough to let his words fall lower.
"Not even you, miss?"
Her lips parted in surprise, and heat rushed to her cheeks. "Me, sire? I am hardly—""Hardly?" He chuckled, shaking his head.
"If Tershia is beauty given form, then you are the spirit that brings her to life. Horses do not shine so bright without the hand that tends them. And I see both beauty and devotion here."
Her blush deepened, and despite herself, a shy smile tugged at her mouth. "You speak kindly, Your Majesty.""Kindly?" His eyes gleamed. "Nay, truthfully. Kindness would call you fair; truth calls you radiant."
Emelda dropped her gaze, flustered, but the king lingered, studying the faint curve of her smile. How simple her joy, how unstudied her grace, he thought. No courtly woman could mimic it if she tried.
"Tell me," he said after a pause, "do you smile so at every stranger who flatters you?"Her head lifted quickly. "No, sire. Only at those who mean it."His laughter rang through the stables, warm and rich.
"Then I am doubly blessed—for I meant it, and I have earned your smile."
Tershia nudged Emelda's shoulder, and she steadied the mare with a fond pat.
"It seems she agrees with you, sire."
"Then I shall thank her," he replied, running his hand along the mare's mane.
"For giving me cause to linger here longer than I should."
Emelda's eyes widened slightly.
"Should? Then you are not meant to be here?"
"A king is meant to be everywhere and nowhere," he said with a rueful smile.
"But today, I would rather be here—with Millia, Tershia, and their mistress who dares smile at me without fear."
Her breath caught, but she steadied herself.
"If it please you, sire, may I know what to call the rider who flatters stable girls?"
The king's smile deepened.
"You may call me what all others do, though I find it far too heavy for moments such as this." He stepped back, as if preparing to mount again. "But I cannot leave without knowing yours."
Emelda bowed her head slightly, her voice soft. "Emelda, Your Majesty."He repeated it slowly, savoring the sound.
"Emelda. A name that outshines Millia and Tershia both. I shall not forget it."
Her heart fluttered despite her will, and when she looked up again, she found his gaze still fixed upon her, bright with admiration.
She bowed to him again as he urged his stallion toward the woods. Emelda stood in the quiet stable yard, her fingers still resting lightly on Tershia's mane, but her gaze was fixed on the retreating figure.
His cape caught the soft breeze, fluttering like a banner of crimson against the green of the trees, and his horse's hooves echoed until the sound melted into silence.
She should have turned back to her chores. She should have picked up her brush again and kept grooming as if nothing had happened, yet her mind was still in the past, picturing every moment.
Emelda pressed her lips together, as though that could steady the strange quickening of her heart. She thought of his smile—unexpected, warm, and far too beautiful for a king—and she hated that the memory made her own lips curve.
No, she scolded herself silently.
"I mustn't think this way. He is a king, and I… I am only a stable girl."
Her place was here, among hay and horses, not in the thoughts of kings. And yet… no amount of scolding could erase the warmth that lingered where his words had touched her.
His smile.
She couldnt get him out of her head.
Emelda walked back toward the house, the sun gracefully saying its goodbyes. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed when her feet carried her across the threshold.
She snapped back to her senses at the sight of her mother waiting in the doorway.
"Took you long enough," her mother said coldly.
"I'm sorry, I—" Emelda began.
"Yes, you'd better be. And what are you standing there for, staring at nothing? Go and prepare supper. Your father is already home."
Emelda brushed past her mother and paced into the kitchen, scolding herself. She had too much work to do, and yet there she was, thinking about the king—a story that could never be true, even if the world turned upside down.
When Emelda was five years old, her real mother had died of a contagious disease. The doctor had warned them never to go near her, so little Emelda never had the chance to say a proper goodbye.
Then, one day, her father brought home a mistress. She was kind at first, but when she failed to conceive a child of her own, her kindness soured into hostility toward Emelda.
Beep-beep.
"Oh, how beautiful the loaf turned out," Emelda whispered to herself as she pulled the bread from the oven.
She set the tray with care—two steaming bowls of soup and slices of the bread she had baked. The kitchen smelled heavenly, rich and warm.
Balancing the tray in her hands, she slowly made her way toward the dining room, where her parents were waiting. The door wasn't fully shut; a small gap let her peek inside—and hear every word being spoken.
"No, dear, I don't think so," her father said, his voice low, as though trying to calm her mother.
"You can't decide that!" her mother snapped.
"Why not? She is my daughter," he replied firmly.
"So she isn't my daughter? Oh, come now, you do not understand the situation," her mother hissed. "She's a grown woman now, and it's better we marry her off. I've already looked into this and found a suitable young man for her."
"Oh, have you now?" her father asked curiously.
"He is wealthy. I say we settle on this one. We won't find a better man."
Her father sighed. "Alright. Fine by me."
Fury boiled inside Emelda.
With her elbow, she pushed the door open and strode in, the tray trembling in her hands.