Meadowsweet
Chapter II
Pet didn’t understand.
Why was her new mistress worried about her?
The question rattled around in her head until it clicked. Master’s voice echoed in her mind like a cruel lullaby:
“You’ll be good for the queen, won’t you, mutt?”
She had nodded, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
“You’ll obey. You’ll wait for your mistress to grant you permission to speak, won’t you, pup?”
Another nod. Another day in the dark.
Of course. Of course the queen was testing her. Seeing if her new pet had been properly trained. And Pet would not fail. Not even now. Not even after Master had given her away like a scrap of meat.
Pet kept her eyes low, fixed on the floor in front of her knees. Pets don’t look their masters in the eyes. That was one of the first things she had learned.
The queen said nothing to her. She turned instead to a servant nearby and gave a quiet order. Something about getting her unbound. Cleaned. Dressed in something new.
Pet didn’t move until the servant came. The ropes fell away, one by one, her limbs aching from the release. She didn’t thank her. Pets don’t speak until their masters said they could.
They took her through a maze of stone hallways, too wide and too bright. When they reached the palace baths, the servant guided her gently forward.
Pet obeyed.
She stood still as the woman began undressing her. There was no shame—shame was something she’d lost long ago—but as she stepped toward the water, a different feeling took root.
Panic.
It began slow. A tightness in her throat. A flicker in her chest. Then her vision narrowed and the bath seemed to grow enormous, a dark gleaming mouth waiting to swallow her whole.
She froze.
No. No, please. Not water. Not like this.
Her mind began spinning. The tiled floor, the water, the gentle hands—none of it was real anymore. In her mind, she was back in Master’s cold, brackish tub. The grip on her neck. The shove under the surface. The taste of iron and salt. The darkness.
She braced for it.
But nothing came.
No hands. No push. No pain.
The water was pleasantly warm.
And when her mind began to return—slow and trembling—she found herself already out of the bath, a soft towel wrapped around her small, shaking body. The servant was murmuring something gentle as she patted her dry.
Pet didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
She only followed, docile and quiet, as she was led to the launderers’ room. They rifled through shelves and chests until they found a plain cotton dress in soft cream, worn but clean. The fabric was warm from the fire. It smelled like lavender and sun.
Pet stared at it like it was a gown made of gold.
When the servant helped slip it over her head, Pet nearly cried. It didn’t itch. It didn’t smell like rot. There were no bloodstains, no missing buttons. It was hers. Her mistress had given her this. A bath. A dress. Clean skin. Warmth.
She wanted to speak. To say thank you. But the words stuck like thorns in her throat. She wasn’t allowed. Not unless she was told.
The servant led her through more twisting halls until they reached a set of grand doors.
The queen’s quarters.
Pet stepped inside, her heart thudding.
She crossed the room on quiet, bare feet, and dropped to her knees in the center of the floor. She knelt, hands folded neatly in her lap, spine straight, head bowed low.
A good pet.
She waited. For the sound of a voice. For the steps of her new mistress. For the next command.
And in the silence, all she could think was:
Please let me be good enough this time.
***
Mirryn stood before the fire, the sealed envelope heavy in her hands.
She had been avoiding it since the man had first delivered it—since the moment the girl had arrived in that crate like livestock. Part of her hadn’t wanted to open it. Part of her still didn’t. But she needed to know what they had done to her. What he had done. What she needed to undo.
The wax cracked.
Inside was a single sheet of thick parchment, its folds still stiff from lack of use. The handwriting was slanted, haphazard, the strokes occasionally smudged—as if written through drink or disinterest. Mirryn read slowly.
To Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Mirryn of the Middle Kingdom,
Below is a complete list of commands and the expected responses from the creature you have been gifted.
Sit – The pet sits cross-legged, eyes on the ground.
Down – The pet kneels, eyes on the floor.
Up – The pet stands upright with hands behind her back.
Heel – The pet follows two steps behind her master, head lowered.
Speak – The pet will bark once. Loudly.
Present – The pet will clasp her hands behind her back and stand with her feet shoulder-width apart for inspection.
Silence – The pet will freeze in place, eyes down, until told otherwise.
Cage – The pet will crawl into the nearest enclosed space and remain there.
Obey – The pet will follow any spoken order without hesitation.
Punish – The pet will remove her own clothing and kneel in apology.
Her true name is included in the sealed inner fold. Use it sparingly for best results. A word of warning: the pet responds best to a firm, consistent hand. She is known to tremble, whimper, and cry, but don’t let it fool you. She’s well broken. She just forgets sometimes.
With loyalty,
Lord Marksworth
Mirryn stared at the list until the words blurred.
Bark.
Present.
Punish.
She felt sick.
Her hand clenched around the parchment until it crumpled, and she tossed it into the fire without a second thought. The flames caught quickly. The paper curled and blackened.
She did not open the fold with the fae’s true name.
She would never use it.
When Mirryn opened the door to her chambers, she immediately saw the girl.
She was kneeling exactly where the servant had left her—centered in the rug, facing the hearth. Her posture was perfect. Too perfect. Her back was straight, her head bowed, hands folded carefully in her lap. She didn’t move.
Mirryn felt a breath catch in her throat.
She approached slowly, each step deliberate. Not out of ceremony, but caution. Not for herself—for the girl. Pet, the man had called her. As though she didn’t even deserve a name.
When Mirryn reached the middle of the room, she opened her mouth to speak—
—but the girl dropped, suddenly, pressing her forehead to the floor.
Mirryn blinked, startled. At first she thought it was a plea, some silent form of begging. But then she recognized the shape of the motion. Not desperate. Not frantic.
Grateful.
She was saying thank you.
Mirryn’s heart broke anew.
“You’re… welcome,” she said, awkwardly.
The girl remained in place, trembling ever so slightly.
Mirryn lowered herself gently into the nearby chair, unsure what to do. Eyes studying her thin frame she called for lunch to be brought. The girl didn’t move. She sat for a long moment, watching the girl, the silence thick between them.
She didn’t want to see her like this. She didn’t want to see a person trained. She needed to help heal the hurt she had been through.
Mirryn finally spoke. “What can I call you?”
The girl’s head lifted just slightly. Her mouth opened—then closed again just as fast. Her eyes darted downward, and she curled in on herself.
Mirryn realized her mistake. “It’s alright. You’re allowed to speak.”
The girl tensed as though she’d been struck.
Then, slowly, obediently, she said: “Master used to call me mutt, or runt, or mongrel. And pup when he was in a good mood… and creature sometimes, but only when I was bad.” Her voice got quieter the longer she spoke.
She said the names like it was normal. Like she was listing weather patterns or old grocery lists. Her face didn’t flinch, but her hands trembled.
Mirryn swallowed, keeping her voice soft. “Those aren’t names. They’re insults.”
The girl didn’t respond. Just stared at the rug.
“You deserve a name,” Mirryn said. “A real one. Something that belongs to you.”
That was when the panic returned.
The girl’s breath hitched, quick and shallow. Her hands clenched into the folds of her new dress. She opened her mouth again—once, twice—but no words came out. Her chest rose in quick jerks, like she was choking on the air.
Mirryn sat forward gently. “You don’t have to think of one now. May I suggest one for you?”
The girl nodded so quickly it was almost desperate.
Mirryn studied her quietly.
Hair like snow, like flower petals after the rain. Green eyes that held storms and spring both. Thin as a willow shoot, half-starved—but alive.
Alive, despite everything.
“Sprig,” Mirryn said.
The girl looked up, eyes wide.
“It’s what we call the first little growth of a plant,” she explained. “Small. Delicate. But a promise of something more. A sprig may be tiny, but it’s strong enough to push through earth. It grows where nothing else will.”
She offered a gentle smile. “You’ve been through darkness, little sprig. But you’re still growing.”
The girl—Sprig—sat very still.
Then, slowly, she bowed her head once in silent acknowledgment. She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry.
But she accepted the name.
And for now, that was enough.
***
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