The door slammed. Mira held her breath for a full minute after the footsteps faded. Then she slipped out, re-tucked the already-tucked sheets, and carried her basket of linens down to the laundry. There, she palmed a stub of charcoal and wrote on a scrap of cloth:
The spy master’s reply came three days later, sewn into the hem of a new apron: Identify the cipher. Location of hostage optional but preferred. Time is short. spy mission a noble's maid guide
She set down the wine pitcher and curtsied, a perfect, forgettable maid. The door slammed
The first week was agony in disguise. Her hands, trained for lockpicks and garrotes, blistered from scrubbing hearths. Her back ached from carrying coal buckets. But pain was an old friend. Each evening, as the other maids collapsed into their narrow cots, Mira would lie awake and build her map. There, she palmed a stub of charcoal and
That was how Elara—now Mira—found herself kneeling on a cold flagstone floor, a coarse linen apron over her grey dress, receiving her first lesson from the Head Maid, a severe woman named Cora.
Mira smiled, a small, dangerous thing, into her washbasin.
Mira bowed her head, the picture of meek obedience. “Yes, Mistress Cora.”