I spent the rest of the day with the cat. Outside. In the sun. Away from the eyes that started to turn toward me differently. The porch was warm underfoot. The cherry tree had begun to bloom in earnest now—its petals floating gently across the garden like whispers that didn't need to be heard to be felt.
I didn't move much. I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them, my chin resting in the hollow between. The cat lay next to me, tail curled around his paws, eyes half-lidded. Sometimes he blinked. Sometimes he didn't.
I told him what happened. Not all at once. Not in complete sentences. Just in the way I always spoke to him. Almost-whispers. Pieces of thought, shared slowly, without pressure.
"He said… I'm a prince."
The cat didn't move.
"But I didn't ask for that."
The wind shifted a little. Blossoms blew past us.
"It happened before I could choose anything."
His ears twitched faintly.
"He wants me to go. To a place I've never seen. With people I don't know."
I didn't cry. Not out loud. My chest was too tight for that.
"…And I think I have to."
It didn't feel like a dream. But it didn't feel real either. The words the Duke had said repeated themselves in my mind like they belonged to someone else. Prince. Palace. Bloodline. They echoed in the hollow of my ribs like pebbles dropped down a well.
I looked at the cat. He didn't say anything, of course. But he stayed close. That was enough. When the sun started to lower, the Matron called us in for supper. I didn't go. When the bell rang for washing, I stayed.
No one forced me. They didn't even look at me the way they used to. Like I was invisible. Now they glanced sideways and pretended they weren't. Like I was something too fragile to touch. Or too dangerous. Or both.
I slept under the stairs, one last time. The mattress was too flat. The blanket too thin. But the dust smelled the same, and the warmth of the old stones beneath me was still familiar. I curled up the way Evelune used to, folding my arms under my body, knees bent tight. The purple bunny was gone now, but I imagined it beside me.
And I imagined her too. If she knew I was leaving. If she'd ask them where I went. If they'd tell her. If she'd forget. I didn't sleep much. But when I did, I dreamed of a hallway without walls and a cat walking ahead of me, his tail leading like a ribbon. He came back the next morning. At the same time. As promised.
The carriage waited by the gate, its silver trim catching the new light of dawn. Mist clung low to the garden, making the grass shimmer like it had been painted in sleep. Four horses stood nearby, reins held by four knights. They weren't dressed in heavy armor, just polished coats and shoulder plates, crests stitched neatly over their chests. They didn't speak. Didn't move. They looked like statues brought to life.
And in front of them stood him—Duke Caelum La Caelith. He didn't knock this time. He knelt instead. Right there. On the stone step outside the porch, in front of me. He lowered one knee, bowed his head slightly, and said softly, "It's time to go home." I didn't answer. Not right away.
I looked past him, at the carriage, at the horses, at the tall gates just barely visible through the iron bars. Then I looked at the porch. At the way the wood was starting to splinter at the edge. At the space where the cat usually sat—he wasn't there right now. Not yet. And then I looked back at the Duke. He didn't rush me. I stood up on my own.
The Matron had already packed my bag. Of course she had. It sat by the door, tied neatly with string. One of the caretakers had left it there without a word, like they were placing out the trash. I opened it when no one was looking.
Everything was folded fine. Maybe even too fine. Like someone was trying to impress him. But there was no warmth in it. No ribbon. No goodbye note. No last meal. No gift. Not even soap. She hadn't even bothered to wash me.
My skin was still marked with the patchy dye that never fully covered my hair. My nails were still dusty from the garden. My face still smelled faintly of spring dirt. I changed by myself in the hallway, behind the stairs. I brushed my hair alone, the tangles catching at the ends. I ran water over my face until the red around my eyes faded.
I hid the empty book—the one I got from the Church during the Holy Season—underneath the cloth curtain I'd been found in. It had frayed at the edges, but I still remembered its weight. The way the folds curled around me that night. It was too small to wear now, but I folded it tight and tied it around the book with twine.
No one would know what it was. But I would. When I closed the bag, I felt a strange stillness settle over me. Not calm. Not panic. Just quiet. The kind that comes before thunder. I stood in the doorway with the bag in my hand.
The Matron didn't speak to me. She just nodded once, short and final, like she was signing something invisible. She didn't try to hug me. She didn't offer a parting word. Her eyes flicked to the Duke, then away. And then she stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, where the light from outside didn't touch.
I turned back toward the garden. The cat was there now. Sitting. Watching. He didn't come closer. But he didn't look away. I wanted to kneel beside him, just once more. To press my forehead to his and whisper something only he would understand. But I didn't. Because if I did that, I might not get back up. So I nodded. Once. Small. Final. And he blinked. Slowly. Like a blessing.