Book 02 - Chapter Nine:

By mid-afternoon, the implications finally landed.

Olivia was going to meet a queen.

Not a metaphorical one. Not a ceremonial one. Not a “local festival with a sash and a tiara” queen.

A real one.

Real friggin’ royalty.

Not just any queen, either—the Queen of Winter.

The thought hit her all at once while she was alphabetizing pamphlets she had already alphabetized twice. Her tail flicked, ears angling back as her brain replayed the words over and over again like they might suddenly change meaning if examined closely enough.

She was going to be fine. She knew that. Charles would be there. Miss LaDonna would have opinions, probably already did. She wasn’t unprepared.

But still.

Sometimes you needed encouragement from people who understood gravitas.

And Olivia knew exactly who to ask.

During a lull so quiet the lobby lights hummed louder than usual, she slipped down to the bakery alcove, selected a respectable assortment of pastries—nothing ostentatious, nothing skimpy—and balanced the plate carefully in her hands.

Then she headed for the lobby restroom.

The door opened, and inside, Miss Agatha and Miss Emily occupied their usual domain: one seated regally near the mirrors, the other leaning against the counter, both mid-conversation and entirely unbothered by the passage of time.

They looked up as Olivia entered.

“Well,” Miss Agatha said pleasantly, eyeing the pastries first, “now that’s how one makes an entrance.”

Olivia smiled, a little nervous, tail curling politely behind her. “I brought offerings.”

Miss Emily clapped her hands once. “Oh, bless you, dear. Put them right here.”

Olivia set the plate down, then hesitated.

“I… need advice,” she admitted. “And encouragement. Possibly both.”

Miss Agatha arched a brow. “This sounds serious.”

Olivia took a breath.

“I’m meeting a queen.”

Silence.

Then Miss Emily tilted her head. “Which kind?”

“The real kind,” Olivia said. “Winter Court. Queen Mab.”

Miss Agatha inhaled sharply—then recovered immediately, smoothing her skirt. “Well. That is a step up from city council.”

Miss Emily, on the other hand, looked delighted. “Oh, how wonderful.”

Olivia blinked. “You’re not… worried?”

“Why would we be?” Miss Emily asked calmly. “You’re polite. You listen. You know who you are.” She waved a hand. “Royalty adores that.”

Miss Agatha nodded. “The trick with queens, dear, is remembering they are very used to people being afraid of them. It gets tiresome. Respect is far more refreshing than reverence.”

Olivia felt her shoulders ease just a little.

“I was worried I’d do something wrong.”

Miss Agatha sniffed. “Everyone does something wrong. The important part is doing it honestly.”

Miss Emily smiled warmly. “Besides, you’re going with Mister Charles. Anyone who trusts him to stand at their side isn’t going to be unreasonable.”

That helped. More than Olivia expected.

She picked up a pastry, finally relaxing. “So… no bowing too much?”

“Once,” Miss Agatha said firmly. “Anything more looks desperate.”

“And don’t apologize unless you mean it,” Miss Emily added. “Queens can smell false apologies a mile away.”

Olivia laughed, tail swishing. “Got it.”

They sat together for a few minutes, eating pastries and trading small stories—about people who thought they were important, about moments that seemed terrifying until they weren’t.

When Olivia finally stood to leave, she felt steadier—more anchored than she had when she’d come in.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

Miss Agatha waved her off with a knowing little smile. “Go meet your queen, dear. And if you get the chance…” She leaned in just a fraction. “Ask her about the stained glass window in the back hall. She adores that piece.”

Olivia blinked. “You… know about that?”

Miss Agatha’s smile only deepened. She said nothing.

Miss Emily, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered, patting Olivia’s hand once as she rose. “And remember—confidence isn’t loud,” she said gently. “It’s just… settled.”

Olivia nodded, a little stunned, a lot reassured.

Settled.

Yes.

That, she could do.

That evening, after dinner, Olivia broke her routine.

Curled up on her couch with her tail tucked comfortably around her legs, she stared at her phone for a moment longer than usual before tapping her mum’s name. They’d spoken on Friday, yes—but by the time Friday came around again, the Audience would already be over, for better or worse. And while nerves fluttered somewhere in the background, excitement was winning.

She wanted to share that part.

“Mum?” she said when the call connected.

There was a familiar warmth on the other end immediately. “There you are, love. Everything all right?”

“Yes—well—more than all right, actually,” Olivia said, smiling despite herself. “I just… something big is happening this week.”

She explained it carefully, choosing her words the way she always did when translating her life into something Mum could grasp. The Station. The work. The invitation. A party—no, an Audience—hosted by a foreign queen. Very important. Very formal.

There was a brief pause.

Then Mum said, without missing a beat, “Well, look at you.”

Olivia blinked. “…You’re not confused?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mum said fondly, “you’ve been doing so well with that Hollywood job of yours, I figured something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. These international sorts—who can keep up with them all nowadays?”

Olivia laughed, tension easing out of her shoulders.

Mum launched into familiar territory at once. “Make sure you wear clean underwear. You never know. And do remember to curtsy—nicely, mind, not too deep. You don’t want to topple over.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“And are you being escorted?” Mum asked brightly. “Some famous actor? Actress? Doesn’t matter which, really. As long as they’re kind to you.”

Olivia hesitated for half a second, then smiled. “Someone important to me, yes.”

“That’s all that matters,” Mum said immediately. “If they make you happy, then I’m happy too.”

They talked a while longer—about nothing much, about everything. When Olivia finally hung up, she set the phone aside and leaned back into the cushions, tail flicking softly.

She still had nerves.

But now they were wrapped in something warmer.

Love translated, imperfectly—but well enough.

Thursday arrived faster than Olivia expected—which, she reflected, was exactly how time behaved when something important loomed just ahead.

She’d fallen into the habit of morning runs now. Early risers along her route had grown used to the sight of the Shepherd-kin jogging past, waving, nodding, exchanging quiet smiles as if she’d always belonged to the rhythm of the town. This morning was no exception—except for one thing.

When she’d stepped out, her running clothes hadn’t been her running clothes.

They were new.

Stretchy, feather-light, perfectly fitted to her chest, legs, and tail as though they’d been designed with her measurements in mind—because, clearly, they had been. The fabric breathed with her movement, never pulled, never chafed. She finished her run feeling buoyant and faintly impressed.

Back at the Station, she showered and dressed for the day. Waiting neatly to one side of her room were her blouse, jeans, and station jacket—fresh, pressed, immaculate. A small note rested atop them, written in tidy, unfamiliar script.

For the Audience.

No signature.

Obviously the laundry sprites.

Olivia smiled, then frowned thoughtfully. She made a mental note to ask Charles about them. She knew they existed—somewhere in the walls, the ducts, the hidden spaces of the Station—but she’d never once seen them at work. Editor sprites, yes. She’d seen them flitting about the editing bay. Nurses Wan and Tew, too, consulting quietly with Lenny on her visits.

But the laundry sprites?

Total mystery.

And mystery deserved gratitude.

So when she joined Charles and Miss LaDonna for breakfast, rather than being a bundle of nerves as Charles had half-expected, Olivia instead said, around a bite of toast, “Can I ask you something about the laundry sprites?”

Charles blinked.

“…The laundry sprites?”

He set his teacup down slowly, surprise written plainly across his face.

And that was where the conversation turned.

Miss LaDonna, of course, found the idea delightful.

“Oh, absolutely they should be thanked,” she said, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Often.”

Charles looked up from his newspaper, mildly puzzled. “I suppose I never really considered it,” he admitted. “Food, shelter, medical care, a good job to do… it’s part of the arrangement. One doesn’t usually thank a toaster.”

Olivia gave him a look. A very specific one.

“I have personally seen you thank the toaster,” she said. “More than once.”

Charles paused.

Slowly folded the newspaper.

“…That’s not the point.”

Miss LaDonna laughed outright.

Charles sighed, conceding the loss with dignity, then reached into his coat. His hand emerged holding a small flute—plain, well-worn, clearly used often enough to be familiar. He lifted it, played a short, lilting tune, no more than a few notes.

There was a pop.

Soap bubbles bloomed in the air above the breakfast table, shimmering briefly—then burst.

Hovering where they’d been was Char.

Barely six inches tall, she looked like a tiny, no-nonsense washerwoman straight out of another century: sturdy posture, rolled-up spectral sleeves, apron perpetually damp at the hem. Gossamer wings glistened behind her, beating just enough to keep her aloft. She planted her hands on her hips and squinted at the room.

“What is it now, then?” she barked in a coarse Cockney accent. “I’ve got three loads mid-spin and someone’s socks trying to escape again.”

Olivia’s ears perked instantly. “Oh! Hello!”

Char glanced at her—really looked—then sniffed. “Well. Ain’t you polite.”

Miss LaDonna smiled serenely. “Good morning, Char.”

“Morning, Miss,” Char replied, tipping her head respectfully before turning back to Charles. “You rang?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “Olivia wished to thank you and your crew for your excellent work.”

Char stiffened.

Just a little.

“Well,” she said gruffly, “s’pose that’s… nice of her.”

Olivia leaned forward, earnest. “The running clothes this morning were perfect. And the jacket for the Audience? I just—thank you. All of you.”

Char looked away, hovering a bit higher. “Just doin’ the job.”

“How many of you are there?” Olivia asked gently.

“Fifty,” Char replied automatically. “Crew rotates. Laundry Room’s tucked away in the service areas—old ductwork, expanded where it needed to be. We see to everyone’s clothes. Fast, clean, proper care. That’s what we do.”

“And you enjoy it?” Olivia asked.

Char huffed. “Course we do. It’s why we exist. You want unhappy sprites, give ’em nothin’ useful to do.”

They chatted for a few minutes more—Char hovering above the table, pragmatic and blunt, Miss LaDonna occasionally teasing, Charles nodding along with quiet fondness. Olivia listened intently, fascinated.

At last, Char checked an invisible list.

“Right. Can’t linger. Sheets don’t fold themselves.” She looked at Olivia again. “Oh—and Miss Olivia?”

“Yes?”

“Shake out your towels better after showers,” Char said firmly. “Don’t want mildew buildin’ up. We notice these things.”

Olivia flushed. “I—yes. I will.”

Char nodded once, satisfied, then vanished in another soft pop of soap bubbles.

The kitchen felt a little emptier afterward.

Miss LaDonna sipped her tea. “Well.”

Charles smiled faintly. “You were right.”

Olivia grinned, tail swishing.

Some things—even toasters—deserved thanks.

Lunchtime came quietly.

Miss LaDonna watched Olivia assemble her meal with a practiced eye and gently intervened before it could turn enthusiastic.

“Lightly, dear,” she advised. “Just enough to stave off hunger pangs. Wouldn’t do to meet the Queen of Winter feeling bloated.”

Olivia nodded, obedient and thoughtful, and settled on a modest sandwich and a glass of juice. It felt sensible—fuel, not indulgence. She ate slowly, more aware of her body than she’d ever been during an ordinary meal.

Charles sat across from her, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely around his teacup.

“Any last-minute jitters?” he asked casually. “Odd thoughts? Compulsions? Sudden urges to flee to another continent?”

Olivia snorted. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Good,” Charles said. Then, gently, “It’s not too late to back out, you know. You’re not bound. You won’t be punished.”

He paused just long enough to be honest.

“It wouldn’t be… polite,” he finished, “but it would be permitted.”

Olivia considered that, tail flicking once. Then she shook her head. “No. I’m good. Nervous, sure—but good.”

Charles smiled, clearly satisfied. “Excellent.”

Lunch wrapped up without incident, the last crumbs cleared away, the hum of the Station steady and unbothered. At last, Charles rose.

“Be dressed and ready in the lobby by one forty-five,” he said. “We’ll leave promptly.”

Miss LaDonna stood as well, smoothing her sleeves. “I won’t be attending this time,” she added lightly. “I’ll be filling in at the front desk. More my speed.”

She leaned in just enough to wink. “Someone has to mind the gate.”

Olivia smiled, reassured more by that than she expected.

“Okay,” she said softly.

Everything was set.

Now all that remained was waiting.

Eyes closed.

Three taps of Charles’ cane rang out—measured, deliberate.

The third tap had barely finished echoing when cold hit her.

Not a creeping chill. Not a breeze. A sudden, absolute flash of freezing cold, sharp and total, like stepping through a wall of winter itself. The world fell away beneath her paws, gravity momentarily forgetting what it was supposed to do—

—and then it stopped.

Silence.

Olivia opened her eyes.

They stood in a vast hall, the ceiling arcing impossibly high overhead, every surface gleaming. Ice and snow everywhere—walls carved like crystal, pillars faceted and flawless, light refracting and scattering until the air itself seemed to glow. It was the sort of place fairy tales aspired to describe and always failed.

The epitome of a winter princess’s castle.

Charles, beside her, brushed frost from his sleeves with casual familiarity, entirely unconcerned. “Ah,” he murmured contentedly. “Good timing.”

Olivia barely heard him.

Before she could fully turn in place, something moved in front of them.

A Servitor slid forward without sound—a tall, sharply edged figure formed entirely of ice. It resembled an angular statue of a man more than a living being, all clean lines and deliberate geometry, light refracting through its body in slow, shifting patterns.

When it spoke, its voice was unexpectedly soft.

“Lord Jester,” it said, inclining its head to Charles. “You are expected. Please follow. Your companion will be announced shortly.”

Charles smiled easily. “As always, you’re a marvel of punctuality.”

The Servitor turned and began to glide down the hall.

They followed.

Olivia tried not to stare—but failed utterly.

The hall was not empty.

Figures lingered along the edges: Courtiers of every conceivable shape and composition. Some were humanoid, others less so. Some solid, others half-formed from frost, shadow, or light. As Charles and Olivia passed, reactions rippled outward.

Smiles.

Bows.

Inclined heads.

Fans snapped open, hiding faces as whispers followed in their wake.

Olivia kept her gaze forward, posture steady, heart hammering—but she felt the attention like pressure against her fur.

At last, they reached a towering set of double doors.

They were carved with immense snowflakes, each one unique, layered upon one another in elaborate patterns. The motif was unmistakable.

The Servitor stopped.

It leaned down toward Olivia, its faceted face catching the light, and spoke quietly.

“Please wait here until the doors open and you are Introduced to the Court.”

She could hear the capital letters.

Then the Servitor straightened and began to glide away.

Before Olivia could say a word, Charles squeezed her shoulder gently.

“I’ll see you inside in a few,” he said brightly. “You’ve got this!”

And with that, he turned and followed the Servitor around a corner, already chatting inanely with the ice-formed being about something utterly mundane as they disappeared from view.

The hall fell quiet again.

So there she was.

Alone.

In an ice palace.

Standing before two enormous doors.

Waiting to be Introduced to the Court.

Olivia swallowed.

So much for Charles staying with her.

Time stretched.

Not painfully—but insistently.

What felt like an eternity was, in truth, perhaps five minutes. Then, without sound enough to startle, the doors before Olivia swung open.

A voice boomed from within, resonant and ceremonial, carrying effortlessly across the hall.