“Mom!” Abigail called, sitting down herself. “Mom! Food’s done!”

“My, you’re done fast.” There was a loud yawn, and Bevola emerged from another room at the back of the house. She had put on a white nightgown, at some point. A backless one, of course, to make up for her wings. “Perhaps I should have napped instead of checking on you...”

“It’s just basic porridge,” Abigail warned, “so you’ll probably want some sugar, but I’m pretty sure she cooked it right.”

“How rude,” I complained, looking for the sugar myself. I was a little surprised that commoners could afford any of the stuff, but perhaps it wasn’t as expensive here as it was in most fantasy settings. “I assure you, Bevola, that it’s quite well made. Your daughter even helped me with it.”

Abigail took advantage of my conversation to grab the sugar first. It was in a very small bowl, with a lid that had a notch in it, fitted over a small, ceramic spoon. Abigail used the spoon to scoop up a bit of sugar into her bowl, stirring it up with one of the spoon’s she’d taken from the cupboard. Bringing a bite of porridge up to her lips, she blew on it twice before taking her first bite.

“It’s good!” she declared.

“Well, if it has my daughter’s seal of approval…” Bevola took an even smaller scoop of sugar than her daughter, mixing it in and taking a bite of her own. “Hmm! Not bad at all. You did well, Eena.”

“You give me too much praise,” I protested, taking the sugar bowl for myself. Since the others had only used a small amount of sugar, I assumed it wasn’t that cheap, and used a similar amount. The porridge was… bland. But passable. I had officially learned to cook my first meal and, with hunger as its main spice, I was quick to eat it all.

“Someone’s certainly a hungry woman!” Bevola laughed, taking another bite of her own porridge. She was perhaps half done, with Abigail only slightly ahead. I really had finished quite quickly.

“A growing girl needs to eat,” was my excuse. I was thankful that my painted on illusion didn’t allow for things like blushes to show.

“And which part of you is still growing, exactly?” Abigail wanted to know.

“...Perhaps these?” I suggested, indicating my tits. I had heard that they could keep growing into one’s twenties, so it wasn’t a falsehood.  More importantly, however, it brought a glare from the relatively flat chested Abigail.

Bevola laughed from across the table, apparently amused by my joke. Well, she was almost as well endowed as me. Otherwise I never would have made the jab in her presence.

“My tits might be small,” Abigail muttered, “but they’re more sensitive than any of yours!”

If I had been offered something to drink, I would have spat it out in shock. Was that any way to talk in front of one’s mother?

“Aye,” agreed Bevola, apparently seeing nothing wrong with it. “You’re like Jazma, to hear you tell it.”

Jazma. That must  have been Abigail’s other mother. The one who’s sacrifice I had wasted, alongside so many others. The one Abigail would never get to know.

“So,” Bevola continued, her pure black eyes turning to Devilla, “you never did tell me how you know little miss sensitive here. I’m going to start thinking you really are a general’s daughter, if you don’t correct me quick.” Her voice was teasing, but her expression was serious. It seemed that it was normal in any world for mothers to worry about their daughters.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Abigail protested, instantly moving to deny the area. “Eena is just-”

“The queen,” I interrupted, pushing my chair back and standing upright.

Abigail stared at me, eyes wide and mouth wider. “Y-Yeah, we both work for the-”

“My name is Devilla Satanne,” I declared, dropping my illusion. My eyes met Bevola’s unblinking black gaze, and though I did not break eye contact I did slightly lower my head. “I know you will likely not believe it, but I do apologize for deceiving you.” 

Bevola made no response. It felt like there was a lump in my throat, but I forced myself to keep speaking. “I understand that I am not welcome in your house. I’ll find another kitchen to cook in. Thank you for the meal.” With my piece said, I turned to leave.

“Wait.” I had half expected Abigail to call out to me. I had already decided to ignore her, if she did. But it was Bevola who called out to me, and I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“...Yes?” I turned back toward her. Would she yell at me, for wasting her wife’s sacrifice? If so, I would accept it; I probably should have been prepared for that from the start. 

“Why did you tell me the truth?”

The question she asked was unexpected, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been. From the way Bevola’s black eyes were searching mine, I didn’t think she’d be satisfied with anything less than the truth. I couldn’t give her the full story, unfortunately, but I hoped part of it would do.

“I didn’t want Abigail to keep lying to you. Not for my sake, at least.”

“And why not?” Bevola pressed, her eyes narrowing. It felt like I was pinned beneath her gaze. I knew that I was stronger than her, yet the mere idea of resisting her seemed somehow futile.

“...Because I am someone who will never see her parents again,” I explained, at last. I didn’t know my parents at all, as Devilla. I had lost them too young to even understand what that pain meant. As Jacob I’d had parents who loved me, though. Parents I’d left behind, who I would never see again. I felt both Devilla’s irrational anger at the world for making her grow up without parents and Jacob’s grief at forever losing access to those he loved. Thus, I felt that I understood far better than most just how important parental relationships could be. “I did not wish to watch Abigail strain her relationship with you; not for the sake of teaching me how to cook.”

“Mom,” Abigail started, but stopped when Bevola lifted a hand.

“You’re a lot different than I expected, Queen Devilla,” Bevola admitted. “That doesn’t mean I like you, or anything. You’ve got a long way to go for that. But…”

I realized that I was holding my breath. I didn’t let it go, though. Not even as the moment stretched on. Not until Bevola finally spoke again.

“...But. I can’t say it would be a bad thing for my daughter to get close to you. It might even do her some good, one day, knowing the queen.”

“Then does that mean you’re fine with her still being my maid?” I asked, relief washing over me. My legs felt like they were made of jelly, and only my royal pride kept me from collapsing to the floor. I hadn’t realized how terrified I’d been  of losing Abigail entirely over this.

“Your maid?” Bevola laughed. “That was never in question. I don’t tell my girl where she can or can’t work. No - what I’m saying is that you can keep using my kitchen. But no more lies!”

“No more lies,” I promised, willingly. “...Though I won’t say the same about secrets.”

“Well duh, dear. Every lady deserves a few of those, don’t you think?”

I could only smile in response. After all, how I became a lady was one of the secrets I intended to keep.