The palace was suspiciously still.
Too still.
Which in palace parlance normally meant something momentous was on the verge of occurring, or someone was getting murdered. Or both.
But tonight, no momentous moments or poisoned tea.
Tonight... something gentler.
Something cozier.
Something that had the faint scent of roses and insurrection.
It occurred late—so late that even the night guards were drowsy and salivating on their spears. I had just gotten done pouting about being refused my third snack of the evening when the wind changed.
And then I saw her.
Gliding by the curtains like a ghost in a moonlit gown.
Dark eyes and a twinkle of mischief.
Lips twisted into a smirk that spoke of, "yes, I am technically in jail, but that's never hindered me before."
My mother.
The seductress. The villainess. The woman who "drugged the king," "brought down the empire," and got locked away like some mythical fairytale cautionary tale.
She looked stunning. And so self-satisfied about it.
She padded over to my crib, leaned over with all the poise of an experienced seductress-slash-prison break artist, and breathed in my ear:
"So... you're the tiny escape artist everyone's screaming about?"
I stared at her.
She winked.
Then she scooped me up like she hadn't been locked away for treason and just casually broke multiple royal laws for a cuddle.
And then... she laughed. A light, airy, almost girlish laugh that made the entire room feel like a secret.
"You're perfect," she whispered, snuggling me close. "Chubby little cheeks and a reputation already. I'm so proud."
I gurgled in agreement.
Honestly? She was just as energetic as me.
Like mother, like reincarnated daughter.
She picked me up and took me to a little couch near the window—one she obviously used when breaking into places she didn't belong—and we just sat there.
Talking.
Well, she talked. I chattered. But in some way... we got each other.
She shared stories with me. Not the ones the court muttered. Her own stories.
About how she didn't "drug" the king, but certainly "outwitted a very smug prince at a banquet" and "perhaps accidentally kissed him into a political scandal."
How she used to win noble arguments simply by blinking slowly.
How the court resented her because she wore red in a sea of pastel and spoke too truthfully.
"And then I became pregnant with you," she told me, pushing my hair out of my face. "Which was the best thing and worst timing of my life."
She said it with a grin.
No regrets in her tone. Only love.
That surprised me more than anything.
She squeezed me tighter.
"I thought they'd never let me see you again," she whispered. "But you came looking for me, didn't you? Just like your mother—breaking rules, causing chaos, and ignoring every wall in your way."
She kissed my forehead. Her lipstick left a faint print. I kept it there like a royal tattoo of rebellion.
"One day, we'll walk the halls together. As mother and daughter. Not secrets."
And then, like a scent with shadow, she was gone.
Slipped out the window. Vanished into the night.
The only proof she'd been there?
The lipstick on my forehead, the heat spot next to me, and the lingering smell of rebellion.
And for the first time in my second life...
I didn't feel alone.