By mid-morning the palace hummed with the secret that had escaped every guarded whisper and sealed letter: Julian Morre, the healer of Lowmere, had accepted the royal summons. The name rippled through the lower halls like a stone dropped in still water spreading from scullery to stables, from laundry to the maids' dormitory, carried on quick tongues and eager glances.
In the long linen room, where sunlight poured through tall arched windows and turned stacks of pressed sheets into glowing white hills, three maids had claimed the quietest corner. Catherine stood at the wide folding table, hands steady as she smoothed a pile of the queen's finest lawn chemises, each one scented with dried lavender from the sachets sewn into the hems. Valentina perched on a low stool nearby, twisting a length of ribbon between her fingers, while Agnes pretended to count pillow slips but kept one ear cocked toward the conversation.
Catherine broke the hush first, voice calm and low. "It's confirmed. The courier returned at dawn. Julian Morre arrives tomorrow evening. The king's own seal on the parchment."
Valentina's eyes lit up like struck flint. "Tomorrow? Already? Gods, I thought it would be weeks. They say he's young not some stooped old man with yellow teeth and a bag of leeches. Tall, they say. Dark hair that falls just so. And those eyes… like deep water before a storm."
Agnes snorted, folding a bolster case with exaggerated care. "You've been listening to the washerwomen again. They'll tell you he's handsome enough to make statues blush, but I'll wager he's just another scholar with ink-stained fingers and a superiority complex. Probably smells of garlic and unwashed wool."
Catherine's lips curved faintly as she aligned the next chemise with perfect creases. "Rumors grow legs below stairs faster than truth. But the queen summoned him herself through the duke. That means she believes he can deliver what five years of court physicians could not."
Valentina leaned forward, voice dropping to a thrilled hush. "They say he never charges the poor. Walks the villages after dark, leaves poultices on doorsteps for fevered children, willow tea for aching joints. The miller's daughter swore she saw him once—said his hands were steady as stone, gentle as a mother's touch. And when he treats a woman… well, they talk about how he makes it feel safe. Necessary. Not shameful."
Agnes rolled her eyes, but her folding slowed. "Safe? In an examination room? With the queen lying there, legs apart, while he pokes and prods for 'humoral imbalance'? I'd pay good coin to see Her Majesty's face when he tells her to breathe deeply and relax."
Valentina pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle a giggle. "Imagine it the king on the table first, shirt off, all those battle scars from the old war on display. And then the queen… gods, the look she'd give him if he so much as hesitated."
Catherine set the folded chemise down with deliberate precision. "Careful. The queen's ears reach farther than you think. One careless word about her treatments, and it's not just your tongue at risk."
The girls sobered instantly. Valentina's cheeks flushed deeper. Agnes busied herself with a stack of towels, suddenly very interested in their alignment.
Elspeth, who had slipped in quietly moments earlier, couldn't resist. "But he is handsome, isn't he? I heard from the stable lad who met the courier he said the healer rides a black gelding and carries a satchel embroidered with silver herbs. And his voice… low, calm, like he's used to soothing frightened mothers at midnight."
Valentina sighed dreamily. "I wonder if he'll walk the corridors. We might see him—passing through the halls, cloak swirling, that healer's bag at his hip. Maybe he'll smile at us. Maybe he'll ask for fresh linens or boiled water and say 'thank you' in that voice…"
Agnes groaned. "You two are hopeless. He's here to fix the royal womb, not flirt with linen maids. And if he's half as good as the tales claim, he'll be too busy dodging the dowager's questions and the duke's spies to notice any of us."
Catherine lifted her gaze, meeting each girl's eyes in turn—steady, warning, but not unkind. "Dreaming is harmless. Repeating those dreams where they can be overheard is not. Julian Morre may bring the heir we've all waited for. That's what matters. Not his face, not his hands, not how he makes the village girls sigh."
A small silence fell, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the distant clang of a kitchen bell.
Valentina ventured, very softly, "But… he is handsome, isn't he?"
Catherine's mouth twitched—almost a smile, quickly hidden. "If he is, you'll keep your sighs silent and your hands busy. The queen is not in a forgiving mood today. And she hears everything eventually."
The girls nodded quickly, returning to their tasks with renewed focus. Sheets were smoothed, towels stacked, ribbons retied.
Catherine resumed folding, her movements precise and unhurried.
Let them flutter and dream about the mysterious healer.
She knew better.
In this palace, dreams were currency and the queen collected them all.
Soon enough, Julian Morre would walk these halls himself.
And when he did…
The whispers would turn to something far more dangerous than girlish sighs.
Catherine smoothed the last chemise flat, lavender scent rising like a warning.
She would be listening.