Silence followed the question.
A long, heavy, jaw-hits-the-table kind of silence, where time stretched and cracked and all the tea in the world couldn't fill the sudden vacuum of that sentence.
"Are you pregnant, Your Majesty?"
Elysia blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then she laughed.
Too loud. Too sharp.
"What? No. No, no. I don't think so. That's absurd."
Tilda, halfway through sipping her tea, slowly lowered her cup. "You don't think so?"
"I mean—" Elysia waved her hand like she was swatting away a fly made of questions. "I'm just a little tired. That's all. Maybe low blood sugar. I haven't slept well. Too much toast. Not enough—uh, iron."
The other maids stared at her like she'd just claimed the moon was made of soup.
"You threw up yesterday morning," Arna said gently.
"Coincidence."
"You ate half a jar of pickled radishes for lunch."
"I was experimenting."
"You cried during a towel folding demonstration," Tilda added helpfully.
"It was a very emotional towel!"
Silence.
