He had called her beautiful.
Oskar, the Fifth Prince of the Kingdom of Prussia and Germany, had actually called her beautiful. Her—Anna Müller, twenty-four years old, a complete nobody by any sensible standard. And yet he had not only said the word, he had looked at her and held her as if he were holding a real woman. A person. Not a shadow, not a servant, not a nobody.
Her life had never been easy. It was not easy now, and it had never been easy for a farmer's daughter born in the late nineteenth century, growing up in the Brandenburg countryside, in a single small house packed with family and relatives.
From dawn until the last scraps of sunlight faded, everyone worked the fields. Every hand—young or old, male or female—had its task. There were differences, of course: the women spun and mended clothes, milked the cows, cooked and washed. The men handled the plowing and fence repairs. Anna's main work was milking the cows in the gray chill of early morning. Potatoes needed digging, weeds needed pulling, fences needed fixing. If nails were too dear, she twisted and knotted rope to hold the posts in place. Washing clothes fell to the women. Bread had to be baked. The seasons changed; the work did not.
Anna Müller grew up in that world.
Her family owned a tiny patch of land outside Potsdam—not enough to dream of wealth, just enough to survive if the weather was kind. Two cows for milk. A dozen chickens for eggs. A stubborn old horse to pull the plow when the soil thawed. Wheat if the rain cooperated. Barley if it did not. Potatoes, always. And at night, the younger children cried, and the house was full of noise.
There was always hard work, yes—but it was their work.
Their land.
Their small, noisy, beloved chaos.
Under one roof lived her parents, grandparents, four siblings, two cousins whose parents had died in a cholera outbreak, an uncle who never married, and whichever stray relative or traveler needed a bed that season. A dozen bodies crammed into one farmhouse, everyone sharing heat, burdens, and bread. Poverty was a constant companion, but so was the comfort of family: a warm quilt sewn by a grandmother, laughter by the fire at night, stories whispered when storms rattled the shutters.
Luxury was rare.
But on a good year, when the harvest was generous and the prices at Potsdam's market were fair, they might manage something special:
a new iron pot,
a pair of shoes that didn't pinch,
a coat that hadn't already been patched seventeen times,
or—once, she remembered this clearly—her older brother proudly bringing home a book.
She read it with him over and over by lanternlight until the wick burned out.
Anna was a dreamer, even then.
At fifteen, her world changed.
She met a young man from Potsdam—a factory worker strong enough to lift timber with one arm, and kind enough to make her smile. He spoke of the city as if it were a wonder: electric lights on some streets, bakeries that never closed, shops filled with things she had only seen in catalogues, and wages higher than any field could promise.
He took her to Potsdam once, just for a day.
It dazzled her—the crowds, the colors, the noise, the sense that life might be more than mud and frost and potatoes.
When he asked her to come live with him, she did not hesitate.
At sixteen, she became a mother for the first time. At seventeen, she was a wife and mother of two. At nineteen, she had three little girls. Three warm, squirming, hungry baby daughters in her care.
They had so little: a single rented room in a tenement, a coal stove that smoked, shared toilets, thin walls, endless laundry, factory whistles dictating every hour. But they had love, and pride, and dreams.
She did not need much more.
Then one day, he didn't come home.
His friends came instead, hats in hand, to tell her where he lay buried. A factory accident, they said. They did not dare say more.
She had three marks to her name.
Three small children watched her with wide, confused eyes as she wept at his grave.
She knew she couldn't live on the church's meager charity alone. At nineteen, she did the only thing she could think to do: she took her children back to the farm.
She returned to her family's land in desperation. But there were already too many mouths and not enough food that winter. Her father offered her the bed she had slept in as a child, but he could offer little else.
So she made the hardest decision of her life.
She left her three girls with her mother—safe, warm, loved.
And she went back to Potsdam alone, determined to find work that would one day let her bring them back to her.
Days blurred together as she walked the streets, tired and hungry, searching. Factories turned her away. Shops had no space. No one wanted a young widow with no trade.
Then, when she was close to breaking, she met her.
A small blonde girl named Tanya, carrying linens, who watched Anna ask for work at three different places and be denied each time. Tanya listened to her story, chewed her lip, and finally said:
"Come with me."
She led Anna to the royal palace.
There, with Tanya's help and recommendation, Anna was taken on as a maid—just as Tanya had been all her life, serving the Fifth Prince.
She although only became a cleaning maid. The hours were long and brutal. The rules were strict. Floors to scrub, trays to carry, laundry to haul. She woke before dawn, slept whenever she could. Sometimes Tanya thought her things, like how to read and write and much more. But all in all to her it was a path. A chance forward in life.
The wages were small by city standards—nine to twelve marks a month—but the job came with hot food and a bed in the servants' quarters. Compared to the farm, it felt like wealth. It was enough to send home coins each week for bread, boots, and coal.
To Anna Müller, the job at the palace was a miracle.
Now she was twenty-four, single, and so often exhausted that whole days passed in a blur. She hardly ever saw her children. She worked through the nights and slept during the day, pale from lanternlight and lack of sun. She was lonely—painfully, quietly lonely—yet she endured it for her daughters. In society, and even within the palace, she was a nobody.
And yet… something had changed.
After so many years in which nothing meaningful happened, after so many nights spent hearing only her own thoughts, her heart suddenly beat faster whenever she remembered that moment—the day the Fifth Prince had bumped into her in the corridor.
He had steadied her.
Held her.
Looked at her as though she were someone.
He hadn't spoken to her since that tray-and-pastry disaster, but on occasion, when he passed her on his way somewhere, she would blush…and he'd toss out a casual, half-distracted, "My man," as though greeting another soldier or worker.
She wasn't a man, of course.
But something in the way he said it—light, friendly, utterly unbothered by rank or status—made her laugh every time.
More importantly, it made her feel seen, even if the interaction lasted only a few seconds. Oskar—unlike other nobles—seemed to notice servants, guards, workers…everyone. To him, people were people, not furniture that silently moved around him.
Tonight, Anna knelt in the prince's private corridor, dressed in her neat maid's uniform, scrubbing the marble tiles with her wet towel. Her bucket of water sat beside her, catching the dim reflections of lanternlight.
She paused to listen.
The palace at night was quiet—truly quiet—in a way that made every drip from her towel echo down the hall, every shift of fabric sound louder, every distant footstep sharper. Oskar was still not back from whatever business or adventure he had gone off to again. She never asked; maids did not ask.
Still kneeling, she hoped he might return soon. This corridor led directly to his private suite. She had never seen inside, but she cleaned the path to it each night.
She leaned over the marble and checked her reflection in the glossy wet surface—just in case.
She wanted to look good if he passed by.
Her reflection stared back:
dark brown, thick, wavy hair pulled into a simple bun beneath her maid's cap.
Skin pale from night shifts, though it flushed easily when she was flustered.
Redness across her knuckles from over-scrubbing floors.
Slight dark circles beneath her eyes.
Big warm brown eyes, soft cheeks, a small straight nose, full lips unpainted yet naturally rosy.
A gentle, motherly beauty—faded by fatigue, but present.
Her figure, hidden beneath her plain uniform, was still there:
fuller, soft hips; smooth, round thighs; a surprisingly flat stomach despite childbirth; and a generous chest that strained slightly against the maid's bodice. Her waist remained small, perhaps even smaller now thanks to skipped meals and a few exercise routines she secretly imitated after watching the prince train in the gardens.
Her arms had grown strong from hauling laundry and trays—a detail she disliked—but everywhere else she carried the soft, natural curves of a young woman who had borne children, not a woman grown lazy.
She smiled faintly at her reflection.
She was beautiful.
Or at least she could be, with sleep and care and time.
And she was a little taller than Tanya, which she told herself didn't matter…even though Tanya was the maid closest to the prince.
Of course, she wasn't bragging.
She wasn't that sort of woman.
But Oskar had called her beautiful.
A prince.
Him.
It had to mean something.
Other men had approached her before, but their eyes and words felt hollow. She rejected them all. Nothing they said sparked anything inside her.
Yet even now, remembering Oskar's voice saying "beautiful", she almost trembled with excitement. A small giggle escaped her, embarrassingly girlish.
She felt—just for a moment—like a lovestruck teenager again.
And she couldn't help it.
Because for the first time in years…
Someone had truly seen her.
Watching her reflection in the slick, freshly wiped tiles, Anna suddenly scrubbed harder—polishing the marble until it shone like a dark mirror. The better she could see herself, the better she could… prepare, maybe. Hope.
She paused, pushed a loose curl behind her ear, then wiped her brow with the back of her wrist. Still dissatisfied, she tugged off her maid's cap, letting her dark brown shoulder-length hair fall freely around her face. It made her look softer, younger.
But even with her hair loose, she felt… off. Not good enough.
What if the Prince had only been kind? What if he'd only said "beautiful" out of politeness?
Her breasts were large—too large, she always thought—drawing stares she never wanted. Men on the street stared like hungry wolves. She hated it, and now she worried: surely Oskar wouldn't find that appealing… or would he? She didn't know, and the uncertainty frustrated her more than it should have.
Her hands were red and raw from the cold wet towel. Her knees ached from kneeling too long. Her shoulders burned beneath the weight of her own body—they always did.
"You're beautiful," she whispered to her reflection.
And immediately wanted to hide.
Saying it aloud felt foolish, embarrassing. As if repeating it would make it true.
She wasn't shameless. She wasn't trying to seduce anyone. She was simply—utterly—lonely. The memory of her dead husband flickered through her mind, heavy and sharp. She had done everything alone ever since. Every hardship. Every decision.
With a sigh, she accepted that maybe all her daydreams were just fantasies. Some people lived blessed lives. Others simply… didn't. Her proof? The ten German Welfare Lottery tickets she had bought in secret—ten chances—and not a single win.
She sighed softly and scrubbed even harder, trying to push her thoughts back into the corners of her heart.
She had no illusions. Princes did not court widowed servant women with three children and weary eyes.
And yet…
She wanted to feel like a woman again.
She wanted to feel wanted.
Just once more.
Her towel squeaked sharply against the stone floor.
Then—
A sound.
Then another.
She froze. The towel slipped from her fingers and splashed into the bucket. Hope flared in her chest.
Was that the prince?
But the footsteps weren't his. Oskar's steps were confident, soft but energetic—almost bouncing. These were slow, uneven… dragging.
Anna's breath hitched.
An intruder? A thief? Rumors whispered that once, years ago, someone had snuck inside at night.
Who would be awake at this hour?
She clutched her hands to her chest, heart pounding.
A small shadowed figure appeared at the far end of the corridor—slight, feminine, swaying.
"Tanja…?" she whispered in startled confusion.
Tanya—the prince's personal maid, her friend, her superior—staggered toward her, one hand gripping the wall, the other pressed against her stomach beneath her apron. Her usually tidy golden hair hung loose, her face pale, eyes glassy and unfocused.
Anna scrambled to her feet.
"Tanja! Good heavens—what's wrong? Does your stomach hurt? What happened?"
Tanya opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She took one more step, wobbling, and her knees buckled.
Anna lunged forward and caught her before she hit the marble.
"Tanja! Tanja, talk to me—what's wrong? Are you sick? Dizzy? Did you eat something bad?" Anna's voice trembled. "Tanja, look at me!"
Tanya's head slumped against Anna's shoulder. Her breath came thin and shallow.
"No… it's alright, Anna… I… I just have to… go to Oskar…" she whispered, weak as a candle flame. "He needs to know… I must tell him…"
"Tell him what?" Anna asked, heart thundering.
Tanya's hand tightened over her stomach.
Anna's eyes followed the movement.
And understanding dawned—slow, electric, terrifying.
She had seen Tanya's changes for weeks now.
The exhaustion.
The odd cravings and sudden dislikes.
The strange moods when the prince was gone.
The glowing cheeks some nights.
The way she drifted in Oskar's orbit, returning to the attic room less and less.
Everyone had noticed how close they were.
Everyone had seen how they looked at each other at Pump World's opening.
Even the papers had written about it.
"Tanja…" Anna whispered, voice trembling. "Are you perhaps…?"
But Tanya swayed again—
and collapsed fully into her arms.
Anna gasped.
"Help! Someone help! Guard!"
The doors at the far end of the corridor burst open with a metallic slam.
A palace guard—rifle in hand, face sharp with alarm—charged toward the sound. His boots hammered against the marble. But when he saw Anna kneeling with Tanja limp in her arms, his run slowed to a halt.
"What is it? What's wrong, woman?" he demanded.
Anna clutched Tanja closer, panic tightening her voice.
"It's Tanja—she collapsed suddenly. Please, help me get her upstairs! She needs to rest."
The guard did not hesitate. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, bent down, and lifted Tanja into his arms as delicately as if she were made of porcelain. Her head lolled against his chest, breath weak.
Anna hurried beside him, guiding the way as they moved quickly through the quiet palace halls.
They reached the upper floor—the large private maid's room that had been given to Tanja alone, a privilege earned by her role as the prince's personal maid. The guard lowered her carefully onto the bed.
Tanja groaned softly, sweat glistening on her brow. Her face looked pale, feverish… or perhaps just exhausted beyond reason. Anna already understood, but fear kept her from saying it aloud.
The guard turned to Anna, uncertain.
"Should I fetch a doctor?"
Anna parted her lips to answer—
but Tanja's eyes fluttered open.
"No… no doctor," she whispered, pressing a shaky hand against the guard's shoulder. "Please… don't… I'm fine. Just lightheaded."
Both Anna and the guard stared in disbelief.
"But Fräulein," the guard protested, "you fainted—"
Anna cut in gently, aligning herself with Tanja's wish.
"Let's wait on calling a doctor. I'll stay with her. If anything worsens, I'll fetch you immediately. I promise."
The guard hesitated, clearly uncomfortable but bound by protocol, then nodded.
"If… you're certain. I'll return to my post. Ring the alarm bell—or shout—if you need help."
When the door shut behind him, the room fell into deep, uneasy silence.
Tanja lay back against her pillows, breath shallow, eyes half-closed.
Anna sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she asked:
"Tanja… whose child is it? Is it… Oskar's?"
Tanja's eyes opened slowly. She met Anna's gaze—not with fear, not with denial, but with a fragile calm. She gave a tiny nod.
"He was my first… and the only one I've ever been with. I'm sure," she breathed.
Anna's heart twisted sharply.
Of course it was his.
He was Wilhelm II's son—young, vibrant Oskar, who had always treated Tanja with such unexpected tenderness.
But hearing it aloud…
It hit harder than she expected.
Shock.
Fear for Tanja.
Fear for Oskar.
A stab of grief.
A flicker—a shameful, secret flicker—of envy.
Her lip trembled as she bit down on it. She wished, for one wild, selfish moment, that it had been her. That she had been the one he cherished in the dark of night.
Maybe he had only called her beautiful out of kindness…
Maybe she had never truly caught his eye at all.
Tanja swallowed, snapping Anna out of her thoughts.
"He should know," she whispered. "Before anyone else finds out. Please, Anna… find him. Tell him so he can plan. No one else must know." She sucked in a trembling breath. "And tell him… it's alright if he wishes to distance himself from me publicly. I don't want to be a burden to him."
Tears welled in Tanja's eyes.
And suddenly Anna felt her own throat tighten. Tanja—small, soft-spoken Tanja—looked stronger now than any woman Anna had ever met. Strong enough to bear a secret that could break her.
Anna reached for her, wiping away the tears with gentle fingers before pulling her into a warm, protective embrace.
"Yes, Tanja," she whispered. "I'll tell him. He isn't at the palace right now, but the moment he returns, I'll tell him everything. You can trust me—I swear it."
Despite the jealousy twisting inside her chest, something deeper rose beneath it:
Gratitude.
Admiration.
A fierce protectiveness for her friend.
She pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from Tanja's forehead.
"Rest now. I'll handle everything."
Then Anna rose, heart pounding, and hurried to the door—
running into the night to find the prince.