Chapter 1

"Get out!" 

Another object flies past my head, crashing against the wall as I step forward.

"Lady Eliza, please." Even as her fury washed over me, a voice inside screams: I can't leave. I won't. Without this house, I have nothing. 

I try to tell her the truth about what happened, but she won't listen. 

Another object strikes me before I can dodge it, snapping my head to the side as my knees buckle. I feel wetness start to drip from my hairline, where—what I'm assuming was her metal hairbrush—hit me. I can't see out of my right eye but I still plead with her.

"Lady Eliza–"

Smack. 

Pain blooms in my cheek as her hand connects, cutting through the room like a whip. 

I stay crumpled on the floor, small pathetic whimpers steadily flowing out of me.

I know someone must be behind me when her eyes turn towards the door. Immediately, the hot fury is gone from her face, and cold indifference takes its place. 

"Get her out of here." 

My head is pounding, and words aren't coming easy. I try again to beg her to let me stay, but all that comes out are heavy sobs. I can't stop my trembling as I attempt to crawl towards her. I don't get far because strong arms pick me up from the floor and start moving me out the door. 

"You dare crawl back to me, you wretched thing?" 

"Please!" I scream, struggling against whoever is holding me. I flail my limbs—reaching for her. 

Her face is twisted into a cruel frown, her nose turned up at me. She looks at my broken form and scoffs. 

"Pathetic." 

She turns from me, and the last thing I see before I lose consciousness is her walking away in one last cruel dismissal. 

—

The abrupt halt of the carriage snaps me from my memories, the sting of the slap echoing on my cheek as if it had just happened. I grip the bench, heart pounding as the foggy estate comes into view.

My hands go to my small bag—my one comfort from my old life. 

Looking at this estate reminds me of the one I left behind. I was supposed to live and die there. I had given everything to that house. 

The sting of her words still haunts me. The flash of her eyes, full of disdain. The uncontrollable trembling as I had packed what little I had and fled the place I once believed was my home. 

That day left a scar, an old wound that would never truly heal. The pain was no longer a raw, bleeding thing, but it lingers in the emptiness that fills my entire being. 

Now, as I step down from the carriage, the old ache stirs to life in my chest. 

The skeletal trees reach out their gnarled claws towards me. The air around the looming estate feels heavy—weighed down by secrets, as if it had witnessed too much. I didn't know what awaited me here, but it had to be better than where I left, right? 

 This post is smaller than my last , but there is something about it that makes it seem grander. A warmth leaks from the stony walls, drawing me in. The towering house looked down on me with soft eyes, as if it understood my pain. It has seen betrayal before. My story is nothing new to it. 

If this house rejects me, where would I go? 

My feet crunch on the gravel, the only sound as I make my way to the servants' entrance. 

Usually, a new servant would only know bits and pieces about a family before coming to work for them, but this time is different. This family was notorious, like me. Within social circles, Lord John Welch was once utterly forgettable – another wealthy landowner with a grand estate and little else to his name. However, when he went to Slavokrainia and brought back a wife and servants, he became the talk of the town. 

A match to a low-ranking woman for a man of his status would have been fuel for gossip on its own, but a foreign, middle class wife? That set the highest social circles ablaze—until the next scandal came along. 

When I met the uppity and aggressively Anglorian butler and housekeeper I could not help give a small, rare laugh at how much of an adjustment Slavokrainian servants would be for their "tight ship." Not just a lady's maid either, apparently, but a footman and cook, too. Though it made almost no difference to me—I could work well anywhere as long as I kept my head down and carried on. 

I am to be a maid here, and mostly look after Lord Welch's daughter. The housekeeper told me there are two other maids, but they are too young and inexperienced to look after her—especially for what is coming over the next few years.

The job seems simple enough, and yet I can't shake the feeling that stepping into this house is more than just a new start—it's stepping into a web. 

When I was cast out, part of me wanted to run—abandon this life, disappear. But I had nowhere to go. I was safer hiding behind the grandeur of a semi-respectable house than out there on my own. 

I can't help but wonder: How different would my life be now if none of it had ever happened? If he had never come into the house? If I hadn't been so weak—blind to his true nature—perhaps I wouldn't be here. Exiled like a criminal. Would I be in the servants' hall, stitching a tear in one of my Lady's gowns? Or prepping a bedroom for a guest during the holiday? 

It all seems so very far away now, not just in distance but in time too. I had aged years in the past few months alone. I can only see one way to go on: to simply forget. To pretend there is no other servants' hall, no other estate, no other life besides the one that is within these walls. 

As I stand in front of the door, I push the past away. Head down. Do work. Survive. Head down. Do work. Forget. I have no time for mistakes, and no energy for the past. 

 The large, dark door looms over me as I gather myself to knock. I raise my hand and brush my knuckles against the grooves of the wood. It feels alive under my gloved hand. 

Breathe, Laura, you can do this. 

I draw my hand back, but before I can actually knock, the door creaks open. A sliver of light spills out, and a voice, sharp as a knife, cuts through the heavy stillness. 

"You."