Chapter 2

"You." 

A high-pitched voice shatters the silence. "You must be the new maid!" 

The young woman in front of me rambles on about how she and her sister are the other maids, all without inviting me in. I immediately understand why his Lordship was hesitant to leave his daughter in their hands. She radiates energy and cheerfulness, but her hair poofs out, with large strands curling around her face. Her apron droops off one shoulder, and a stain mars her collar. Her voice reminds me of a small, exuberant bird as she finally ushers me in. 

She is a whirlwind, and I'm already flustered before I even step through the door. I learn her name is Amber and her sister is Grace. 

I've met many maids like her—young, naive, with endless energy and cheer for everyone. My chest squeezes as I think about how I used to be more like her. My hand twitches, wanting to reach out to her, to stop her, to explain how cutthroat our profession really is—how, someday, they'll use her naivety against her. But I leave my hand by my side and swallow the words. I can't get involved. I have to watch out for myself. God knows I don't have time to worry about anyone else. 

Amber keeps talking a mile a minute, throwing out a million things I can't quite catch, like an excited child. She informs me that Mrs. Hobbs, the housekeeper, is in the servants' hall and will be wanting to speak to me, before promptly scampering down the hallway in a blur of energy. Her departure leaves me exhausted, and I take a breath before stepping into the servants' hall. 

"Laura Charles." 

She is just as I remember her from our meeting—nasally voice, thin frame, and hair pulled so tight it must be giving her a headache. Standing at the end of the long servants' hall table, she looks like a queen surveying her court—hard and unwavering. Her narrowed eyes watch my every breath, and I get the feeling she could see right through me if she tried. A tight ship, indeed. 

"Ma'am." 

I've learned to use only as many words as necessary—enough to be polite and get your point across, but not too many, as to stall productivity. She clearly knows this too, because she does not bother responding, just nods stiffly. 

As she exits the room, I have the good sense to follow in her purposeful footsteps. With the most efficient and soldier-like manner she gives me a tour of the house, servants' quarters, and my room, all while listing off rules and responsibilities. 

The house is, as expected, gorgeous. The servants' quarters aren't grand, but they are clean and cozy. My room is small but adequate, and I'm relieved I won't have to share it with anyone. 

I can't help but marvel at Mrs. Hobbs. How many times must she have done this to perfect it so precisely?

 In the course of the tour, I meet the other maid—almost identical to her sister in looks and in nature—and a footman that reminds me of a chipper farm dog I used to feed scraps to. I also see the butler, Mr. Stephens, again. He too is the same as I remember—balding, rather round, with bushy eyebrows and mustache, and the same severe look as Mrs. Hobbs. 

When we get to the Slovakranian servants, Mrs. Hobbs' shoulders tense to what must be a breaking point, and her mouth purses even tighter–somehow. 

The cook, who speaks no Anglorian, is short and sturdily built. She gives me a warm smile before yelling in Slovakranian at a flustered kitchen maid. 

The lady's maid, who does speak Anglorian—though sparingly and in a soft voice—gives me a shy smile and introduces herself as Adah. Usually, lady's maids are addressed as "Mrs." followed by their last name, and I can practically feel the hostility rolling off Mrs. Hobbs at the slip-up.

 Though I am not worried, Mrs. Hobbs rushes to assure me they will not be a problem and I will have little need to interact with them. Adah looks embarrassed as we go to leave, so I give her a reassuring smile before moving on. Though I still don't want to be involved, it seems cruel to make her uncomfortable when, in my opinion, she has done nothing to cause offense.

 Mrs. Hobbs mentions that there is a second footman, but he is busy getting the carriage ready for tonight, so I might not see him until later. She adds that he can translate between them and us if needed. 

The last person I meet is the valet, who gives me a slimy smile, his eyes traveling over my body with approval. My skin crawls as I instinctively put distance between us. He definitely seems like the greasy sort, and I make a mental note to stay as far away from him as possible.

 Though it is an interesting group of people, I do not dwell on them individually. I'm determined to remain professional and distant. I give each of them the same practiced, polite smile and say very little. 

Every house has the same structure, servant-wise, so I am not worried about finding my place. My last house, though it had more staff, was similar to this one. Well, besides the foreigners—but they seem harmless. It is not a bad lineup, really, and I can easily imagine my work routine and the wonderful monotony that awaits. 

Mrs. Hobbs finally leaves me to settle in before the dressing gong rings for tonight.

I am going over the polish, sewing supplies, and other things I might need in the future when I feel a presence by the door. Expecting to see Mr. Stephens, I turn with my practiced smile—

 Only, I find my eyes level with someone's chest. 

He's so physically large it takes me a moment to adjust. He is built like the sturdy farm boys that are brought up for physical labor, except he also seems to have been born with the stature meant to do heavy physical work while also being in extreme cold. 

He stands with an ease that suggests he's used to commanding attention, though his uniform looks like it belongs to someone half his size. He isn't like any footman I've ever seen, and I almost laugh at how out of place he looks here. 

"You must be the other footman," I say, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice, my face neutral—though the corner of my lip betrays me and turns up ever so slightly before I can stop it. 

"That's me," he says mildly before looking me up and down. "And you must be the lady maid." He throws me an arrogant smirk.

 His voice is smoother than I expected, his accent softening it just enough to make it less gruff and more deep. But the mockery in his tone is unmistakable. 

Ah. So he's an ass. 

Immediately, my amusement is gone. Arrogance rolls off him in waves, and the sheer nerve of him makes me see red. 

Brick by brick, the walls in my mind go up. 

I expect to feel the same cold, slimy feeling that the valet gives me, but instead, something hot and writhing settles under my skin. I have to actually bite my tongue to suppress the urge to retort. 

At my silence, he scoffs lightly and looks past me, bored—a clear dismissal.

Coppery blood fills my mouth as I accidentally clench my teeth down on my tongue. I feel it when my usual professional mask drops—my face scrunches up in pain and frustration.

His eyes are suddenly on me. Instead of the bored indifference from before, there's something else—sharp, red-hot intensity. His eyebrows are raised slightly, whether in shock or amusement I can't tell. 

Judging by his smirk reappearing, I'd wager it's the latter. 

I hate appearing flustered. The fact he's enjoying my discomfort only makes it worse. 

 I force myself to take a deep breath, ballung my fists tightly at my side. 

When I manage to paste my polite mask back on, it isn't quite as flawless as usual—I can feel the cracks. As much as I'd like to wipe that idiotic smirk of his face, angering someone so much larger than me—and on the first day, no less—would be suicide. 

I nod curtly in confirmation and dismissal, then go to squeeze past him, already determined to avoid this man at all costs. Nothing good can come from further acquaintance with someone so irritating. 

The farther I get from him the more the hot, angry feeling fades, and I let out a breath. 

I push the interaction away as I walk down the hall. 

Head down. Work. Survive. 

That's my plan. I just hope it's enough to keep me out of trouble this time. 

The gong breaks my train of thought like a lightning strike in the dark. The sound reverberates through me, rattling my bones and setting my teeth on edge. 

This is it. 

As I gather my things, I can't shake the sound of the gong and how it sounded an awful lot like a death knell.