Chapter 3

The ringing of the gong means there is work to be done. My Lady has a dinner out tonight, courtesy not of her father and his notoriety, but her and her late mother's popularity. It is only a dinner, not a party or ball, but I need to bring my best if I am to impress. I gather the things I will need and head up the looming stairs to her room. 

I can't help but marvel at the beauty of the house, even the servants' stairs are crafted with great care and attention to detail. Walking down the hallway to the lady's room is another thing entirely, though. The rich carpet is so thick it muffles my foot falls and the creak of the boards beneath it. The scent of flowers drifts through the hall, and I gaze up to see an ornate vase filled with what looks like dark purple hyacinth, daffodils and lavender. I wonder at the strange combination but my attention is snagged by the vase itself. 

On it is a delicately painted rendition of an old fairytale featuring a knight on a white horse saving a damsel in distress. I scoff as I move further down the hallway. Stories like that aren't real. Real men are nothing like honest, loyal knights. They're all entitled or idiotic. 

I pass ornate paintings and more vases, handed down through centuries of family. Each opulent object I pass reminds me of my place—an intruder in a world of grandeur, no more than a shadow in the stairwell. 

I'm caught between relief and disappointment when I arrive at her door, knowing the time for enjoyment and reflection is through, and I must now work hard. 

Surprising me entirely, when I open the door, I am greeted with a hug and a dazzling smile. 

This girl has to be one of the most beautiful people I have ever laid eyes on. She has the kind of face that people paint just to paint, that inspires music and beguiles men and women alike. All this on top of the fact that I truly believe that she is kind, with a soft nature. Even in this deep winter, it seems as though she radiates the soft sunlight of spring. 

"I am so excited to meet you! I have heard of your talents, and I so look forward to seeing them for myself." Even her voice is gentle and light. 

"Thank you for allowing me the honor, my Lady." 

She goes through a few things she has seen and asks me if I might be able to recreate them, while also telling me what she usually does with her hair and wears. It is all simple enough, and soon my fingers are flying, braiding and manipulating her feather-soft hair into a popular style. I use the proportions of her face and the balance of her features to guide me, letting myself go into a sort of trance. 

The weight of the metal tools, the practiced way my hands weave and pin small strands of hair—all of it is so familiar it's as if I had done this with her a thousand times. Comfortable silence fills the room, the only sounds the gentle rustle of her hair as it catches the fading light from the window and the soft slide of metal pins into place.

This I can do. 

The past, however, encroaches on my mind. 

The memory is as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. I can still feel the fine, chocolaty hair in my hands, hear her jagged laughter as I worked. We had made a joke–about what, I can't remember—but the warmth of the moment had been real. Or so I thought.

She called me a friend, but I didn't realize the truth. No matter the hours we spent talking, the countless jokes that had us in stitches, I was always her maid first. Friend second, at best. I let myself believe the fairytale—at least until reality shattered it, like it always does. 

How stupidly naïve I had been to believe it would never end. 

Anger and shame surge through me, and I feel the comb snag, snapping me back to reality. My hands fumble for a moment, my heart stuttering, heat rising to my face. The gentle scrape of the comb against her golden locks as I tease out the knot the only sound. 

"Sorry, my Lady," I say softly, cursing myself. 

A soft laugh startles me out of my internal scolding.

"It's fine, truly," she says, her gaze meeting mine. Her gentle smile is warm and sincere—utterly disarming. 

For a moment, something flickers in my chest. Hope– unwelcome and dangerous.

I clench my jaw and extinguish it immediately. I will not let history repeat itself. Hope has no place with me. 

I keep my eyes on the hair that is not just a memory and answer her kind questions in a simple, professional way as I in a few strands back to frame her face. An elaborate configuration with ringlets is surrounded by a simple plait, and I finish the elaborate updo by teasing the hair ever so slightly to give it as unrigid an air as possible.

When I set down my tools and look back at Lady Anna, her eyes are lit up so brightly I freeze for a moment. 

"Laura, this is wonderful!" She turns her head from side to side to admire my work. 

I smile and thank her for her kind words but aim to take the attention away from myself. 

"It is your beauty, my Lady, rather than the hair, that makes you look so refined." She blushes at my compliment and beams at the praise. Most noble ladies would stop there, happy to accept credit for my work and bask in the vanity it inspires. Lady Anna, however, laughs lightly. 

"You discredit yourself, Laura, it truly is spectacular," She looks at me with her soft eyes, clear as a small pool of water and just as emotionally transparent. "Thank you Laura." 

Her gratitude softens my heart for her ever so slightly, but I maintain my walls and accept formally, ending any further conversation that might involve me—or make me think any more of her. 

I head back downstairs after I dress her, ready to do other tasks until the servants' supper, when I catch a hushed conversation between Mr. Stephens and Mrs. Hobbs. 

"...It's her first real test," Mrs. Hobbs mutters. "If she fails…"

 The rest is lost as they leave the stairwell. 

I press my back to the cool wall and close my eyes. I replay the few whispered words, searching for their significance. I abandon my mask entirely and frown deeply at the floor. 

The checkered marble is polished so thoroughly I can see my own reflection. My eyes are empty wells of sorrow, somehow seeming to reflect no light and instead absorb it. How fitting. 

I look back up, unable to stomach looking at my reflection for a second longer.

A creaking door and approaching steps force me to move from my place of momentary solitude. As I continue my descent, the only thing on my mind is whether Mrs. Hobbs and Mr. Stephens meant a test for Lady Anna—or a test for me.

If I fail… No. 

I can't worry about things like that. Can't dwell on the disappointment and judgement that might follow. If my employers are unhappy I will simply move on and try again. Their displeasure will roll off me like water on a duck's back. 

I have no ties here, as I have no ties anywhere else. 

I will keep my guard up. Work will be my life and my life will be work. 

I need nothing else—not their approval, not their kindness. 

There is no place for hope in a life like mine.