Chapter 4

Walking into the servants hall for dinner, I immediately notice a strange tension in the air. The two maids stand together, whispering in their hurried way to the dog-like footman, while Mr. Stephens and Mrs. Hobbs sit together in silence. 

The strangest thing, however, is that on the other end of the room, the Slavokrainan servants sit together, joking and talking animatedly in Slavokrainan. 

I see the divide immediately and can't help but sigh, taking a seat in the middle, near to no one. However, my plan backfires because somehow all eyes are on me all of a sudden. Amber and Grace rush forward to flock around me. 

"Did you really do it?" 

"Sorry? Do what?" I answer, utterly confused as to how I already managed to draw unwanted attention. 

"Do Lady Anna's hair like that? We saw it as she left—I've never seen anything so beautiful! She looked like such a vision!" Amber is nodding vigorously as Grace tries to get the sentence out through her excitement. 

"Oh, yes." I blush slightly at the attention and try to maintain my mask of indifference. "It's a style that is worn often in Kingsward." 

I'm taken aback by their shock and praise—it had been a long time since anyone was truly impressed by my work.

 "I can't take all the credit though, Lady Anna is very lovely even without fancy hair." I say, trying to redirect the conversation. 

"Still, we don't think she's ever looked so nice before. Would you do my hair like that?" Amber grins at me, a sort of puppy-dog look taking over her face. 

I panic slightly, unsure how to politely turn her down, "Uh—" 

"She most certainly will not! Sit down, the both of you." 

Mrs. Hobbs gives the girls a firm look before settling her gaze on me, though I wouldn't say approval shines in her eyes, there seems to be a kind of respect for work well done. 

I nod to her slightly, thanking her both for the save from the girls and for the grudging appreciation. 

We make a strange table—the Slavokrainan footman, whom Adah keeps calling Aleksi, and Adah herself, while all of the rest of us Anglorian servants sit at a bit of a loss as to what to do with them. The only sound that can be heard is the scrape of spoons against the bottom of dishes and the occasional swallow. Well, that and the bouncing of the maids' legs, unable to control their energy even now. 

Mr. Stephens begins to make polite conversation in a hushed tone to Mrs. Hobbs and the valet. I occasionally join in when I am asked something, and some of the tension seems to leech from the room. 

"Why waste time on such frills when real value isn't found in ribbons or bows? Perhaps that's all someone like you can offer."

A deep voice scoffs. "Isn't there a better place for someone like you, with your… skills, in Kingsward?" 

The voice cuts through the air like a knife, and all eyes go to Aleksi, who has his eyes trained on me. His words settle in my gut, and my breathing quickens. I desperately cling to my mask, fighting the urge to slump in my chair, to hide my face. Somehow the way he talks about my job feels… dirty. Mocking.

I clench my fists to stop my hands from shaking, my nails digging into my palms. Breathe, Laura. Diffuse the situation.

"I don't know what you mean. I'm honored to be here and working as a maid," I say with forced politeness. 

I smile serenely and turn all my attention back to my soup, but the hand holding my spoon trembles. Before anyone else can notice, I put the spoon down and pretend I need to dab my mouth with a napkin. 

I pray for this to be over, but he breaks in again. I hold my breath as his deep words land like blows. 

"Do you Anglorians really think these little rituals matter? A hairstyle and a dress to make an impression—it's all so… shallow. But I suppose it's enough for someone like you to cling to." 

My breath whooses out all at once. 

He's teasing Laura. He knows nothing. His words mean nothing. 

I chant in my head over and over, but the words don't stick. The stares of the others seem to press in on me. Not just those in this room, but everyone who has ever judged me, belittled me. I feel their disapproval press in, stealing the air from my lungs and squeezing my ribs. 

How dare he question my value to this house? How dare he try to make a fool of me in front of the others?

He is a typical man and doesn't understand how important seasons are for young girls—how it dictates their marriages and, therefore, the rest of their lives. Every day, I am grateful for my job, how I can help young ladies find their way in the world.

Someday, a lady will decide I'm worth keeping with her her whole life. 

I take pride in what I do. 

He is ignorant of the importance of my job. 

I feel my control slipping. My palms are wet, and my chest heaves. I can't tell if my trembling is from anger or pain. I chase after the leash on my control, but it disappears on a final cresting wave of rage.

 I can't hold back the tide as I slam down my fork and do what a cornered dog does best. 

Bite.  

"You wouldn't understand, would you? The value of honor and tradition—things we build with patience, not arrogance. It's easy to hide behind your smirk and insults, but at least we know our place in the world. But I don't expect someone who doesn't belong to grasp that." 

I watch as the words hit him. Anger—white-hot and fueled by the same thing mine was, a need to defend my life and my background—takes over his face. 

Without his signature arrogant smirk, he seems to double in size, becoming a thing of the night, someone grown men would be afraid of. Yet I feel no fear. 

My utter loss of control has stolen any semblance of sanity from me, including self preservation, it seems.

I feel triumphant. To make someone so aloof and untouchable react so obviously makes me practically hum with glee. He sees my every thought play out in my eyes. 

I hear the valet and some of the others let out small huffs of amusement and pride inflates my chest. I won. I can practically feel the respect of the others growing, and I can't help but preen at their approval. 

I look back at him, and in his eyes, where I just saw only anger, seems to be a seed of something else. 

Vulnerability. 

Shame. 

It's like cold water is splashed over me. 

The victory I so craved sours on my tongue. 

How could I? How could I embarrass and belittle someone else in front of important people? Even if what he said was wrong, I had no right to sacrifice his dignity for mine.  

I try to convey my sincere apology to him, but he's looking away. Even if the others will think less of me, I have to apologize. This isn't who I am. 

His name is on my lips when suddenly he says something in Slovakranian to Adah. She lets out a surprised kind of laugh, assessing me before turning to him and seemingly agreeing with what he said. 

Confusion and hurt hit me like a train. The urge to respond, to rise to his challenge, bubbles up in me once again, but this time, it's accompanied by the knowledge that he, too, is only trying to maintain his dignity. 

He raises one eyebrow at me, goading me on. Say it, his eyes seem to say. Don't stop now. 

The rising tide returns, and his eyes seem to light in anticipation. 

"Enough!" 

The sharp command cuts through the tension like a cleaver as Mrs. Hobbs slams down her hands onto the table, sending cutlery scattering. Everyone flinches back at the raw authority in her voice. The whole room seems to breathe out as the tension finally stalls. She says it with such a tone of finality, and neither Aleksi nor I are stupid enough to challenge her. 

But I meet his eyes across the table. 

Unbidden intensity lights his gaze—come out and play, they seem to say. My blood thrums in response, ready to rise to his challenge, ready to release all the rage and misery that have been weighing me down. 

Not here, I tell myself. Not around the others. I need to maintain my removed attitude if I want my life here to be easy. With him, however… 

I relish the idea of fighting back, seeing as he has no respect for me already anyway. I'm already plotting how to get the last word next time. 

Any thought of professionalism and propriety is replaced by my need to knock him down a peg. The ego of that man is uncontested. 

I feel too hot, and every little thing grates on my raw nerves. Every chair scrape is like nails on a chalkboard, and I almost yell at Amber to stop her god damned leg bouncing. 

I feel him like a pressure under my skin, waiting to be released. The air between us crackles with unspoken words, sharp as knives. The challenge in his eyes remains, daring me to rise to it. 

And I will. 

But as I'm plotting my next move, a dark thought creeps in: What havoc will this game wreak on both of us?