Chapter 7

Her

I sit at a long table, sewing a tear in my Lady's dress as other servants mill about, doing their jobs before dinner. It's a brilliant summer day—warm and humid—the kind of day that makes working and being productive almost impossible. The only comfort is knowing the hot days will give in to cool summer nights, still and peaceful. 

The dressing gong for supper rings, and I make my way up the servants' stairs, hurrying down the hallway. It is customary to knock, and I do, although I know it is unnecessary. 

The door swings wide open, and there my Lady stands, grinning. I match her enthusiasm without a thought and laugh as she pulls me into the room. 

"You wouldn't believe the tea today," she says, her eyes sparkling. "Lady Henshaw thought orange blossoms were in season. Orange blossoms!" 

We laugh at the absurdity, and for a moment, everything feels simple. 

"Life would be unbearable without you, Laura." 

"I know." I smirk at her. 

She throws a pillow at me for my cheek and laughs good-naturedly. I've never once worried about my place with her, or in this house. This house is more a home than anything I've ever had.

I blink, but instead of the warmth of her room, I am plunged into the cold. The dark presses in, suffocating me. My throat is tight with fear, and my eyes blur with tears, but I can still see when a light blooms at the other end of the room, blinding me. 

I must get out. I must get out. I must—

I startle awake, my face wet with tears and my skin sticky with sweat. I breathe raggedly into the night. The empty bed across the room mocks me, made for someone who didn't exist. 

Quietly, I tiptoe to the kitchen. I splash my face with water and lean against the sink. I have to move—do something—before my thoughts trap me again. 

I've finished everything—mending, polishing, ironing. I curse my thoroughness. I lean against the wall, sliding down until I am on the ground with my knees curled to my chest. My mind struggles against the darkness of that library. 

My limbs tell me to run, but how could I? I am already farther from the pain than I ever thought possible. The library is miles away, and yet even though I've escaped its walls, it still holds me in its grip. There is nowhere left to run. 

I stand abruptly. There has to be something—anything—for me to do. 

Hurriedly, I go to the mending room and look. When I spot the livery closet door propped slightly open, I go to close it, but a memory comes back to me. This one is not from long ago, but today. 

The servants' hall smelled of boiled vegetables and old wood. The only sound was the occasional whispers and jarring reprimands from Mr. Stephens. He was in a particularly bad mood, picking on every little thing. 

When he started to make Amber tear up during a particularly bad lecture, Aleksi jumped in, and my focus was caught. 

"Leave off her. She didn't do anything." 

Mr. Stephens seemed to hone in on him like a predator on prey. His voice became dangerously soft and concise.

"I know you are not from here and do not know the rules, but you would do well to learn them. She has failed to do justice to this noble home, as have you. You dishonor this house everyday with your chortling, and just look at the state of your livery! You look like an overstuffed pasty! You are not cut out to be a footman. Footmen are not brutes who can't fit into their own livery, and are to stupid to adjust them!" 

He finished his speech in a passion, going from quiet anger to booming fury. I looked over at Aleksi, expecting to see anger or smugness on his face, but instead, his expression was guarded and tight. His lips pressed together. He stared dutifully at his plate for the rest of the meal, silent. 

I stare now at his livery, hung back in the closet as if to distance himself from it.

This will do. 

The work is wonderfully monotonous. It requires just the right amount of focus to keep any other thoughts away. Though it did provide a much needed distraction, I'm glad I found this task specifically. 

He was brave to stand up for Amber when she couldn't. I can't help but wonder: would things be different had I had someone like him back then? Or perhaps I was always meant to endure alone. 

It's hours later that I put down the livery. Still unfinished, I put the cut-up livery under my bed and put another one of the same size in its place in the cupboard. Just as I've gotten into bed, Mrs. Hobbs knocks on the door to signal the start of the day. 

It takes me a full week, working every night, to finish adjusting the livery. I don't know his exact measurements, so I guess, but even if it may not fit exactly, I know it will be substantially better. I replace it on the last night before the other servants come down and scurry back to my room to sleep. 

I've just come downstairs the next morning when I hear a commotion in the servants' hall. 

Mr. Stephens must be on a rampage again. 

Making my way over, I brace for the yelling. 

Then I see him.

He stands tall in his livery, every bit the professional footman. I silently commend myself on a job well done. My heart swells as even Mr. Stephens nods his begrudging approval. 

"Days wages says it was the lady's maid. The Slavokrainian one," someone whispers, guessing at the mystery seamstress. 

"I bet on the valet." 

Ha. Yeah, right. 

"No way, it must have been the maid—the one he defended." 

The small betting group looks over at the commotion, and sure enough, Amber is attached to Aleksi at the hip—grinning at him—admiration clear in her eyes. 

There is a collective hum of agreement, and I smile to myself. 

Before I have a chance to think better of it, I lean over slightly toward the betting group and open my mouth.

"Put me down for that." 

They nod, convinced.