Chapter Five – What Everyone Knows

The moment Eva re-entered the ballroom, it was as though the air itself grew heavier, more watchful. The music still murmured from the strings and keys. Laughter still trilled from painted lips. Yet something subtle had shifted. A chill, perhaps, or the sense that some unspoken truth now rippled just beneath the surface, unseen but unmistakable.

Her heart thudded, too loud, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Her skin prickled with the warmth of shame and something else—fear, perhaps. She moved along the perimeter, tray in hand, a quiet wraith bearing bloodwine, hoping to disappear once more into the folds of velvet and murmured conversation. But the Duke's absence clung to her like perfume—unshakable, and so too did the memory of that lifeless gaze in the corridor behind. Eyes that stared without sight. A silence more profound than stillness.

And then—Valeria saw her.

The Lady stood amidst a constellation of nobles near the dance floor, the very picture of indolent grace, her fingers curled around a golden goblet, crimson clinging to the rim like the remnant of a kiss. Their eyes met, and in that gaze was something colder than suspicion—something older. Recognition. A knowing flicker, precise and unblinking. Valeria's gaze shifted toward the hallway Eva had just emerged from, then back again. A slow smile curved her lips. It was not kind.

She began to walk, unhurried but inevitable, a dark star drawing others in her wake. Her gown whispered with each step, silk brushing against marble with a sound like secrets being kept. The crowd seemed to part for her without conscious thought, as if the very air bent to accommodate her passage. Within moments, she stood before Eva—far too close. The scent of lilies and something sharper lingered between them.

"Well," said Valeria, her voice low and silken, "back so soon?"

Eva inclined her head, carefully. "I was delivering wine, my lady."

Valeria's gaze swept over her, slow and assessing, as though she were some curious blemish on a favored tapestry. "How dutiful," she murmured. "And yet… your expression suggests something far more diverting. A secret, perhaps. Or an indiscretion."

Behind her, a ripple of laughter. A maid stifled a grin. Another—braver or more foolish—looked faintly envious.

Eva took a step to the side, seeking to continue her rounds and escape this scrutiny, but Valeria moved as well, a mirror held up to her flight, graceful and merciless.

"Oh, come now," the Lady murmured, her tone sweetened with disdain. "We all know what occurs behind closed doors. Some girls even beg for the opportunity. A touch of power. A taste of them."

The implication landed with all the subtlety of a blade. Eva's cheeks flamed.

Valeria leaned closer, her breath cold against Eva's ear. "Be wary, little one. You are not the first to mistake his attention for affection. Nor the first to bleed for it."

Then, without waiting for reply, she turned and melted back into the crowd. Her laughter lingered behind her like a ribbon caught on thorns.

Eva stood motionless. The world moved around her—glittering chandeliers, spinning dancers, fluted laughter, and the low murmur of music—but none of it touched her. The echo of that voice, that warning, throbbed in her skull like a wound.

And no one—not one soul—came to her aid.

---

She fled down the servant's corridor, her steps unsteady, breath catching in her throat like a caught bird. The hush of the narrow passage was a balm and a burden—cool against her fevered skin, but pressing in close from all sides. She leaned briefly against the wall, tray forgotten, and closed her eyes.

"You must learn to be more cautious."

The voice was low, certain, and sent a jolt through her spine.

The head cook emerged from the gloom with the quiet authority of one who had seen too much and forgotten nothing. She was tall and angular, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to reflect candlelight even when none was present. Her apron was immaculate, though she had worked for hours, and her arms were crossed with the stern patience of someone who had waited long enough.

"I don't understand," Eva began, though even she heard the brittleness in her own voice.

"Don't insult my intelligence," She said, with no malice but no kindness either. "Valeria saw you. Everyone did. You stumble back into the light looking as though you've seen a spectre, and His Grace is nowhere to be found. You may not have said a word, but you've already spoken volumes."

"I didn't do anything," Eva whispered, the words weak even as they left her lips.

"You exist," came the flat reply. "And worse—you're young, and prettier than most. That alone is a threat."

Eva looked down at her hands, unsure what to say.

"I've seen this before," , her tone softening just slightly. "Girls like you. Fresh-faced, careful with your steps, but not careful enough. You draw attention without trying. That's the most dangerous kind. Valeria does not share. Not affection. Not loyalty. And certainly not him."

"I didn't ask for anything," Eva murmured.

"I know. But truth holds little weight here. Perception is currency, and you, child, have already been purchased."

The cook stepped closer, lowering her voice to something barely above breath. "Keep your head down. Keep your scent clean. And above all—do not let them see fear. They crave it. They feed from it."

Eva nodded, stiffly, the truth of the warning settling like dust in her lungs.

"You've no allies here," The cook added, turning to go. "Not unless you make them. And you'll want to do so swiftly."

She was gone a moment later, swallowed by shadow.

And in that silence, Eva realized the true shape of Blackthorn Manor.

It did not simply consume the girls who entered its halls.

It seduced them into smiling while it did so.