HER
"It's not your fault."
For the millionth time this week, the words clang around my head. Does he mean that? He seemed so sincere, so honest when he said it. How long had I wanted to hear those exact words?
I blame his tendency to say exactly what I want to hear for what happened right after that—something I've been avoiding thinking about since it happened. Even forming the thought makes me go the most egregious shade of red, and my stomach turns over.
I… I thought about kissing him.
No. I didn't. Not possible.
I hit my forehead against the wall, which, thankfully, draws no stares since I'm in my room. Earlier in the week, I must have scared the maids to no end, randomly covering my face with my hands and smacking my forehead. I press myself closer to the wall, only stopping when I feel my head start to ache.
I groan, pushing off and pacing around the small space.
Alright, let's think about this logically.
He was saying things I wanted to hear. He was closer than he should have been. My emotions were running high. That's why the thought crossed my mind. That's why my eyes wandered to his mouth.
His mouth.
No. Stop. Logically, it's because he was too close.
That's it.
Except I can still feel the heat of his hand on my waist. I remember, in perfect detail, the way his throat worked as he talked. My brain has cataloged the moment in the utmost clarity—an unwelcome gift.
I come to a stop in the middle of the floor.
It was a moment of madness brought on by his proximity and what he was saying. Nothing else.
I straighten my spine, willing the blush out of my face. Case closed.
—
This proves easier said than done. Aleksi is sitting directly across from me in the servants' hall tonight and he seems to want to catch my eye. I force my breathing to stay even, but I can feel heat threatening to show on my face. I try to focus on the conversations around me as a distraction.
"I could try…" Amber says hesitantly to Elliot. I missed the beginning of their conversation.
"Try what?" I inquire, my voice a little too high to be casual. I clear my throat, embarrassed.
"Oh!" Elliot smiles, turning to me. "It seems I've outgrown my current livery, but the next size up is too big. I was asking if Amber or Grace could adjust it for me."
The girls nod, looking distressed.
"I mean, it would be good practice for us…" Grace lowers her voice to a whisper, "but if we mess up we don't want Mr. Stephens to get mad at us. Or you." She glances at Elliot.
I'm only half-listening, nodding distractedly. Aleksi is flat-out staring at me now, and I nearly jump out of my skin as I feel his boot nudge my foot under the table, trying to get my attention.
"I'll do it!" I squeak, yanking my foot back.
My declaration was a little loud, and the whole table is looking at me. I swallow, lowering my voice.
"I'll do it, Elliot. It shouldn't be too hard—after all, I completely redid Aleksi's."
I freeze when their jaws drop. I run over what I just said in my head and scramble to find a reason for their surprise.
Amber and Grace grab each other like schoolgirls, eyes alight. Elliot is a fierce shade of pink. I look to Aleksi, desperate for an explanation, or some normalcy, but am sorely disappointed.
His eyebrows are raised, mouth parted in shock. And, strangest of all, his ears and cheeks are noticeably tinged pink.
"That was you?" Amber squeals, and everything suddenly clicks.
Oh no.
I'm suddenly being pelted with questions from every angle, my head spinning.
"How did you manage it?"
"Why did you do it?"
"How sweet!"
I seriously start contemplating hiding under the table. Thankfully, I'm saved by Mr. Stephens loudly clearing his throat.
"I'm sure she just did it to maintain the dignity of this house." He looks at me expectantly.
I nod, eager to end this particularly embarrassing conversation. Mr. Stephens nods with finality and goes back to eating, everyone quiet.
I stare dutifully at my plate, unwilling to look around and see the obvious curiosity on everyone's faces. The heat that was only a threat earlier is now out in full force on my face, and I wish more than anything for a wall to slam my head against.
—
In times of crisis, I throw myself into work. Unfortunately, I'm currently out of tasks. Which is how I end up in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and fruit for tomorrow.
Mrs. Kozlov luckily speaks almost no Anglorian, and I speak no Slavokranian, so I get no questions from her. Unluckily, the staff deemed it necessary to set up chairs in the kitchen so they could keep me company—a thinly veiled excuse to pelt me with questions.
They're disappointed when I answer them with clinical seriousness, so they resort to gossiping amongst themselves about the upcoming season.
"I read in the society papers that this year's season will be the best one yet."
"I heard that too! There are so many prominent noble ladies coming of age this year, it's bound to create a lot of matches."
"And scandal!"
A round of giggles echoes around the room.
"That too! What about the men?"
"I heard there are a few young Lords looking for matches…"
"Do you think Lady Anna will marry a Lord?"
At this, Amber scoffs. She leans further in and lowers her voice.
"I think Lady Anna is beautiful enough to marry higher than that."
The others lean in too, enraptured.
"I've heard rumors that the Duke of Aston is looking for a wife this year!"
The Duke of Aston.
The name clangs around my head like a death knell.
Amber's voice slowly fades out, distorting into something not human. Pain lances through me, like an aftershock.
I feel detached from my own body, hovering above the room like a ghost.
The Duke of Aston.
My stomach twists and bile forces its way up my throat. All my muscles tense to the point of pain. I dimly notice a prick of pain from my right hand, but everything feels so far away.
All I can hear is the roar of my own blood.
I see red.
Not real. It's not real.
I squeeze my eyes closed. But this only succeeds in making the memories more vivid as they pelt me.
"Laura," a velvety voice calls.
"Laura." Deep. Chilling.
"Laura!" This shatters the memory because it isn't a smooth, male voice, but rather a high, squeaky cry of alarm. I look at Amber, somehow across the room from where I last remember her being. She's right in front of me, flapping her hands frantically.
Mrs. Kozlov breaks me out of my trance by putting her face right in front of mine, speaking worriedly in Slovakranian. My head is spinning.
I finally look where they're gesturing and see it.
My fist is tight on the knife, knuckles white with the force of my grip.
Oh.
I force my hand to relax, and the knife comes clattering down to the table top, covered in an all-too-familiar red.
Blood is slowly pooling in the cradle of my right hand, dripping from the gash on my palm.