The next morning arrived damp and gray, as if the storm from yesterday had seeped into the very bones of the manor.
Elowen rose before the bell, the chill air slipping under her sleeves as she dressed. Ruth was already gone from their shared chamber, her bed cold. In the corridor, the low hum of servants' steps echoed off the stone.
She had barely tied her apron when Mr. Crowhurst appeared at the end of the hall. His eyes found her immediately, and he beckoned her with two sharp fingers.
"You'll be working in the blue receiving room today," he announced without preamble. "The one adjacent to the Lord's study."
Elowen blinked. "Sir?"
His look silenced her.
"For the Lady's arrival. The other Lady," he clarified grimly. "That room needs to be immaculate. She'll likely use it first. You're trusted to keep quiet. Don't linger near his study unless summoned."
With that, he turned on his heel and left.
The other Lady.
The rumors from the scullery returned to her like a whisper at her nape. She had no name still, but everyone spoke of her like a ghost about to walk again.
Elowen made her way to the blue receiving room, heart thudding quietly in her chest.
The room was delicate, dustless—but not warm. Pale blue drapes hung heavy by tall windows, and the rug beneath her shoes was thick enough to swallow footfalls. A single mirror hung on the wall opposite the hearth, ornate and high enough to reflect only one's upper face.
She dusted every surface twice, polished the brass handles on the tea trolley, and fluffed the velvet cushions until her fingers were sore.
All the while, she felt it—that subtle tension in the walls. The manor was holding its breath.
By mid-morning, she was still alone in the room when the door creaked open.
She turned quickly, smoothing her apron.
It was Mr. Crowhurst again, his brow damp with effort. "Change of task. The Lord requests tea in his chamber. You're to bring it up immediately."
Elowen's stomach dipped. "Alone?"
"Of course alone," he snapped. "Do you think he's asked for a parade?"
Her hands itched as she filled the tray: polished silver teapot, a single porcelain cup, two biscuits on a linen napkin. No sugar. No cream.
She made her way up the stairs, slow and careful, the tray trembling slightly despite her efforts to stay steady.
The upper floor of the manor was quieter, more insulated from the servant bustle below. She had never been to Lord Aramis's personal chambers.
The hall before his door was long and lined with pale oil paintings—half-shadowed faces and forested manors.
She paused at the carved wooden door, heart pounding, and knocked.
A beat. Then:
"Enter."
His voice was clear. Measured.
She pushed the door open.
Lord Aramis stood by the window, back turned to her, hands clasped behind him. He wore a long dark coat, even indoors, and his hair was just slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it once too many.
The room smelled faintly of paper and cedar smoke. A low fire burned in the hearth, giving the paneled walls a golden sheen.
"Set it there," he said, without looking at her.
She crossed to the table and placed the tray gently down, every motion precise.
As she turned to leave, his voice stopped her.
"Did you enjoy the rain yesterday?"
Elowen froze.
"I... didn't mind it, my Lord."
He turned, finally. His eyes settled on her face. She couldn't read them—too pale, too sharp.
"You looked out the window for quite some time before returning to your quarters," he said casually, as if speaking of the weather.
"I apologize. I didn't mean to idle—"
"I didn't say you did."
She swallowed.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thin and taut.
Then he reached for the cup and took a slow sip. His gaze didn't leave hers.
"You may go."
She curtsied. "Yes, my Lord."
And fled.
The air in the hallway felt colder now.
She returned to the scullery in time to catch Ruth passing by with a basket of folded linens.
"He spoke to you?" Ruth hissed, eyes wide.
Elowen only nodded.
"And you're still breathing?"
That drew a small laugh from Elowen, though it trembled on the way out.
Before she could say more, a bell rang sharply from above—the breakfast bell.
Ruth groaned. "You're assigned, right?"
Elowen sighed. "Yes."
"God be with you."
The breakfast salon was bright but cold, lit by tall windows and a chandelier whose crystals tinkled faintly every time a draft passed through.
Elowen entered with the tea tray first.
Lady Honoria sat stiffly at the head of the table, spine straight as a blade. Her hair had not a strand out of place.
Beside her lounged Celeste, curled like a cat in a too-large chair, stirring her tea with a look of utter boredom.
Two other footmen brought in dishes—soft poached eggs, grilled bread, sweet preserves.
Elowen kept her eyes down as she poured.
"Your hands don't tremble like the others," Lady Honoria observed.
Elowen blinked, not daring to reply.
"You're new," the Lady went on. "I remember every face I tolerate. Yours is not one of them."
Celeste giggled.
"She's the one who brought him tea," Celeste whispered in amusement. "I heard Cook say so. How bold. Or stupid."
"Stupidity and bravery often look alike in the lowborn," Lady Honoria said coolly. "You may go, girl."
Elowen left the tray and bowed herself out. The moment the door shut behind her, her lungs unlocked.
She'd barely taken two steps down the hall when a hush fell over the corridor.
A servant scurried past her, arms full of furs. Another followed with a bag.
Then the front doors creaked open.
Elowen turned.
The air shifted.
And there she was.
The new arrival.
She stepped through the threshold slowly, removing her hood as the light hit her face. Her hair was black as ravens' wings, pinned in a low coil. Her lips were dark red. Her posture was flawless.
But it was her eyes that stunned Elowen.
Dark. Slow. Calculating.
And wholly unafraid.
She carried no bags herself—others scrambled behind her with trunks and hatboxes—but she walked like someone who owned every brick of the manor.
Lady Honoria appeared suddenly at the top of the staircase, her face an unreadable mask.
The new Lady looked up.
Neither spoke.
But Elowen felt the tension crackle in the air like the first strike of lightning.
The unnamed Lady smiled—barely—and swept her gaze over the entrance hall.
Then her eyes landed on Elowen.
They held there.
As if she already knew her.