“Morning, miss,” she murmured, setting the box on the table. “We should start. Lord Halverton will send for you early.”
Clara lifted the lid. Sunlight struck silk the colour of a midsummer meadow and threaded with cheerful flowers.
Aoife recoiled. “I’m not wearing that.”
Clara paused, hands stilling on the fabric. “Lord Halverton requested this dress in particular. He’ll take it as an insult if you don’t wear it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Aoife sank onto the edge of the bed. “Nothing I do matters.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth. I was an idiot. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could change him. I thought I could save my people. And now Cormac will pay for my arrogance.”
Clara straightened at that. “I’m certain Cormac wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”
“Who should I blame, then?” The words came sharp before Aoife could stop them. She ran a hand over her face, breath uneven. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“I understand.” Clara’s gaze dropped.
“Please don’t do that,” Aoife whispered, reaching for her hand. “Your friendship is about the only thing holding me together.”
Clara looked up, the maid’s mask slipping for a heartbeat. “Then, as your friend, I’m begging you to wear this dress. Think of what he’ll do if you don’t.”
“I can’t.” Aoife shook her head. “And I won’t. There’s nothing more he can do to me. I’m never going to see my friends or family again. They’ll likely all be dead before winter’s out.” The words tasted like ash.
Aoife’s insistence landed heavily between them, and Clara’s mouth tightened.
“You think you’ve failed because Lord Halverton won’t change,” Clara said softly. “But you’ve already changed things here.”
Aoife gave a brittle laugh. “I haven’t changed anything. Certainly not you.”
Clara hesitated, then set the bright gown aside with deliberate care. Without explanation, she slipped out the door.
Aoife sat perfectly still. The room hummed with her heartbeat. She tried to steady her breathing, but every exhale shook.
When the door opened again, Clara wasn’t alone. Alton stood behind her.
Aoife rose. “Is something wrong?”
Alton stepped inside, closing the door before speaking. “Clara told me you don’t think you’ve changed anything here.”
Aoife gave the slightest nod.
He took a breath, considering his next words. “I’ve been afraid in this house a long time.” He met her eyes, and for once there was no pretence between them. “All of us have. But when he brought you through those doors, you looked right at me. Not through me. And when he called you the wrong name, you lifted your chin and corrected him.”
Heat rose in her face. “That was hardly brave.”
“In this place, it is,” Alton said. “You don’t know how rare what you did was. There’s not one Morran member of staff who’s allowed to use their own name. The Eldrossi change them to their liking, and there’s not a one of us dared to contradict them. But you did.”
Aoife deflated. “It’s just a name.”
Clara touched her arm, shaking her head. “It’s not.”
Aoife looked between them, uncertain.
Clara drew a breath, choosing her words with care. “When they take your name, they take the first thing you ever owned. The first gift your family gave you. It’s the word your mother whispered to you when you were new in the world. And then one day a stranger decides it’s inconvenient on their tongue and tells you to answer to something else.”
Her voice stayed soft, a steely strength threaded through it.
