“You say it’s just a name,” Clara went on, “but every time you obey it, you make yourself smaller. You teach your own ear to forget who you were before you worked in their house. And after long enough…” she swallowed. “You forget.”
Alton nodded once, eyes lowered. “Most of us never hear our real names anymore.”
Clara’s fingers curled slightly.
“You looked Halverton in the eye and said your name mattered. And then, afterwards, you asked for ours. Do you know how long it’s been since anyone thought we might want them?”
Her expression flickered between embarrassment and pride.
“It wasn’t grand,” she said. “And it wasn’t loud. But it reminded us that we haven’t vanished. That we’re still people beneath all this.”
Aoife let out a slow breath. “I’m… glad, truly, if I could give you even that much.” Her voice wavered. “But it doesn’t change anything now, does it? Not really.”
“It does,” Alton said.
She shook her head. “Not enough.”
“It’s not just the names,” he said, stepping forward a little. “It’s the way you stood up to him. The way you put yourself between Halverton and your father without hesitating.”
Aoife flinched as if struck. “Don’t admire me for that.”
Alton frowned. “Why not?”
“Because yesterday,” she said, voice cracking, “when it mattered most, I failed.”
Aoife had played it out over and over in her head: what she could have, should have done differently. What had seemed like the right choices at the time now appeared to be the worst decisions she’d ever made.
“I had a chance to stand between Halverton and Cormac, and I didn’t.”
Clara opened her mouth, but Aoife pushed on, shaking.
“I’m the one who told him to whip Cormac. Me. If you’re looking for courage, you won’t find it here.”
Silence settled, sharp as glass.
Alton didn’t look away.
“You did what no one else dared when you stood between Halverton and your father, Aoife.” Alton’s voice stayed low, steady, matter-of-fact, the voice of a man who had lived a long time in fear. “You were struck down for it. Anyone would hesitate after that. It’s how people survive in this house.”
Aoife’s breath caught. “Exactly. That’s exactly the point.” She pressed a trembling hand to her temple. “He’s succeeded in shaping me into someone else.”
Neither servant spoke.
“I knew he’d try,” she whispered. “I expected it. He changed my clothes, my posture, the way I speak. I let him change those things because they didn’t matter.” Her voice cracked. “But yesterday… when Cormac was on his knees… I did nothing to stop him. I played the lady, the dutiful fiancée.”
Her gaze dropped, shame hollowing her tone.
“I swore he’d never get into my head. I swore he’d never change me. But he did.”
Clara took a half-step closer, but Aoife shook her head sharply.
“He’s won, and I have nothing left.”
Alton didn’t argue. He simply absorbed her words quietly, painfully, with understanding.
Aoife wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, angry at herself for crying at all. “He’s won. Don’t you see? Whatever fight I had, he’s taken it. And I can’t even face him without shaking.”
Clara exchanged a look with Alton, one that wasn’t pity but recognition.
