“Is something the matter?” Aoife asked.
“Mrs Harrow told me to light it, miss.”
Aoife nodded. “Right.” Everyone was playing their roles here; she didn’t want to get the girl into trouble. “Of course you should light it in that case.”
The girl smiled faintly, relieved, and bent to her work.
Aoife hadn’t slept well. The bed was too big; the silence too deep. At home she had slept pressed between her brother and sister, their warmth and breathing a comfort. Here, the sheets were cold, and the space beside her was empty.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the Athraith. If it was an omen, surely it was meant for her. After all, she’d seen it twice now. But what was it trying to say? That she was in danger here? She already knew. Or was it something else, something she couldn’t yet understand?
When the fire caught, the maid straightened, smoothing her apron, eyes on the floor.
“Thank you.” Aoife smiled. “It’s Pansy, isn’t it?”
The girl shot a look at Aoife but quickly cast her eyes down again. “Yes, miss.”
“Well, thank you, Pansy. It was my job to tend the fire at home, and in my father’s forge sometimes too. I found lighting it to be the fun part. I hated clearing out the ashes.”
Pansy was silent for several seconds. “Yes, miss.”
It was clear Aoife wouldn’t be getting conversation out of the girl. “I’m sure you have other fires to tend to.
Pansy bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss. I’ll let Clara know you’re awake, miss,” she said, and scurried out.
Clara arrived not long after, carrying an armful of dresses. Three were already finished.
“You must have worked all night,” Aoife said, astonished.
Clara smiled, faintly proud. “Mrs Harrow helped a little. We wanted you to have a proper dress to wear for breakfast.”
As Clara helped her into the dress, Aoife couldn’t help asking the question that had been nagging at her. “Whose dresses are these?”
Clara froze in her movements. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to say.”
“I’m not sure how anyone would ever find out you did.”
Clara looked Aoife in the eyes, deciding whether she could trust her. “Before he came here,” Clara said at last, “Lord Halverton had a fiancée. I believe the dresses were hers.” Clara returned to her work.
Aoife thought of Halverton’s slip of the tongue the day before. “Was her name Florence?”
Clara looked up at her sharply. “How could you know that?”
“He let it slip yesterday.”
Clara breathed a sigh. “Don’t let him hear you say her name. He won’t like it.”
“Why?”
“It was before my time. I couldn’t say.”
Aoife studied her. The way she avoided meeting Aoife’s eye wasn’t just concentration on her work. “You know something, don’t you?”
Clara sighed.
Aoife softened. “I’d like to know what I’m getting into.”
Clara hesitated. “The way I heard it, the move here was a demotion. Florence ran before the ink was dry on the transfer. Now that’s all I know, so don’t ask.”
