A part of her knew she should ring the bell. Someone would come, smiling and obliging, and she would thank them for it.
If she were to live in this house, she would not begin by summoning people. She would not be another master, another inconvenience. She would not become like Halverton, someone who barely even registered the servants’ existence. She would continue to see them as people worth her time and respect.
It was one thing for Halverton to manipulate her and deny her agency. It was quite another for the footman to tell her where she could and could not go. She would not spend her life trapped in a house where she did not know every passage, everyroom, and every person who lived there. Besides, knowing how to move unseen could be useful.
The moment she rounded the corner out of sight, she stopped and pressed herself lightly against the wall, listening.
“For the last time, James, if you wind it too tight, you’ll break the spring.”
“I wasn’t—”
“And what were you thinking talking to Miss Aoife like that?” the butler snapped, low and full of fury.
“She’s an Morran peasant. I can talk to her however I like.”
“She will soon be lady of this house. I suggest you adapt to that reality quickly. If Lord Halverton were to hear of this, you’d be out on the streets before the dinner gong. Have I made myself clear?”
There was a beat of silence, then a defeated sigh. “Yes, Mr Lanyon, perfectly clear.”
“Good. I hope this is the last time we will speak on this matter,” the butler said crisply. “Now get back to work. And if any of the clocks are damaged, it’ll be coming out of your wages.”
Footsteps approached, brisk and confident.
Aoife’s pulse leapt. He was coming her way.
She slipped sideways into the nearest room, easing the door enough to leave a narrow gap. She held it with her fingertips, not letting the latch click.
The butler swept past, his shoes whispering over the carpet.
The moment he turned the next corner, Aoife slipped into the corridor and followed at a careful distance.
He stopped abruptly in front of an unremarkable stretch of wall. There was nothing distinctive about it at all, just the same wood panelling as the rest.
Aoife frowned.
The butler pressed his palm flat against a knot in the wood. A soft click sounded, and a narrow door swung outward.
Aoife’s breath caught.
He stepped through without hesitation.
As the hidden door drifted closed, Aoife darted forward and slid her hand between the frame and the panel. The wood pressed against her fingers, but she held it. Then, with one swift motion, she slipped inside after him.
Chapter 9
The grandeur ended abruptly. The passage beyond was low and narrow, the walls bare stone blackened by soot. Heat and steam filled the air, thick enough to taste. She followed the sound of voices and found herself in the servants’ hall.
A long trestle table stretched the length of the room, shelves heavy with copper pots and drying herbs. Strings of onions hung above the hearth. The stone floor was worn smooth by generations of feet. It looked more like the homes she knew: plain, practical, and alive.
The servants’ hall was empty, but through an open doorway came the clatter of pots and voices. Aoife stepped into the kitchen. The soft, cheerful chatter stopped abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was—”
Then a familiar voice spoke. “Is there something you need, miss?”
Clara stepped out from the back of the group. Aoife’s relief was immediate.
“I need my things.”
