Page 20 of Maid For The Dark Elf

ROSALIE

Islip through the servants' entrance, the wicker basket heavy against my hip. The morning market provided perfect cover—fresh bread still warm beneath the linen cloth, early spring vegetables that will satisfy Cook's scrutiny, and most importantly, witnesses who saw me haggling over turnip prices while Lady Ardyn believes I was there all along.

The kitchen bustles with its usual controlled chaos, but something feels different. Sharp. The zagfer servants move with jerky efficiency, their normally smooth coordination fractured by nervous energy. Even Cook's perpetual scowl carries extra venom as she directs the preparation of Lady Ardyn's midday meal.

"About time you returned," Jen hisses as I set the basket on the worn wooden counter. Her dark elf features twist with familiar disdain. "Her ladyship has been asking for you every quarter hour."

"I told everyone I was visiting the market early." I begin unpacking vegetables with deliberate calm. "The crowds grow unbearable after midmorning."

"Well, she's been pacing her chambers like a caged beast." Jen's violet eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction. "Snapping at everyone who dares approach."

The contrast hits me like cold water against heated skin. Just hours ago, I sat at a table where family members teased each other with genuine affection, where Lord Maltheris adjusted his spectacles with patient amusement while his children debated investigation strategies, where Lady Seralyth poured tea as though each cup contained liquid grace itself.

Here, servants whisper behind cupped hands, their conversations dying the moment anyone approaches. The very air thrums with suspicion and barely contained anxiety.

"Has anyone heard from Lord Ardyn?" I ask carefully, testing the waters.

The kitchen falls silent except for the gentle bubbling of soup over the fire. Cook's wooden spoon freezes mid-stir.

"Not our place to ask such questions," she mutters finally, but her weathered hands tremble slightly.

At House Vaerith, even the youngest sibling spoke freely about matters of importance. Nerina declined marriage proposals with gentle humor while her family offered support. Aurelia shared gossip that helped their investigation while her brothers listened with respect rather than dismissal.

The servants here exist in a state of perpetual wariness, each wondering if speaking the wrong words might cost them their position—or worse.

"Rosalie!" Lady Ardyn's voice cuts through the kitchen like a hot knife through silk. "Attend me immediately!"

I hurry through corridors that feel narrower than they did this morning, past portraits of stern-faced Ardyn ancestors whose painted eyes seem to follow my movements with judgment. The floating mage-lights that illuminate the hallways flicker erratically, responding to the household's collective unease.

Lady Ardyn's chambers reflect her deteriorating composure. Gowns lie draped across chairs in careless heaps, jewelry scattered across her dressing table like fallen stars, and the usually pristine space bears the marks of someone who no longer cares about maintaining perfect appearances.

She stands before her mirror, platinum hair hanging loose around her shoulders instead of arranged in its customary elaborate style. Her lavender eyes meet mine in the reflection, and I see something that makes my chest constrict with unexpected sympathy—raw, desperate fear barely contained beneath noble pride.

"Where have you been?" The accusation carries less venom than usual, replaced by something that sounds almost like pleading.

"The market, my lady. For Cook's requirements."

"The market." She turns from the mirror, her obsidian skin pale with stress. "Of course. Always the dutiful servant, aren't you, Rosalie?"

The words sting because they carry truth I've never acknowledged—even while helping House Vaerith investigate her husband's disappearance, part of me remains loyal to the woman who has made my life difficult.

"Is there something specific you need, my lady?"

"I need—" She stops, her composed mask cracking slightly. "I need my husband to come home."

I smooth my hands over the worn blue fabric of my dress for the third time, wishing the threadbare patches near the hem would somehow vanish. The starlight theme transforms House Vaerith's ballroom into something beyond mortal imagination—crystalline chandeliers suspended like captured constellations, silver ribbons of light dancing across midnight-blue walls, and enchanted flowers that pulse with gentle luminescence scattered throughout the space.

Lady Ardyn glides ahead of me, her emerald gown embroidered with golden phoenixes catching the magical starlight until she seems to burn with inner fire. I follow three respectful steps behind, acutely aware that my simple dress marks me as clearly as a brand.

The assembled nobility sparkles like jewels against velvet. Dark elf ladies wear gowns that shift color with each movement, their platinum hair adorned with diamonds that mirror the enchanted ceiling. Lords sport doublets threaded with actual silver, their obsidian skin gleaming beneath the ethereal light.

I fade into the background like a shadow at dawn.

Lady Ardyn settles near a cluster of House Ardyn's extended family, her sharp lavender eyes scanning for political advantage even while maintaining her smile. I position myself within earshot but far enough away to remain invisible—a skill perfected through years of necessity.

Across the room, Aurelia commands attention with effortless grace, her sapphire gown flowing like liquid starlight as she moves between conversational groups. Her hair catches the magical illumination, creating a halo effect that makes her appear almost divine.

"The succession question grows more pressing each day," she says to Lord Darius Ardyn, Aethan's cousin, her voice carrying just enough concern to seem genuine. "Surely Lord Aethan mentioned his intentions before departing on Crown business?"