He is a man who is utterly unbefitting to be in the company of a lady.
She is a girl who is utterly unbefitting to be in the company of a mass murderer.
Yet when she extended her hand, he took it. It is the smallest hand he has ever seen, and her skin is pale and smooth, like porcelain, but pulsing with warmth. He wraps his own hand around hers like a glove and the warmth spreads like wildfire, and roughly, he squeezes their hands together — but not too rough; he knows he must be careful with this porcelain hand.
For it belongs to a porcelain girl, and she has been entrusted to his care, so he must never let her break. Though there is something about this little girl — even if he hadn't pledged to protect her, he knows he would have anyway — he would have watched over her, watched to be sure no cracks appeared in her porcelain shell, because if she broke, he surely would too.
She is not suited for him, he knows. She is suited for elaborate, elegant dresses with trims that dangle dangerously near to her feet, but always will she step around them, never stumbling, never falling. She is suited for quiet afternoons in a garden full of roses and lilacs, and she will sit beneath an ash tree with a tea cup clutched in her hands, the picture of a perfect young lady.
However — he chuckles — that picture is flawed; this perfect young lady has flaws of her own. He's seen her slip out of her porcelain shell for a day and yell, scream, and fall down crying in a completely unladylike manner. Of all the servants, only he knows the little girl beneath the porcelain doll, and he is always there to soothe her, comfort her, and slip the ladylike covering back onto her shoulders.
He is utterly unbefitting to be her servant, her trustee — she is utterly unbefitting to be his dearest, his mistress — but hand in hand, they walk together, away from the whisperings of a social crowd.
Where they are walking is something neither of them know. Times lies crumpled in their path, and he crosses it with one stride, then carefully lifts her up to step across it. Faces bob along; faces of friends and dear family, but the faces are floating away in the opposite direction, and they do not follow them.
The lights along the path are dimming and the two, lady and servant, are wrapped in dull darkness. But her warmth still radiates from where their hands have met, and she lifts her face up to him. He knows she is smiling, even in this darkness, and she says, "I'm not afraid."
In one fluid movement, he bends to kiss her hand. Like a gentleman would do, though they both know he is no such thing. "Then," he says, his voice rough and cracked, "shall we go together?"
They leave the lights, the people, the faces, the time, all behind them, and they walk — matching each other's pace perfectly — into the night.