I barely notice what happened. How Bianca helped me into a chair in Duke's room, how the sobs and words tumbled out, telling of my pain and misery of missing my little sister. Of missing the life I would've had if I hadn't come to this damned castle.

Duke offered me a free handkerchief without question, but I wasn't given much time to process my emotions, my thoughts; because Helga came in minutes later upon hearing our return, and spoke of Lady Dimitrescu requesting my company. Without argument – though Gretta did try to convince the housekeeper to let me have at least another minute – I dried my tears, squared my shoulders, and forced myself to leave the room.

Walking down the familiar hallway to her room, I breath through my nose, and out through my mouth – over and over until I'm sure my heart has calmed.

Though it is a wasted effort when I step through the doorway into the Mistress's private chambers.

And find Lady Dimitrescu sitting at her vanity.

Nadine at her side.

The image itself is enough to drain the sorrow from me like melting snow, especially with Lady Dimitrescu facing the door, waiting for me.

Her hat is gone, her hair flowing freely in relaxed curls down her back, though her pearl earrings are still in place. She wears a gown of deep royal blue that falls off her shoulders, the sleeves puffing before slimming down to her wrists.

Nadine wears her usual homespun style dress – the color a deep terra cotta, a perfect combination to trick the eyes into seeing brown or red. Her chocolate-colored hair is pinned half up, falling pin-needle straight over her shoulders.

"Well, come in dear. Come in." Lady Dimitrescu motions to me.

"You summoned for me, My Lady?" I say as I bow my head low and give a deep curtsey, despite still wearing pants, and my daggers.

"Yes dear," she purrs, but I can hear her tone laced with a sharpened temper. She lifts her head, and those golden eyes bore into my soul. "Has Helga informed you of my missing lipstick?"

"Yes, My Lady, she did." How my voice remains steady, I have no idea.

"And did she mention how expensive it is?"

Oh, no . . . No.

"Yes."

Her forefinger taps the top of her vanity, her curving nail mimicking that of a talon. "And did she make it clear to return it to my bathroom, should anyone ever come across it?"

I take a breath, but it quivers. "Yes, My Lady."

Another tap. Tap. Tap.

"Then could you please explain why Nadine happened to find it in your bathroom?"

"Why was Nadine even in my bathroom," I grit, turning my gaze to the maid. Certainly not my smartest retort, but I am treading a dangerous line of emotions.

This betrayal . . . what did I ever do to her? I've been nothing but cordial to her; I've never bothered her, even protected her to the best of my abilities. Did Kathryn say something to get her to turn on me?

Nadine says, "I stopped by to see how you were faring; you room was rather messy, so I decided to straighten it up, and I happen to stumble across it."

The words are too smooth, her face too neutral.

Lies. All of it – fucking lies!

But Nadine stands with a spine of steel, a pinch of color washing over her cheeks – as if being in the Mistress's very presence warmed her core.

There is no fear in eyes. Only admiration, and purpose.

"You had no right to go into my room. To go through my stuff." I seethe, taking a bold – or foolish – step closer.

Lady Dimitrescu interjects, "Are you admitting to having it in your possession, Erika?"

I fist my hands in an attempt to control my trembling body – provide some kind of stabilization; relying on my anger at Nadine to drown my fear.

I turn and face Lady Dimitrescu. "No, My Lady. I did not steal your lipstick. I would never."

"A rat will do anything for a free meal."

I don't know who she's trying to address, and neither does Nadine; for she almost seems insulted. Something like hurt flashing across her freckled features.

"My Lady, I promise you, I did not steal your lipstick. I wouldn't even have the time to steal it. I've been away all of last week, and my focus has been on the work provided by you and Lady Bela, despite her being . . . busy." Alcina delicately snorts, her face unreadable despite that venomous smile. "I was with Lady Cassandra all afternoon; perhaps she can vouch for me –"

Lady Dimitrescu lifts a leather-gloved hand. and my mouth clamps shut.

Silently, she stands from her seat, nearly blocking out Nadine. Two strides have her standing before me.

Standing over me.

With an unnervingly gentle hand on my shoulder, she guides me to stand a few feet before the vanity mirror.

My body is beginning to tremble, my breath rattling as I gaze at myself.

Will she force me to watch my own throat being slit?

"My Lady, please . . ." I begin to beg to her reflection, hands becoming clammy and quivering.

But her finger and thumb pinch my cheeks between them and lifts my head as much as my neck will allow.

And she begins to trace the lipstick across my lips.

"M-My –"

"Hush," she whispers. There is enough bite in it that I obey.

Nadine doesn't move from her spot; shock lining her features, anger evident in her white knuckles as she clasps her hands together at her front. Her crystalline eyes widening.

There's nothing I can do, so I endure the nerve-wrecking seconds of Lady Dimitrescu lining my lips in crimson.

I don't know what to think. And that's what scares me the most.

All I can do is shut my eyes and try to control my breathing.

I open my eyes when she's done – when I see her shadow move behind my closed lids. Blinking them open, I see my reflection, but my eyes are drawn to the bright color. Like a glowing ruby among desert sand, the rest of me so . . . plain.

It's astonishing what the simple cosmetic does to my features, my expression.

"I must say, that is a nice color on you." Lady Dimitrescu says as she rests her chin on the heel of her palm, the lipstick still between her fingers like one of her many cigarettes. "I can see why you took it."

I whirl around to face her. "My Lady, I didn't –!"

Again, she holds up her hand, and I close my mouth, careful not to smear the lipstick.

"I cannot tolerate such petty thievery in my castle, Erika." She sighs, her face a parody of disappointment, though lined with impish delight. Did she persuade Nadine to do this? "But since you've proven to be too valuable to kill, I suppose I'm just going to have to discipline you."

There's something . . . off about her tone. Almost as if she's, glad I am in trouble. That even though Nadine is lying – whether she sees it or not – she's delighted to be able to elicit punishment upon me.

I'm almost partial to choose death, as there are worse fates than it; proven within the stone walls of this castle.

I swallow thickly at the memory of her feasting on me during the blood oath – drunk on the taste of my blood, thrown into a feeding frenzy. Not better than a vulture to carrion.

"M-Mistress –" Nadine begins to interject.

"Quiet, wench." Lady Dimitrescu bites as she looks down at the maid, giving the girl as much attention as she would a gnat buzzing around her head. "This doesn't concern you."

Nadine, wisely, closes her mouth. But I can see the words trying to push their way out of her mouth, the protest – as her plan doesn't seem to be playing out as she thought.

I still don't know what that plan is, and since I've now ben guaranteed my life, I'm determined to find out once all this is over.

I just have to get through this punishment – that is, I'm hoping I can get through this punishment. Whatever it may be, my body will heal; and that's considering (or hoping) that she won't beat me to the point that I can't work.

I life my chin and square my shoulders, my body relaxing with the promise of another day to live. "What would you ask of me, My Lady?"

She ponders for a moment. Again, that venomous smile, that impish delight, lined with an unhinging wildness that can slit your throat as easily as promise knee-quivering pleasure.

She then gives a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes as if she's been left with little other choice. "I'm very old fashioned, my dear. You seemed to have learned your lesson from your previous punishment; or perhaps it only motivated you."

Something buoys in my chest – like a rock balancing on a balloon – torn between sinking and floating.

She hums with deadly delight as her finger, the nail still curling like a bird's talon, tucks a section of my hair behind my shoulder. I suppress a shiver.

"Luckily for you, I enjoy a challenge." She purrs.

Nadine seems to have gone white with rage, her lips thinning, but still refusing to disobey Lady Dimitrescu's orders.

I don't know whether to feel pity, or pride.

Lady Dimitrescu gives close-lipped laugh, then bends forward to speak to me like a small child. I avert my gaze of her cleavage.

She pinches my chin again, like before, and this time, I have to stiffen my body, resist the urge to step away, as I feel her tongue lick across my lips, tasting and smearing the lipstick.

She gives a moan, and I feel my core pulse and twitch. Perhaps it would've been enjoyable, were it not for the smell of blood and red wine on her breath. And because I have to fight every instinct that's been trained into me to get a person off of me.

Her tongue easily breaks past my lips, my mind still fearful of death at the slightest bit of resistance. Despite another pulse of pleasure from between my thighs, my nose curls as I feel her tongue trace along my teeth, tickle the tip of my own, and lick along the roof of my mouth.

She retracts as quickly as she began. Without a word, she turns and aims for a white and gold-decorated armoire. As she turns her back, I wipe me mouth, smearing the lipstick further.

I glimpse myself in the mirror and indeed find a faded red line now crossing diagonally across my lips.

I also see Nadine's reflection, and I turn and face her.

Oh, she is indeed angry. Though it's difficult for me to feel victorious since I'll still be given the punishment.

Only now, I don't know who it's intended for. Still, I ensure she sees the promising hell in my eyes. To her credit, she doesn't flinch.

Lady Dimitrescu's gown hisses against the rug as she circles me like a hungry lioness, turning to face Nadine.

"Nadine, dear, go stand against the wall." She orders, her tone casual. But her golden eyes are practically glowing.

Nadine follows without a word of objection.

My heart begins to race as she walks over to the far back wall, turning and facing us; her hands still folded at her front, fingers interlaced and knuckles white.

Movement out of the corner of my eye has me turning to find Lady Dimitrescu taking a seat on the couch by the balcony windows, parallel to the vanity. She crosses her legs, the skirt of her dress slipping to reveal her wearing a pair of polished black heels – their underside lined with red that matches her lipstick.

Tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, she utters, "Take off your pants."

I blink multiple times, baffled, and confused. Until I see something dangling from between her fingers.

What I first through to be her long, cigarette holder, is instead a riding crop.

My heart triples in speed, but my mind and body are still in shock, trying to process what the hell I'm looking at. Wondering – but assuming – what is about to happen.

I don't know how to feel about it. Especially with Nadine watching.

Lady Dimitrescu's smile wavers a bit, and she says in a stiffer tone, "Take off, your pants. Unless you'd rather I slice them off."

With possibly my legs, too. So I unbuckle my pants, as well as the belt of my daggers. I set them on the floor, unlacing my boots as well. I set them aside.

And I am standing before Lady Dimitrescu with only my underwear covering my most intimate part of me.

It's nothing spectacular; perhaps a bolder color than I'm used to, but still ordinary in most circumstances – a pale orange color that cuts up across my cheeks into a band around my waist. Even though she's already seen my most intimate area, already fucked it with her tongue, embarrassment abounds around me, and I feel my cheeks grow warm.

The Mistress gives a pleased smile. "Kneel."

I lower myself to the floor, sitting back on my ankles.

"Turn around."

I blink once. Twice, looking to her.

A muscle feathers in her jaw. "Turn. Around."

After a quick inhale, I comply; and I turn until only my rear is facing her – remaining on my hands and knees.

It feels weird wearing my jacket and shirt with only my underwear. They feel, dirtier in comparison. An odd thought that I cling to as I remember Nadine is still standing against the far wall, seeing me in such a deplorable state. But I also cling to that anger of her betrayal, hoping she's just as miserable I am.

I hear Lady Dimitrescu's gloved hand trace over the crop, hear it pat, pat, pat, against her palm. "Since last time's punishment seemed to go so well, Erika, we shall repeat it in hopes that you'll think better of your actions in the future."

I know better than to try and convince her otherwise. Or to try and disagree with her. I don't know what she's doing – either she believes Nadine, or she knows the maid is lying and is using it as an excuse anyway.

For what reasons . . . I don't entirely want to know.

That thought alone is enough to ice any arousal that was stirring within me, and focus my mind on the impending punishment.

I really just want to get this over with so that I can use the rest of the day's chores to try and forget about it.

"Ten smacks like before, Erika. You count, just like before, and it will be over with in no time. Let's hope that this time, you actually take away some discipline and manners."

I bite the inside of my cheek, stalling the words I want to say, and instead respond with, "Yes, My Lady."

I hear her run the crop through her hand one more time before the impending, suffocating silence.

I'm not given single notice, no time to take a preparing inhale before I feel the bite of the crop in my right cheek.

I grit my teeth and hiss, the shock stalling my yelp of pain and surprise.

"Go on, Erika." Lady Dimitrescu taunts, and I can see the shadow of the crop spinning between her fingers like a baton. "How many was that?"

I exhale slowly, letting my head dangle as I say, "One."

I risk a glance over my shoulder and see Lady Dimitrescu resting the leather loop against her chin – almost a contemplating expression.

I shift my gaze when she moves, and I can't help but clench when I feel the leather graze along the curve of my left cheek, the material cold. It makes the back of my thighs tingle as I feel her drift it further down, close to the apex of my thighs.

The tingling seems to follow the touch of the crop, leaving a trail of goosebumps until my clit shudders and my core clenches with anticipation.

To my mercy, she cracks it across my left cheek next.

"Two." I utter.

The sound of air whooshing behind me –

"Ow!" I'm unable to stop myself as she hits my left side seconds later. I take a few collective breaths before I say, "Three."

Lady Dimitrescu chuckles behind me, a delicate yet bold sound that both pities me, and enjoys my pain.

I gasp when I feel her trace the leather flap along the crack of my ass, tracing it down.

Down.

Down.

I flinch and yip when she taps the flap at the base of my sex. I pause, preparing and waiting for the next lashing that might very well make me collapse from pain.

A pause. Silence.

"Erika?" Lady Dimitrescu drawls, having already expected me to say something.

"F-Four?" I drawl, unsure of myself.

But another hit bites into my right cheek, inches from the first spot. The pain radiates, reactivating from the ripple of the new one, releasing a burning warmth that now dominates the center of the cheek.

I swallow. "Five."

"Good girl." She purrs. She's silent for a few heartbeats, and I resist the urge to look to her.

Instead, I look to Nadine. I can't tell if she looks more sick, or infuriated. Her jaw has hardened – no doubt she's gritting her teeth – and her gaze flicks to me, though her head remains still.

I allow her to see the hurt in my eyes, let her see just how deep her betrayal hurt. More so than even I had expected. But I also let my anger shine as well, as wild and ravaging as wildfire. And a promise that she will pay if I ever were to catch her after this.

The maid is wise to look away.

I gasp again, my whole back stiffening as I feel the cool leather of the flap press into the top knob of my spine. It traces down the entirety of my spine, causing another ripple of goosebumps, pebbling my nipples despite my shirt and leather jacket.

I hiss again as this time, Lady Dimitrescu whacks the crop across the back of my thigh. That stings more than just my ass, and I have to fiddle with my fingers until the pain passes.

Lady Dimitrescu allows it, the couch and her dress shuffling and groaning as she rises from her seat.

"Six." I utter.

I don't lift my head, but I follow the shining color of her dress as it comes around from my left to my front. The flap of the crop is under my chin, and my head is tilting up to look into her golden eyes.

That snakelike smile. She ever so gently pushes the fold of the flap into my lips, and my body instantly responds by opening my mouth and dangling my tongue. Lady Dimitrescu hums with pleasure, biting her lower lip as she drags the leather along it.

It tastes like, like leather. The smell infecting my nose and oddly comforting, in a way.

"That's a good girl." She breathes, continuing to circle around me until she is once again behind me.

Another crack, this one aimed perfectly between my cheeks, and I say, "Seven."

This time when I look to Nadine, I allow myself to play into the role of . . . whatever this is. And in let Nadine see my enjoyment – my pleasure as I am slowly picked apart like carrion. Only solidified as it seems Lady Dimitrescu seems to have completely forgotten her existence entirely.

The next hit has more force behind it, and my voice bursts from my throat in a cry that can only be described as pleasure and pain and surprise.

"Seven."

My ass is warm, near radiating, and my knees are starting to hurt from the thinness of the rug, the cold of the wood floors beginning to seep through until I have to rotate my wrists to get the blood flowing again.

"You're doing well, Erika. I'm impressed."

I swallow. "Thank you, My Lady."

She circles me once again, a quick pass around to see where she would like to strike me next. But then she pauses and I can sense her looking towards Nadine.

I angle my head to follow, and I look up in time to catch her eyes roam up and down the maid, observing her, assessing her . . . and seemingly not impressed. She gives a grunt of boredom, jerking her chin towards the door. "You may go."

Nadine blinks, as if she's coming back to her body and remembering where she is. "M-M-My Lady?"

"You may go, wench. I have no need for you anymore."

My heart is both light and heavy, my emotions wanting to celebrate in her defeat, or pity her in her state. To want the attention of this woman, or her daughters . . .

But perhaps that's not my business to dissect.

Nadine looks like she's about to collapse into a heap of tears – willing to beg the Mistress to let her stay if only to remain in her presence a little longer. I've seen that similar face on women in the village when their suitor suddenly decides to leave . . . especially for another woman.

The maid starts to protest, but Lady Dimitrescu barks, "Get out!"

And it's enough to scare the maid from the room without looking back.

Once the door is closed, a part of me is relieved – though I know she's bound to start gossiping amongst the other servants – while another part of me wishes she'd stay, if only to act as a witness.

I half-expect Lady Dimitrescu to drop this . . . whatever this is – an act? – but she looks back to me and pushes into my ribs with her heel. Not enough to hurt, but with enough to get me to roll onto my back.

Facing the couch that she was sitting before, she returns to her seat and crosses her legs once more. I suppress a shiver as I feel a cold breeze tickle the wetness between my thighs.

I prop myself on my elbows, about to ask what she wants next, when she taps each of my knees once with the crop. I look to her confused, and she lifts the crop like a conductor would his wand.

Somehow, that innate, female part of me understands her silent command, and I lift my feet up off the ground, lying fully on my back and resting my hands in the crook of my knees.

A part of me trembles at the, indecency, of the pose – and of how vulnerable I am to her once again. But like before, I'm left with little options other than to obey.

Lady Dimitrescu leans forward, resting an elbow on her knee, her chin on her palm, and aims the fold of the crop at my sex.

A breath pierces its way into my lungs as she drags it up and down, the leather fold mimicking the actions of her tongue, if a bit stiffer.

I look down and watch as it becomes shinier and shiner with each passing lap. The motions creating a wet, slick sound that has me exhaling with pleasure at the taunting tickle of my clit.

The crop then lifts up, and I bite my lip; my ass clenching, my body preparing for the pain as she brings it down onto my sex. But it's light and quick, the shock still there, but the sting disappearing within seconds.

"Eight." I mumble.

Without missing a beat, she repeats the strike; my sex clenching and twitching – feeling as if it's hollowing out, and pleading for something to make it feel full again. Like I need to feel her fingers, her tongue fill my insides just to get rid of that aching hollowness.

"Nine."

Lady Dimitrescu then crooks a finger at me and motions me forward. I obey, shifting to my knees again – ignoring the pop and crack of my muscles – and sit once more on my heels.

She leans back against the couch, figuring out just what she wants to do with the final strike that will end my punishment.

"Come here," she purrs, her finger once again motioning me forward.

I comply, that female part of me seemingly knowing just what to do, and I end up straddling her thigh. My underwear is no doubt soaked through by now.

Lady Dimitrescu seemingly loves surprising me; as she runs the fold of the crop down my spine like before, she suddenly slides her two of her fingers into me without a word or hint of anticipation.

I yelp and whimper with surprise and embarrassment, thrown off balance so that I'm forced to brace a hand on her shoulder. She growls with satisfaction, adding a third finger and plunging deep, my core twitching, almost consuming her fingers. I could almost come just from the fill alone.

The crop slips past my spine, and she brings it forward, shoving it towards my mouth so I'm forced to clench it between my teeth.

Then her fingers begin to furiously pump in and out of me, heightening the moistened sounds of my sex and forcing my hips into that foreign but familiar rhythm.

I can only whimper and moan with the crop in my mouth, my body stiffening with an impending climax as I feel her thumb tickling my little bundle of nerves.

My thighs begin to tremble, my core clenching and expanding around her fingers in their own form of gaping and gasping. She holds the crop to my mouth, forbidding any words – only sounds. So she may only truly hear what she draws from my body.

I can feel the climax approaching quick – like a wave ready to crash into the rocks.

Alcina releases the crop, but I still clench it between my teeth, and her hand gathers my wrists and pins them behind my back. My breasts bouncing from the force of her fingers, my hips managing to keep up with them until my entire body seizes.

I whimper and whine as I feel the climax envelope my entire body. The wave crashing upon the rocks.

And that's when Lady Dimitrescu gives the final crack of the riding crop across my ass.

Timed perfectly to my climax, so that the only ledge that I had to this world is shattered, and I'm left free falling into ecstasy.

I stiffen, but I quiver – my eyes rolling into my head as I feel something squirt from my sex, warming her thigh beneath me. It's like flood gates have been opened, for it keeps coming between clenching and releasing. I don't know how, only that it feels incredible.

Her fingers keep pumping, the wetness of the sound – of the proof of what she draws from me – almost makes me come again.

My head leans back, near dangling as I ride her fingers through the rest of my orgasm.

Only when I'm left trembling from the pleasure does she release my wrists, pulling me towards her, lest I fall on my head.

My breathing is ragged, but I still prop my hand on her shoulder, resting my forehead on the back of my knuckles. Even after everything, I still don't want to touch her – that somehow feeling more intimate than what had just happened.

"And what was that?" She coos in my ear.

"Ten." The word is a half-assed whimper.

My mind is spinning, my face tingling from that pleasure. It was so unexpected, so foreign that my body seemed to welcome it with open arms.

I try to gulp the air as quickly as I can, trying to rewire my brain so that I might be able to move properly.

I suddenly jolt as I remember I'd soiled not only myself, but the skirt of her very expensive looking dress. I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping over her foot as I try to gather my balance.

"Oh gods, oh gods," I babble as I see a wet spot permeating through the skirt of her dress. "My-My Lady, I am so sorry –"

Gods, why are my words slurred.

She chuckles and rises from the couch. "Were it not for your impressive orgasm, dear, I might by upset."

Heat steals over my cheeks. My body seemingly settling when I collect the pieces of my mind, and remember what had led to this.

"Why?" I ask, taking careful steps back towards my clothes.

Why would you believe her?

Why pretend you believe her?

Why use it as means to punish me?

Why do . . . that to me?

Lady Dimitrescu walks over towards the armoire again, bending and opening the gilded doors to store the riding crop. Without hesitation or shame, she begins to unzip the back of her dress. I catch a glimpse of an lovely, embroidered corset before I avert my gaze.

Once the garment has melted to the floor in a soft whisper, she runs her fingers through her hair, fanning it out before it settles along her back. The beige underskirt and black lace stockings seem so opaque compared to her pale skin. Finger by finger, she removes her gloves, unceremoniously dumping them on the floor.

"Because you're very entertaining to play with." She muses as she aims for the double doors leading to her bathroom. I catch a glimpse of a giant porcelain tub beyond, already steaming with hot, bubbling water.

I quickly step into my pants, declaring my boots an unnecessary cause, but I deftly run through the steps to strap the belt of daggers across my chest. "Thank you for your mercy, My Lady."

As I aim for the door, my mind is already conjuring the ways I'd make Nadine pay, only after I interrogate her about why the hell she would attempt to get me killed. In its most basic format.

But as my hand wraps around the knob, Lady Dimitrescu calls from the bathroom. "It's not worth it, dear. Just remember that."

The worse are cryptic enough that I pause, but only for a heartbeat. I quickly exit her room when I hear the sloshing of water, but am still conscious enough to gently close the door.

I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded at the whole string of events.

What the hell did she mean?

That it's not worth it to kill Nadine? It's not worth risking my reputation among the servants to try and get back at her?

That she's not worth it at all? Her behavior towards the maid would suggest the latter.

Or, did she mean it's not worth fighting her? Her and the blood oath I had been forced to make? The thought nauseates me.

I set a hand on my cooling cheeks, hissing at the pain that tingles across my skin at the lightest touch. Gods, my underwear still feels wet, permeated with evidence of my cum.

Or . . . were her words intended to be about, Bela?

I shake my head, leaning against the door and letting my face fall into my hands, my hair curtaining around me.

What the hell is happening?

I run my fingers through my hair and take a huge gulp of air. I still have work to do, so I break down my movements with thoughts:

I need to get back room.

I need a new set of clothes.

I need to avoid Nadine – lest I pounce on her and wrap my hands around her throat.

I need to check in on Bela, if anyone has seen her. That through trips me a bit, because I'd need to go back to Lady Dimitrescu to try and find the eldest daughter.

I need to serve Lady Dimitrescu.

I need to visit the castle tailor for a dress.

I need to see Duke for equipment for my ghillie suit.

I need to tell Bianca.

I need to tell Gretta.

For their safety, of course.

By the end of the day, I've run out of things that are required of me – so I try to think of something distracting that would help keep my mind off of Nadine; keep my mind off going and looking for her.

Though Lady Dimitrescu's words kept me from hunting her down like one of my many kills, they don't keep me from telling Gretta and Bianca.

I went to the kitchen after dinner, when I knew Nadine usually leaves the kitchen to close all the curtains around the castle, and told everyone about what had happened, albeit adjusting a few details; highlighting on Nadine herself and her demented climb to win the affection of the Dimitrescu family.

I was truly shocked when, no one seemed that surprised. It was then I learned that Nadine had been Cassandra's plaything, primarily, but her ultimate goal is to be Lady Dimitrescu's lapdog.

Bianca told me how Nadine had confessed to her a few days after the former had been hired about her dream, and how she threatened to end Bianca if she tried to get closer to them.

Bianca assured Nadine, she wouldn't. Each maid had their own encounter with Nadine shortly after arriving, and none of them ever did anything because they never had any interest in getting closer to anyone in the Dimitrescu family. They even thought it would be beneficial if Nadine could win their attention – because then it eliminates a target off of their backs.

I thought back to when Bianca had told me about the staff's collective opinion about me – about how I made their lives a little easier by bearing the burden of the Dimitrescu family's attention.

But this isn't a burden to Nadine – it would be an honor.

And now I've stepped into her path; and apparently, she'll be willing to do anything to push forward.

I left the kitchen with more questions than answer, but I did get a hug from Bianca and Gretta. And feeling rather confident that I've backed Nadine into a corner.

No matter what she might try to spin – if she bothers to say anything – it will all lead back to how I ended up getting such a punishment in the first place, and her connection to it all. Not to mention showing her true nature, and that she's willing to act on her threats, alienating her from the rest of the staff.

With nothing else to think about, I only have either missing my sister, or processing what the hell Lady Dimitrescu had done to me as my 'punishment' as I make my way back to my room, ready for a thorough bath.

After what Lady Dimitrescu had done to me, you would think it'd be easier to accept such styles of punishments, but she had been controlled by her lust for my blood – no better than a drunk.

This . . . this was her being fully conscious.

Now that I know she can use anything against me, it makes me want to be closed off. To not let her use any of my friends of family, to not let the other maids use me as a safety blanket just so I could receive unjust punishments for her own pleasure.

Would that even be worth trying to figure out – to dissect?

She might not even have a reason. Perhaps this is another method of torture.

It's close to seven at night when I make it to my room, and I remove my clothes one by one, leaving them in a trail as I aim for my bathroom.

I need to clean myself.

A knock sounded on my door an hour later, and I stopped my nightly reading to answer it. But not before grabbing my knife I keep on my nightstand. But I relax when I saw who stood there.

I barely have time to process Bianca's presence before Gretta throws her arms around me. "I heard you might need us." I'm so stunned to see the scullery maid that I return the hug.

Both women are in their night dresses, both having put on their working stays and petticoats. I try not to look too uncomfortable with my low-dipping, silk nightgown; the color a sea-foam green with thin straps. I'd just grabbed the first thing I saw in my armoire.

I forget they're not as bold as I am – or stupid, perhaps.

I resist the urge to touch the bitemark on my neck from when Bela had cornered me in hall, late at night after a masquerade party in the opera hall.

Bianca is the one to say to Gretta, "I can't believe you left the dormitory. You didn't have to come."

Gretta strokes my head. "Some things are more important than fear." She clears her throat. "But please don't remind me too much. I'm so nervous I might vomit."

Even I smile at that.

My two friends fuss over me, sitting on the bear skin rug and drinking hot cocoa that Bianca pilfered from the castle's larder. We eat some leftover dessert Gretta had smuggled as well and discuss our latest reads.

It's a quarter to eight at night when Bianca suddenly gasps over Gretta mid-sentence. The latter startles and looks to Bianca with wide eyes. I lift my brows in question.

"I forgot, I brought something we could try and do together to . . . relax."

Gretta lifts what is now her third cup of hot chocolate. "I have everything I need to relax, right here."

Bianca gives a pouting smile and gets up to rummage through the satchel she'd brought, that's been sitting on my bed. I was wondering why she had carried the hot chocolate in her apron when she had the satchel – even with the desserts and cups, she still should've had enough room –

Then I see her pull two wooden boards from the satchel.

Gretta and I look to each other, confused.

But Bianca's smile is filled with such genuine excitement, that I almost don't care to ask. Not as she scampers over and gives each of us a piece of wood before running back over to the satchel.

Gretta sets down her cup and asks, "What are these for?" She holds the wood in the firelight to observe some questionable stains.

"I thought we could taxidermy some bugs together!" Bianca chirps.

Gretta drops the board as if it had bitten her, her lips curled with disgust. I can't help but laugh at her expression, her hands held aloft.

I catch my breath and ask, "You taxidermy bugs?"

"Yeah," she answers as she pulls a few small, paper-wrapped packages and a jar of pins from the satchel as well. She scampers back over once more and nestles herself between Gretta and I, setting the supplies on the table.

I carefully push the tray of desserts and hot chocolate towards the other end.

Gretta still stares the dropped board as if it were a pit viper.

"What made you, pursue, this hobby?" I carefully ask. Though the corners of my mouth turn upwards, betraying me.

"I just find it interesting," Bianca shrugs, her hair folding and falling over her shoulders. The motion gives her a realization, and I watch as she quickly gathers her hair and twirls it into a knot atop her head. A motion I've seen her do many times in the kitchen.

The panes of her face glow golden in the light, the gold in her onyx eyes twinkling like stars. A single piece falls around her face, its end tickling her chin.

Gretta picks up the board – albeit with one finger from each hand – and sets it onto the coffee table. She leans towards it.

"Don't smell it," Bianca warns.

But seconds too late.

Gretta hisses, her disgust amplifying as her eyes squeeze shut. I laugh again.

Bianca hands the maid a tie without a word, and Gretta pulls back her own hair with routine precision – muscle memory taking over as she still snarls at the board.

My hair I already have braided since my bath, hoping it'll give me some waves – a tip Gretta gave me during one of her monologues.

Bianca carefully pulls the string on one of the packages, setting aside the rest on the flap of the satchel. "Here, I'll give you guys each a moth to begin with."

"Oh, I don't like this." Gretta whines as she scoots herself closer to the table, but further away from Bianca.

My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. I peer at the insect encased in wax paper, the smell a combination of chemical and wildlife. "How did you come across these?" I ask.

Bianca gives a proud smile, "You're not the only one who can trade with The Duke."

I credit her with a smile as I pick up the paper-wrapped bug. "How long have you been buying these from him?"

"Only for a few months now. It started with buying some pins from him, and I'd like to assume he caught on, because the next time he came to the castle, he had some bugs on display. I couldn't help but stare. They're pretty good quality too."

"Speak for yourself." Gretta grumbles, though too kind refuse participating. "This feels more moist than I want it to be."

"It's like the consistency of wet paper towel, so you need to be delicate with them."

Despite our reservations, Gretta and I conform to Bianca's dirty deed; Gretta constantly vocalizing her dislike, but still participating. Even finding some fascination in observing the little creatures up close – her showing awe when Bianca extended the butterfly's proboscis; even quickly fixing her mistake when Bianca warned she was breaking the butterfly's wing.

Bianca's smile never falters, continuously laced with such genuine excitement, and despite Gretta's complaints and protests, she and I can both see it – the happiness; the jubilance in sharing a part of her soul, and at the acceptance.

I realize quickly just how much time and effort Bianca puts into her hobby, as she confidently explains the process to us: how some insects need to leave their legs on, how some people enjoy certain poses of the insect; and to never pin through the wing. Duke even approached her once to preserve a bug collection for a high paying client.

She takes to it like I would take to dancing. And I can't help but smile at the image while she criticizes the way I've pinned my butterfly's wing: of Bianca sitting hunched over her desk, candlelight faint and golden, working meticulously to preserve insects that she picked – that she finds beauty in. She handles the insects like I handle my kills – with confidence and focus.

My skin doesn't crawl as easily as Gretta's, but it would seem my hunting and skinning had made me put more force into my hands, as I nearly broke off a piece of every insect Bianca has given me; my ear constantly filled with her saying to be more delicate.

When we got to a particular looking beetle, Bianca then showed us how to lift the wing shell to pull the wing out.

Of which Gretta did not have a good reaction to its cracking sound – and I laughed continually as her neck shrunk into her shoulders while Bianca tried to unfold the wing. Her fear and dislike now having turned into sarcasm.

But by the time we get to the final bug, Gretta screams and springs up from her spot, cowering into the corner of my room, closest to the bathroom.

I watch as Bianca hands me an oblong, black spider. The legs having been tobogganed into a straight line.

And I cannot be happier that it's dead.

I giggle as I look to Gretta, shaking her head furiously – spilling some of her fiery curls from her tie.

"Oh, it's so fucking disgusting!"

Bianca and I burst into laughter, as it's the first time I've heard the maid use such language. The former's sounding so pure and bright.

Bianca begins to unravel mine onto another, flatter board she brought for the size of the spider.

I don't move from my spot, but I pick up the arachnid and hold it aloft in Gretta's direction. "What you don't like him, Gretta?" I ask between laughs. "Is he not your friend?"

Still she screams, turning her head away and brining her hands up as if it were monstrous, and about to attack her.

"Get it away! Get. It. Away." She commands.

I relent, setting the stiff bug back onto the board. Bianca giggles, "I think he's kind of cute."

Gretta sticks her tongue out at both of us.

"He's dead, Gretta, he's not going to hurt you." Bianca assures.

Gretta slowly begins to come back to her spot, and right as she's about to sit down, I grin, holding the spider towards her again, "Wow, look at his teeth, Gretta"

"Erika," she bristles, "I swear I would never hurt anyone, and I know you could kick my ass . . . but I will start swinging wildly at you."

I burst into a fit of laughter until my stomach hurts, Bianca joining me and falling over herself. Then Gretta joins in laughing at us, laughing at her.

And I've never felt more alive. I've never felt so, welcome. So whole and free and content and alive.

Is this what friendship is?

Gretta didn't touch the spider; instead, she takes two of the pins, and moves about positioning the legs with them – a very basic arrangement, but she's trying to have as little contact with the creature as possible. I, of course, end up ripping off one of its legs, but I pin it anyway for humor's sake.

Once we've finished, Bianca stands to stretch her legs, a few muscles popping her back as she says, "You guys did amazing." She leers an eye towards Gretta, who has already dashed to the bathroom to wash her hands. "I'm actually impressed with how well you did You guys did great. I'll make sure to frame them up for you, and show you what they look like they they're all done!"

"That's great." I groan as I unfold my stiffened legs, pin and needles crawling up my calves as the blood begins to flow again.

She excitedly claps her hands together, aiming for the bathroom next while I stand and stretch and walk about my room to get the blood flow back into my feet.

We then speak about everything and nothing long into the night.

Only when my eyes burn with exhaustion, my body a limp weight, do we go our separate ways.

Bianca carefully packs up the boards and bugs, Gretta sparing a quick but firm hug goodbye before leaving my room. If only to escape the dead bugs.

I follow Bianca out, and I ask, "Are you sure you don't want me to escort you back to the rooms? I don't want you guys to get in trouble."

"We'll be alright." She coos, but then lifts her chin in exaggerated boasting. "We're big tough girls. We tie our own laces and everything."

I giggle, my soul feeling lighter than it has been these past few weeks.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Bianca asks. "We came here for you, and I know we ended up doing something I like, but I just wanted to help get your mind off of everything."

I shrug, "I don't know. I'm sure I'll be fine. What about you?"

She shrugs as well. "I honestly don't want to associate with Nadine anymore, but I also don't want to a target on my back."

"I understand. Tell Gretta that too. I don't want you guys getting in trouble with her either. Not now with knowing the lengths she's willing to go to."

My blinking is becoming more frequent now, and my bed is looking extra cozy. I lean against the threshold, resting my head against the wood.

"And what about this afternoon?" Bianca asks softly, tightening her grip on the strap of the satchel.

"I'll be fine." I admit, though it still makes my heart heavy. "I mean she's the reason I came here. To make a better life for her; and as long as it's working, then I can live with not seeing her. I at least know I'll always be in her heart. Hopefully she'll understand when she's older."

"Older?" Bianca starts. "How long do you plan on being here?"

I don't answer.

She purses her lips in disproval, but she knows there's not much she can say or do. Not when she's in the same position as me.

"I need to get to bed." I mutter, my words slurring.

With her free arm, Bianca pulls me into a hug. I rest my chin on her shoulder, taking in her scent of autumn leaves and cinnamon apples.

She places a delicate peck on my cheek, and I take a slow inhale as I hug her tighter.

As she pulls away, her warmth follows, and I shiver as she waves to me goodnight.

"Sleep well," she quietly blesses before starting her trek down the hall.

I watch until she turns the corner out of my sight, and close my door soundlessly behind me.