After deciding that the slice on my neck was shallow and that I'm not in any danger of dying from it, I headed into the dining room to light the last of the fires. Despite my wanting to rush through the job, I do my best to clean it and organize the logs before igniting the fire. I hone my fear and try to aim it towards finishing my chores.

The fear soon gives way to a roiling anger that I cannot explain. I don't know if it was the proprietary tone in her voice, the fact that she snuck up on me, or just an after effect of the fear. It's similar to how I can't help being . . . myself around her. How I can't hold my tongue and bow into submission like I should be doing. And then there was that brief arousal from her tongue on my skin –

I growl as I enter the kitchen and drop the ash-filled bucket just inside the door. I refrain from touching my neck with my soot-stained hands as I aim straight for the sinks. I can feel the eyes of the remaining servants upon my skin, flicking straight to my neck. Gretta and Nadine are still here, and it seems like no one has touched the dishes. Good. I could use some mindless work.

I shove my hands into the sink without a care and begin to scrub the soap and water up to my hands.

"Erika! That's supposed to be for the dishes!" Kathryn howls.

"I'll fill it up again! I'm the one who's cleaning them anyway." I snarl over my shoulder in the direction I heard her voice.

The counter makes her pause – clearly no one has ever talked back to her – her eyes widening with disbelief and anger. Fuck it. If one of Dimitrescu's daughters finds me interesting, no one would be stupid enough to risk killing me. So I let my rank slip among the servant hierarchy, just a little bit.

I finish cleaning my arms and pull the drain plug as I hear Kathryn's approaching steps. I whirl to face her, and she's a foot from me when she stops dead, her hand looking like it was going to reach for my shoulder.

Gretta and Nadine seem shocked from my response with their hands over their mouths, their eyes widening with Kathryn's as they behold the cut on my throat.

The head chef's mouth gapes, Nadine taking timid steps behind her as she murmurs, "What happened?"

I throw her an icy glare. Undeserving, but I don't care. Let my rage stir in the air. "I ran into one of the daughters while cleaning the fireplaces. That's why I'm late. She cornered me when I was almost done."

I look to Kathryn, who seems to have taken a step back.

"What did she do? Who was it? What did she say?" Gretta questions, almost seemingly . . . enthusiastic.

It's none of her goddamn business what happened between me and the daughter. I take a moment to plug the drain again once it's empty – and once I know Kathryn isn't going to wring my neck – and slap on the faucet. "It was the blonde one, the eldest daughter. Who is she?"

"The blonde would be Bela." Nadine says. I could practically see her fidgeting with her nails. A tell I spotted while serving dessert yesterday.

Bela. And the raven-haired one is Cassandra. So the third daughter . . . my mind thinks back to the portrait I'd seen when I first walked in.

Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela.

They might not be the same daughters as the painting, but their names obviously were inspiration. I try to remember how they were sitting for dinner –

With the backs of their chairs towards the courtyard, Bela was sitting furthest to the right, Cassandra the middle, and Daniela at the left. Cassandra is possibly the middle child, leaving Daniela the youngest. It's just a haunch, and I'll keep my mouth shut until proven otherwise. In spite of the circumstances, I trust Bela's word of being the most patient among her sisters.

I hear Kathryn huff a laugh behind me as I dunk my hand in the water, swishing it around until the surface is mounding with bubbles. "She's usually the quiet one. Arguably the safest of the three sister. I wonder what you did."

I whirl around to glare at her, lips pulling back from my teeth. "What I did?! I was doing my goddamn job!"

Nadine stands by the cauldron, wringing a dirtied rag in her hands. Her features seem hardened by something, but it's erased before I can determine what it is. Gretta steps before Kathryn, who is staring daggers at me. I level my own stare at her. "It's just, an encounter with the daughters usually doesn't end . . . well."

I gesture to my neck. "I figured."

"Do you think you might've done anything to spark their interest?"

"As of right now, it seems like it's only Bela. And apart from being new, I doubt it. I've been trying to remain nameless since I got here."

Kathryn folds her arms and leans against the table. "There must be something about you they like. Or at least, she likes."

I throw the old hag a dirty look. "I suppose I should be flattered."

"Would you rather they'd have killed you?"

A pause. "No. I would rather they just leave me alone." I turn to face the sink and begin the dishes. "I don't want any trouble. I just want to earn money to send to my little sister."

"Gretta told me about you." Kathryn says.

I drop a bowl into the water and whirl around. My eyes are wide, but my brows narrow with disdain. Gretta shies away, bowing her head low.

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ridiculous because for there to be betrayal, there would have to be trust to begin with. Who was she to talk about my business, even if she was doing it out of best interest? Something I'd told her in confidence. Not for pity or praise, just for someone to listen without judgement. But I should've known better. If things go missing around here, I wouldn't put it past some of the servants to try and become a favorite of the Dimitrescus – at least if it meant living longer.

"Relax," Kathryn says with a gentle hand, as if it would stop me from lunging at the girl. "It's not anything bad. In fact, I wanted to extend my admiration." At my flat expression, she continues. "It takes a lot of guts to enter those woods, and you were dealt a shit hand. But you survived."

"I don't need your pity." I go back to washing the dishes.

"It's not pity, I told you. It's admiration. You stepped up and took on so much responsibility; and while I wasn't there to witness anything, I can promise, for that little girl, you helped fill the void left by your parents."

My scrubbing slows and my shoulders lower a bit. "She deserves so much. And I want to give it to her. Luiza is kind and sweet, but I won't take her money. I won't be a burden."

A moment of silence. I fold my lips in. Foolish. It was foolish to give a piece of myself to these . . . these strangers. What did they mean to me?

Then Kathryn says, "Once you're finished with the dishes, prep some vegetables for lunch. There's a list on the table. I don't know what else Helga has in store for you, but keep on your toes."

I don't look back as she leaves the kitchen. And, one by one, Gretta and Nadine follow.

Over the course of the week, I fall into a relative pattern. Helga would give me different chores to do in the morning before heading down to the kitchens: whether it be cleaning the fireplaces, mopping the floors, polishing the staircases, sweeping the hallways, dusting the antiques, she gave me a chore that took me all over the castle at least once – minus the dungeon. I don't have its entirety memorized yet, but it's a good start.

I tried to notice if there was a pattern to her chores – what was for the halls, the rooms, the stairs, or the outside – to see is any chore fell on a particular day, but so far, it all seems random . . . or more like an initiation. Nevertheless, I didn't really care what the chore was, just that I did my best on it. Most of them really ate up my time, so I would get to the kitchen just after breakfast; in time to do the dishes and start prepping for lunch, do more dishes, and then prepare dinner. I served maybe once or twice in the span of those seemingly endless hours, but it seemed like Kathryn is keeping me on washing and cutting and prepping.

The old crone even spared me a compliment at my work ethic when I was sitting down one day, having earned my breakfast: a lump of bread, some tea, and hot coco. You hold your own better than most; half of the girls usually collapse from the late breakfast, she laughed.

Girls, young women barely out of their adolescence. Though I suppose most women look young to her, even Helga. It felt more backhanded than she might have intended, or did, I don't really know.

Just another benefit of hunting, I responded flatly. The words tasted bitter.

There was nothing really beneficial about my hunting except that it fed Lacy. I'd get up at the crack of dawn – no different than now – and would trudge into the woods and ready my traps and bait. Sometimes I wouldn't return until noon with some catches, and that was with just a smaller lump of bread and some grapes Lacy would sometimes leave me. I'm used to going long hours without food, but I learned the hard way that water is the most important thing to keep the body functioning.

I haven't had another interaction with any of the Dimitrescu family, which I consider a blessing. Through asking the others, my assumption was correct: Bela is the eldest with the golden-blonde hair, Cassandra is the middle child with the raven-black hair, and Daniela is the youngest with the copper-colored hair. When I do serve, apart from glances from Bela, the Mistress and her other daughters don't pay me much heed. Unfortunately, I don't get the relief I expected. Now I'm wondering if they're planning something for me, wondering which day might be my last.

It was a horrible realization that I hadn't processed: that the family can kill me no matter how good of work I do. So am I supposed to play their games so they don't find me boring? Am I supposed to accept their torment as a blessing if it means I live another day?

The thought echoes through me even now, as I vacantly cut some peppers in the kitchen. Kathryn is by the hearth, stirring a lemon-scented stew in that cauldron. Gretta is over by the oven eyeing the bread, Bianca readying the silverware and chinaware. I look over to my few piles of minced vegetables, allowing myself a little self-praise. Until another servant scoops them up into a bowl and plops another vegetable on the cutting board. I finish the onion and move on to a sweet potato already peeled.

There's a commotion in the back room, and my head turns to find two young women fidgeting by a hanging pig carcass, both looking green in the face. One bearing stunning green eyes and dirtied-blonde hair holds a knife in her hand, looking as if trying to defend herself from it. Cowering behind her, is a younger woman with golden-brown hair and teal eyes. They shriek like a couple of gulls as they poke and whine at the dead thing, the blonde's hand trembling as she extends a butcher knife towards it.

"Astrid!" Kathryn barks. "Just cut the damn thing's throat and move on! It's already dead! Melina, make yourself useful and ready some wine!"

The teal-eyed girl – Melina – scurries away from the carcass, leaving trembling Astrid to wield the knife herself. She looks as though she's about to vomit, tears in her eyes as she kneels down. I pause my cutting and watch, a hand on my hip – and yes, maybe a slight smug of amusement – as I watch her pinch the pig's ear and cries and whines, fluttering her hands as though she just touched a plague victim. I pity her though, I had similar reactions when I had to skin my first kill, only I wasn't given the pleasure of whining. Instead, I had to shove it down and just jab the knife in its throat because every second I wasted, Lacy was starving back home.

Despite the repercussions, I wipes my hands on my apron and walk over to her. she notices my approach and flinches for a moment before I kneel down next to her.

I take the knife and say, "Here." I nudge her with my foot, and she immediately steps behind me. For a moment, she sems no different than Lacy the one time I took her to the market with me. She was so wide-eyed and fascinated, but also intimidated with so many eyes staring at her. I look over my shoulder to her, "If you're squeamish, you might want to look away."

Without hesitation, I slice the pig's throat. It's blood pours into the basin, splashing a few droplets onto my apron. Astrid gags behind me, coughing and retching as I hear her flee into the kitchen.

There are two more pig carcasses, so I decide to make quick work of them, steadying the flow of the blood this time with a slower incision. I'm so sued to just doing it in our backyard I never had to think about splashing the blood everywhere. Kathryn appears in the doorway, no doubt to give me a verbal lashing, but pauses.

She angles her head. "You've butchered before?"

I check the basin before rising and wiping the bloodied knife on my apron. "I learned from a few people around the village. Otherwise, I had to pay the local shop to do it, and I didn't want to spend that kind of money."

Kathryn crosses her arms. "Can you skin?"

I level a gaze at her, my question and answer. A breath of a laugh from the old crone. I look to the nearly full basin. "Where do I dump this?"

"There's a drain in the back left corner. Don't ask why we don't just hover them over there, just blame the builders of this castle."

I carefully dump the basins without a second thought. A couple other servants have paused their work to watch, some covering their mouths with their hands or rags or aprons. Kathryn doesn't seem to notice, or just doesn't care.

I might have flipped the knife between my fingers, just a bit. Then, I carefully begin to skin the pig carcass, short light strokes as I was taught, otherwise I risk cutting the meat, lowering its quality. I still wince as I place the blade between the hind legs, and soon begin to work my way around the body.

When I'm halfway down is when Kathryn barks, "What are you all gawking at? Get back to work!"

The servants scurry without much argument. I easily lose my thoughts in the skinning and gutting. Once I developed the routine, my body just worked itself until everything was finished. I leave the skin in the basin, and Kathryn doesn't argue. I do my best to chop the head off with the knife, the blade cutting through the skin like a dream. But once it hits bone, it takes a few good strokes at this angle. Over my shoulder, I hear someone gag as I throw the guts into the basin with a thick slap.

By the time I'm done, I'm almost impressed with myself. A large, clean slab of meat now hand from the large hook, though I will admit seeing the head in the basin is a little unnerving with its unseeing eyes.

I didn't know Kathryn had stepped away until her form appears in the doorway again. Stepping inside, she examines my work. I would believe she knew a thing or two about the quality of meat. She nods her approval. "Well done. I could have you doing this if you'd like."

I contemplate. It's not exactly my favorite thing to do, but as I cast a glance around the other women in the kitchen, I might be left with little choice. I shrug. "Sure. I seem to be the only one competent enough."

"I won't argue there." She gives a pat on my back. "Well, go wash your hands and start cutting me some of those ribs. I've got a new sauce to try."

I nod and do as I'm told, the other girls giving me a wide berth as I aim for a separate sink. I do my best to wash the blood and gathered skin from my hands and nails, cleaning off the knife before I start digging into the meat. Honestly, I've never seen such good quality; the farmers they're buying from certainly know what they're doing.

I peer down at my apron but decide it might be best to wash for later. I'm about to head back into the small room when Helga appears in the doorway, and everyone snaps at her attention. Her eyes scan the room, and I don't feel good when they land on me.

"Erika, Lady Dimitrescu has requested to see you."

"What for?" I blurt before I deem it unwise.

"I believe it is for something good. She didn't seem perturbed."

"You believe. Helpful," I sneer.

Helga doesn't flinch. "I was told to bring you to her. It involves The Duke, if that makes things a little better."

It does, and it doesn't. If connections between Duke and I are found out, they might draw the worst conclusions without proper evidence. And with the servants stealing things from each other, the last I need is to be on the chopping block for allegedly trading something I never had. The only possible silver lining is that Duke and I can deny we've ever had business, unless Lady Dimitrescu already knows that, and then we'll both be flayed alive.

My stomach sinks as I remember our conversation after seeing Duke.

If Helga spoke of something to Lady Dimitrescu . . .

Had I been a fool to think I could form some kind of mutual respect with this woman?

I set the knife down on the table and wipe my hands on a clean section of my apron. My fingers bump across the imprint of the knife I still kept in my pocket. At least if I go down, I'll take her with me.

The stares of the servants are like hot coals as I'm led out of the kitchen into the hallway. No one is in the dining room at this hour, so Helga leads me through the doors into the main hall. We go down the steps and to my horror, we aim for the room tucked into the alcove on the left. Duke's room.

Helga opens the door and I wait beyond the threshold as I hear her say, "My Lady, I've brought Miss Erika."

"Bring her in." Her voice fiddles through the air.

Helga gestures me inside, and I don't dare look at Duke. I keep my eyes on Lady Dimitrecsu as she's standing across from him, dressed in a matte gown of deep crimson. I put all my attention into my curtsey and keep my head low.

There's a heavy step and I see the skirt of her gown shift towards me in a wave of crimson. "Had a little mess in the kitchen, sweetheart?"

I swallow as I fold my hands at my front, but I hover them above the bloodstains on my apron. "Um, of a sort. It's just pig's blood. Pardon me for appearing so . . . grotesque. I wasn't expecting to be in your presence, My Lady."

Her laugh sends chills down my spine. In my week of working here, I've somehow forgotten how foreboding she can be at her height. I feel no different than a toddler. "How adorable!" she chirps. "Well, I was informed of a certain skill you have. Helga told me you're quite a bargainer."

My stomach sink, but confusion keeps me from drawing my knife on the housekeeper. I risk a glance at her, but her face is caught in an expression of disdain towards Duke. When her eyes flick to mine, her face reveals nothing.

"I – I've dabbled. I'm nowhere near the best. I just get what I want and at a fair price."

"Oh! A woman of feat. Then perhaps you can help me with this decision."

I pray she doesn't hear my raging heart.

A test. This has to be some kind of test. And whether I refuse or fail, it'll wind up with my head rolling to the floor.

My eyes flick to bolts of silk, satin, lace, velvet. Such extravagant fabrics that I could only ever dream about. I've seen them woven into lovely gowns I would sometimes gaze at through the windows of the village's shopping district, longing to just leave this life and drift to the next, where I could dance and sing until my heart's content.

I'm not fit to be picking out these fabrics; I've only ever examined things of cotton and threadbare. Materials for arrows, and ammunition for guns. Why the hell Helga would betray me, I honestly don't know. But maybe I don't need a reason. I should've seen this petty treachery coming. I should've –

A leather-gloved hand takes my chin, forcing my gaze up, and into the golden eyes of Lady Dimitrescu. "Is there a problem, Miss Erika?"

My knees nearly give way at that gaze. Hardened like the ore, and yet swirling with life and mischief. "It's just . . . I – I've never bargained for anything so, extravagant. I don't know if I'd have the proper eye as you, My Lady."

"Well then, let's hope that sharp eye of yours works outside of hunting." She purrs, skittering along my bones, making them splinter and my hands tremble. She aims her pointer finger at my eye, and I could've sworn I saw the tip of a metal claw.

I've never looked at something so high class. How was I supposed to know what was good and what's not? And why would Lady Dimitrescu want to test me on something like this? What would it benefit her other than to chop my head off for failing?

I step up to the dais, eyeing the bolts of fabric, the lace a gorgeous detailing of flowers twined with whorls of pearl. I could ask what the occasion is, but I doubt I'd get an answer. I can't risk weening down her patience. My eyes flick to Duke, and he gives an inconspicuous nod of his head.

"May I?" I ask, and his nod is more obvious.

I take the end of the silk bolt and slide it between my fingers. I don't know exactly what it's supposed to do, but I've seen some women do it when shopping for a dress. Its color is a beautiful deep plum. The fabric so beautifully smooth, shimmering like the surface of a pond.

I have no idea what I'm looking for; what I'm supposed to do. It might be different if she wanted me to try and bargain with Duke, but he wouldn't be stupid enough to try and scam House Dimitrescu, and it still doesn't help me in trying to know if these fabrics are of any importance.

"I bought these bolts from an old friend of mine oversees. They are of the best quality I can assure you." Duke says.

I blink back the stinging in my eyes.

A hint.

He's trying to help me. Maybe make something up about its make, its quality –

"I've always respected you Duke, but the price just seems outrageous." Lady Dimitrescu interjects. "I've gotten better fabrics for a much cheaper price."

Duke laughs. "But not ones from this country, My Lady. Foreign fabrics are of a rare value.'

Whether a hint for me, or a bait to get Dimitrescu to show her hand, but it works. Could he have been the one to instigate this whole thing? No, that would be stupid.

I try to apply my logic of animal fur to this, what differences I can spot, what value it would be. There have been plenty of women who bought my fur pelts for coats and accessories.

"For what it's worth, I hope you can get your money back." I start, looking towards the satin and running a finger along the bolt's length. "There's an imperfection here . . . Can we expect the rest of it to be similarly marred?"

The Duke scoffs, leaning as far as he can without tipping himself over. I could've kissed his rotund cheeks for such an act.

But I angle the swatch to the light. "Look," I say, pointing to a vein of color running through it.

"That's no imperfection," Duke snaps with a wave of his hand. In the corner of my eye, Lady Dimitrescu with a hand on her hip and a cruel smile on her lips. She takes a long drag from her cigarette.

"Look in the better light. You think it's wise to take Lady Dimitrescu's money for second-rate weaving?"

"Second rate!" The Duke seethes. Dimitrescu's smile curls tighter.

"Now look, I know you're a great businessman, so I would recommend you take this back to whomever sold it to you, and demand they give you your money back. This silk, at the least isn't worth the price."

"Oh preposterous!" Duke snaps, swooping the bolt up and tucking it behind his fat frame. "This is why I should just stick to what I know. What a waste."

"I'm sorry you wasted such time and money." I try to convey my appreciation through my eyes. I know he'll see it. His eye is trained far better and wider than mine.

"Well, it's not worth selling these things either." He says as he takes the other bolts of fabric and stuffing them behind his frame. He looks to Lady Dimitrescu. "My humblest apologies, madam. I had no idea I had bought such second-rate materials. I'll be back next week with some new stock."

Lady Dimitrescu lifts her chin, seemingly satisfied. I don't know if it's from Duke's defeat, or his humiliation. But I can only pray she continues to believe it, even if it means I have to do some more research on the finer things of higher class.

I look over to Helga, who seems surprised. I don't think she saw the rouse we played, and I hope that means Dimitrescu didn't either. But I still have some words for her once we're alone.

"Well, well, I must admit I'm impressed Erika. I had no idea were so knowledgeable, give your background."

I shrug, unwilling to answer.

"I suppose hunting provides the ability to see things no one else can."

I ignore the numbness spreading through my limbs. What she could do with that knowledge –

"Speak, child! Have you suddenly grown mute?" She barks, and I'm unable to hide my flinch.

I clear my throat. "I suppose it's an adaptation that has its benefits. It's something I had to hone while at home."

Though she nods, her expression shows such boredom. Just attempting pleasantries in her own way.

I bow my head and curtsey. "Is there anything else I can do for you, My Lady?"

"Well, give me some time, but I think Cassandra would just adore going on a little hunt with you." The Lady replies with a kind of calm that makes me wonder whether I should start running.

Oh gods, anyone but Cassandra. I've heard enough whispers about her; she's the main reason you don't want to go down into the dungeons.

"But you may take your leave." Dimitrescu says with a wave of her hand.

I curtsey again and am about to turn towards the door to get the hell out of here, but an odd sound tickles my ears.

It sounds almost like a chain –

I barely have time to register shock when a hooded figure dressed in rags leaps from behind Dimitrescu's skirt.

"Dandora! Goddammit!" Lady Dimitrescu hisses in annoyance.

It screams – she screams like nothing I have ever heard before as the ragged cloth rips, revealing a bony, misshapen chest peppered with scars. She slams her clawed hand into my face as she lunges.

Stars explode in my vision as I hit the ground. Blood rushes from my nose and fills my mouth. There's a roar – a mixture of a hiss and a wail – and the creatures tries to pounce on me again before the sound of the chain tightens, and then there's the heavy thump of a body hitting wood.

"Oh my word," I hear Duke say.

Strong hands are immediately under my arms, hauling me to my feet. Helga.

"We need to get you out of here," she says, her voice firm and unyielding as stone.

I wobble on my feet, fearing I'll vomit on the carpet as Helga steadies me. There's so much blood on my tongue, its coopery taste filling my senses.

"Erika, I need you to move." Helga instructs, attempting to guide me.

I should move, every instinct roaring at me to run, and yet the room is stretching, my head as light as a balloon, but my eyes still manage to settle upon that face . . .

That face is something of a nightmare.

I press myself against the wall to get my bearings, and to slow Helga down before my face plants into the floor. I'm rooted in place like a deer.

The hood has fallen off the creature, revealing what looks like a woman's face – looks like, but no longer is. Her hair is sparse, hanging off her gleaming skull in clumpy strings, and her lips . . . there's scarring around her mouth, as though someone had pulled her iron teeth out, sewed her lips shut, ripped them open and put them back in.

She pants through her jagged yellow teeth as she looks at me – looks at me with such hatred. It is such a mortal expression . . .

"What happened to you?" I mumble through my bloodied lips.

But suddenly she begins clawing at herself, tearing at the browned rags, pulling out her hair, pushing against her skull as if she can reach in and rip it open – rip something out. And the shrieks she makes, the rage and agony –

That thing . . . it used to be a girl.

Used to be . . . before . . .

"Goddammit Dandora, enough!" Lady Dimitrescu snarls as she yanks the chain on the creature. It flops to her feet like a ragdoll. Next to her, it is no different than a small dog.

"Erika, move!" Helga says through grit teeth, and next thing I know, her hands are on my back, guiding me out the door.

I turn around, and her hands are now in my stomach, still pushing. I don't know how my feet managed to move, how they managed not to trip over themselves.

I'm babbling, words scrambling in my brain, fighting for a way out, to voice every emotion I'm feeling, but all I can do is make sounds. Helga and I get as far as the hall before the realization sets in; when I realize my blood is in my mouth, that I have been attacked, I've seen something I wasn't supposed to, and that I might be next.

That I might look like that creature soon, at worst. Have my tongue ripped out at best.

I whirl away from Helga and manage to throw myself into a potted plant beside the fireplace before the contents of my meager breakfast yields itself. Helga doesn't say anything, but I do hear her steps come up behind me as am thoroughly sick again and again and again. I spit a mouthful of blood and bile as I hold myself steady.

It doesn't help when I remember that Lady Dimitrescu could be killing that girl-creature-whatever-it-was right now, just in that room.

Or that she might come for me next.

I retch again into the dirt of the plant, the smell crushing and warbling my stomach.

"You'll be okay." Helga says, her tone unnaturally soft.

I want to snarl at her, but her tone has me halting. I take deep breathes, calming myself like I do in the woods. My only place of comfort, if I were to really think about it. It was my sanctuary, with birds chirping, a babbling brook, the sound of leaves rustling in a chilly spring breeze.

These thoughts help to calm my stomach, even if it still shrinks to the size of a walnut at the thought of Dimitrescu just a few feet away in another room.

Breathe, I try to think. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Over and over.

When it seems like I'm done heaving, I ease from the putted plant – but don't go far. Just to the wall, where I can see the entire room, where the breeze from the dining room can caress my sticky face.

I lean my head against the wall, flattening my hands against the chill tile floor.

I curl my knees to my chest, forcing myself to close my eyes. I angle my head into my forearms, breathing in and out.

"What was that?" I mutter.

"It's none of your concern." I don't know why I expected an answer.

I peel my eyes from my arms to glare at her. "The hell it isn't. That could be me next."

"Not if you keep up your good work."

"And keep my mouth shut?"

Again, that impenetrable, neutral expression. "Everyone here knows the risks. It is why they don't talk about the dungeon. Should one of the daughters overhear . . ."

He pauses, those dead, steel-grey eyes looking down the hall into the Hall of the Four, to Duke's room. The things she might've seen in this castle. She seemed so unperturbed when I walked in, knowing good and well that creature was inside.

How many women has she seen die at the hands of the Dimitrescu Family? How many times has she had to clean up the blood and bodies? How many of them did she know?

It would explain why she's so cold, yet reserved. Why she's built an impenetrable wall over her emotions, heart, and mind.

"Why do you think everyone is so on edge? Are you telling me no one has whispered about this place in the village?"

"I've heard, but I didn't believe them." Gods, my voice sounds as dry as sandpaper, "I had no doubt there were killings, but it just seemed, impossible. Somehow. I don't know." I bury my head in my arms again.

"Well, now you do." Is her only answer.

I shake my head in my arms. A tremor slowly works its way through my body, until I'm shaking like I've been caught in a snowstorm with nothing on. "Am I going to die tonight?"

Her moment of silence isn't comforting.

All too quietly, she says, "I don't know."

I think I'm going to be sick again, but I know my stomach is empty. I hadn't had lunch yet. If I do retch anything, it'll be burning bile. "What do I do?" I ask, my voice crumbling into a whimper.

"I'll think of something."

I look up to her, eyes stinging with tears. "You? Why would you –"

She steps closer to me, the skirt of her deep teal dress blocking my view of the archway. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," I say with a lazy wave, "I think so."

"Good." She's already hauling me to my feet. "Go back downstairs and stay there for the rest of the day. I'll let them know what happened, and I'll see what Miss Dimitrescu is feeling later."

My body trembles, my lip quivering. Not at the truth and promise in her words, not at the budding light I can see flicking in those blue-grey eyes, or even the determination behind them.

It's the instinct. The maternal instinct my mother lost. It's been long enough I started to wonder if she ever had it to begin with. Or was it merely to please my father?

But this . . .

Is this what it feels like to have a mother . . .? To have someone, defend me?

My voice sounds so little when I ask, "How will I know if I'm safe?"

I still when her hand brushes a loose gathering of hair from my face, her hands enveloping mine. "Well, if you wake up tomorrow and you're still in bed, I'd say it's a good start." She pats the side of my shoulder, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Now go. And don't come out until tomorrow, if you're not in the dungeon."

Despite the fatality of her words, my shaking stops. My quivering lip stills, my body revitalizing with a newfound determination. I take a deep breath and nod.

"Why are you doing this?"

Her eyes scan me from head to toe, her brows furrowing on my face, as if she can see something I cannot.

"They could use someone like you."

I don't get to ask another word before she turns me around and escorts me down into the Hall of the Four. I grow rigid as we pass Duke's room, the door closed and the hall itself eerily silent.

But with a final pat on the back from Helga, I take a deep breath and head down to the servants' quarters as fast as my feet can carry me.

Once I'm down into the cold stone room, I leap onto the bed and bury myself under the blanket.

I don't emerge for the rest of the day, and somehow, I fall asleep.