I had enough sense to grab a cloak from one of my trunks before leaving, slipping into it before I went through the gate. It was early enough in the day that the only villagers awake were fisherman and the priests of the church. Although I do curse myself for not keeping to the disguise I had when I first entered, my quickened pace and lack of gawking faces was enough for me to keep my identity hidden.

One thing I'd failed to clock is the healing of my ankle. I'm able to put more weight on it thanks to that week of respite at Donna's. Though a part of me grumbles at the impending work, the majority is eager to be kept busy.

I didn't look for Bela when I returned to the castle. Instead, I looked for Bianca – because I knew where she would be.

The warmth of the kitchen hits like a silk slap to the face, banishing the frigid early-morning, autumn chill. Gretta is the first to turn to where I lurk in the doorway, falling silent mid-sentence. But then Bianca's head snaps up, and she is racing across the room, so fast that I hardly have time to draw breath before she is wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug.

Gretta comes crashing into the two of us seconds later, knocking the hood of the cloak from my head. All three of us giggle, the two of them muttering their relief and confusion and eagerness.

Then Bianca is holding me at arm's length, scanning me from head to toe. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say, nodding brief acknowledgment to Nadine and the other maids standing in the kitchen.

Their chatter continues, some returning my gesture; others not breaking their focus from their work. Cauldrons are boiling, vegetables are minced into piles, the ovens baking something that smells remarkable . . . Which brings to attention –

"Where's Kathryn?" I ask, noticing the old hag's absence. From the moment I'd set foot in this castle, she's never missed a day of work.

The entire atmosphere of the kitchen seems to change, but only for a second. Bianca and Gretta's expressions fall, looking to the floor and nervously wiping their hands on their aprons. My stomach sinks as Gretta turns away without a word.

But Bianca guides me over to the table at the center of the room, where I'd first learned my duties as a scullery maid. I pull up a stool as Gretta brings me a cup of ginger tea. "No one has seen Kathryn since the day after you left."

I thickly swallow, my throat tight.

Bianca resumes her roll of chopping the vegetables set for a delicious looking stew. "We think she might've been taken to the dungeons."

I suck in a breath, but remain silent, eyes widening. "Why?"

The maid's onyx eyes thin with melancholy. "We think her time at Castle Dimitrescu has . . . expired."

A chill slithers down my spine.

"We can't say for sure. It's just, she didn't show up for work this entire week, and no one of the Dimitrescu family have come asking for her. Not even Helga."

Bianca scoops all of the minced vegetables and places them into a large, glass bowl before working on peeling some carrots. Gretta is over by the ovens, and Nadine – who hasn't really acknowledged my existence – is stirring the brewing soup in the cauldron. There's quiet chatter, even a few chuckles among the maids. Overall, then kitchen feels . . . lighter; merrier despite the old hag now rotting in a cell several feet beneath us.

"You guys don't seem too . . . upset, by it." I say, taking a sip of tea. I frown and add a couple scoops of sugar.

"We knew her time was coming, even if she was in denial." Gretta says as she walks over, wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks are flushed, and she readjusts her bounded curls. "And she just became so bitter."

"After I came here?" I poke.

The young maid nudges me with her hip. "She was like that before you even came here."

"But it only got worse after I arrived." I state with a grin.

Gretta just rolls her eyes and takes the large bowl of minced vegetables, just as Bianca finishes dumping in the now thinly sliced carrot bits.

"She may have gotten more paranoid after the timely coincidences surrounding you," Bianca starts, stepping around me towards the cooling box to fetch another glass bowl containing dough. Her hair is braided down her back, the strands glowing silver in the morning light, "but that doesn't mean she was any better before or after you left the kitchen. Either way, Louis has been a wonderful replacement."

She motions over to the hearth where a lovely, slim woman pulls a dangling pot from the fire with an iron tool. I watch her remove the lid and add a small bowl of pasta to what I assume is water. She pushes it back, adjusting some logs and when she turns towards us, I can't help but admire the sun-kissed hue of her skin. It speaks of countless hours spent outside, probably in the garden, and is a lovely compliment to her golden-brown hair.

As if sensing our stare, she looks towards the three of us and spares a gracious smile, wiping some loosened strands from her gleaming forehead. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, her eyes a rich brown.

I nod in agreement, sparing a jerk of my chin in acknowledgement. "Well, I'm glad you guys are doing okay. Right?"

Bianca brings over a small container of flour, and I scramble back with my tea as she covers nearly half the table. I give an annoyed pout as she slaps the slab of dough onto the table and begins kneading. She shrugs with a knowing smile, her tone low. "I mean, her inevitable fate is sad, but she wasn't exactly good at making friends."

Gretta nods in agreement, her smattering of freckles heightened by her rosy cheeks. "She was always on a power trip, and I think you were the only person who challenged her. Made her take it out on everyone else. Or at least, monitor our work more."

I give an apologetic wince, "Sorry."

Gretta just waves me off, her tongue poking away a strand of hair that sticks to the corner of her mouth. The new head chef, Louis, calls the young woman to start peeling potatoes, and Gretta spares a smile and wave goodbye as she disappears into the back pantry.

I keep my distance as Bianca kneads and slaps and rolls and repeats, stirring up clouds of flour. She looks beautiful – truly beautiful with the sunlight pooling in from the windows, the shimmer along her upper cheekbones, the few dangling strands of hair that halo her face as she works. And that smile . . . such openness and joy, despite being trapped in this stone prison.

For a moment, I imagine her hands kneading my breasts; I imagine just lifting her onto the table, clothes gone, and devouring her right there – in all that flour. While the other maids watch.

To see her tan skin and midnight hair covered in white, to see evidence of how I made her squirm and writhe and come, to spread her legs wide and reveal a gleaming sex –

"How was your week at Donna's?" She asks, snapping me from my fantasy. I can only hope the heat of the kitchen explains away my heated cheeks. Where did that thought even come from?

"Um . . . it was uneventful." A blatant, stupid lie. But they don't know the things I've seen; they don't know my suspicions. I don't even think they know of the powers the Dimitrescu daughters have. And I can't tell them, for their own safety.

"Really?" says Bianca with a questioning brow. "Was there anything to do?"

"Not really. There weren't that many people, but then again her house is tiny compared to here." I say, finishing my tea. "I was actually given the role of cook."

"Really?" Bianca snorts.

It's her impish smile that has me placing a hand on my hip, my own grin upturning my lips. "Yes. Why is that funny? I happen to be a very decent cook, if my work around here was any indication."

"It's just, it doesn't seem like your kind of thing. It's too, housewife for you."

I tilt my head back and laugh. "Didn't it ever occur to you that I might want to be a housewife one day?" I say with exaggeration.

Bianca blatantly answers, "No."

"Yeah who am I kidding? I'd go crazy if I had to stay in the house all day, tending to chickens and children."

Bianca steps away to grab a rolling pin and begins to flatten the dough – after yet another sprinkling of flour. I give a humorous cough. "Do you not want children?" she asks as she smears the rolling pin white.

I shrug. "I don't know. Not really, but that's because I have to take care of my sister – which I basically the same thing, I guess."

And because I can't really see myself with a man.

Not yet. But maybe not ever.

Bianca seems to read that layer of unspoken words in my eyes and spares an open if pitiful smile. She goes to put her hand on my arm, but refrains with her flour-covered hands. I give her a nod of thanks.

"How were things on the property?" She asks brightly. "Not much in the means of exploration. Ugh, and how were things with that doll always around?" She shivers in discomfort.

"It was . . . an experience," I say, and Bianca giggles. "The manor itself, is actually quite cozy. I don't know if it's the place that it's in, or just the downsize compared to the castle, but it wasn't that bad. Almost felt bored."

"There wasn't much to do?"

"No. And she had little to no servants there, safe for a gardener whom I never saw but was told about."

Bianca snorts. "So, you kind of got a week off then, huh?"

"I suppose. It sure helped my ankle." I say as I saunter over towards the sink where I place my cup and saucer.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, and I'm glad you were able to enjoy your time at Miss Beneviento's estate."

"Yeah well, I'll be going back next month."

Bianca lifts her brows. "What for?"

"Just to lend a little extra hand. She had mentioned something to Lady Dimitrescu about my services, and the mistress had worked out a deal with her." The lie was too smooth, too easy. My heart aching to be lying to someone who actually considered me as – as a friend.

"Every month? For how long?"

I shrug. "Until she grows tired of my services I suppose. I already have enough on my plate being both personal servant to Bela Dimitrescu and Lady Dimitrescu. I'm grateful the Lady only allowed for a week every month. Which – on that note – I should attempt to find them and let them know I've arrived."

Bianca claps her hands and wipes them on her apron as best she can before pulling me into another hug. I do ask where she thinks the Mistress and her daughters might be, but Bianca only suggested the Lady's private chambers.

As I step out of the kitchen, I take a peek outside into the courtyard, only to find the two black-haired, blue-eyed twins sweeping up dead leaves. I might be better of finding Helga before finding the Dimitrescu family.

I'm about to step out into the main hall when I hear the loud clanging of a door nearby.

Footsteps sound from the hall. Even, strolling, casual.

Instinctually I duck back behind the door upon hearing multiple footsteps and mingling voices. A casual feminine laugh trickles towards me. The door to the kitchen opens, and I whirl to find Bianca emerging with a silver platter rounded off with freshly baked biscuits. Her onyx eyes widen as I startle her, a gasp escaping her lips.

I bring my finger to my lips in silent command. Those dark eyes flick between me and empty main hall beyond.

The footsteps grow louder – the scuff of boots on marble tiles.

Her confirming nod eases my nerves, and she makes quick work to set the plate down and step out of sight, lingering in the doorway to the kitchen.

And then they emerge.

Bela meanders through the hall, smiling as brightly as a lovestruck princess, arms bound to a strikingly handsome man. His eyes are strikingly blue, the color of the waters of the southern countries, his pale blue jacket fitted to his broad shoulders and turning his skin golden. His smile is award-winning, his raven black hair shining blue in the light. His black pants are fitted to show the shape of his thighs before draping over polished black shoes.

My lip curls – a swaggering peacock. A man well damn aware of his looks, of his charisma. A dangerous combination.

Bela wears a dress of pale rose-pink, her hair swept up like mine usually is – braided with pearls that follow through in her earrings and necklace. The sleeves of her dress are belled and translucent, cuffing at the wrists while the ruffle-lined skirts drape behind her. But it's not the odd coloring that strikes me – instead it's the low dip at the front of the dress, almost to her navel, exposing the outer edges of her breasts. As enticing as a venomous plant.

Not too far behind them Lady Dimitrescu emerges in her usual white gown and black hat. It shields her eyes, so I can only see a venom-laced grin. I take a glance at the table and find an extra plate. A guest? A dignitary?

I motion for Bianca to get back to the kitchen – her retreating footsteps quickly growing quiet, but not before I spare her my cloak. Left with only my leather jacket and dagger strapped to my waist, I wait another few seconds before steeling my spine and emerging from the dining room.

I fight a cringe as Bela's ditsy giggle trickles along my ears. The moment I step into the hall, their heads snap to me, and the man's gaze devours me, lingering on my hips and chest – both of which have filled out since my beginning months here. In fact, just before leaving for Lord Beneviento's, I had to timidly ask Gabriella to resize me for a new brasserie. The talented seamstress had managed to give me a few new pairs to wear until my return to the castle.

I watch him a frankness that most people shy from, and he is no different. But I direct my words towards Lady Dimitrescu, sparing a passing curtsey – despite wearing pants and boots – as I say, "Greetings, My Lady. I am back from Lord Beneviento's estate."

The Mistress considers me with the same unflinching assessment she laid upon everyone. "Welcome back dear. I presume the madame's hospitality was, pleasant."

I give a stiff not, still not acknowledging Bela until, "It was, but I am happy to be back in a familiar environment. Which I wanted to ask: would you have me resume my duties as before, My Lady?"

Only then do I cast my gaze towards Bela, and am met with a stillness that most people would run from.

"Get yourself settled back into your room, and resume your duties tomorrow, dear." Lady Dimitrescu says, continuing her trek towards the dining room, bored and uninterested. "We will be busy with entertainment tonight. Do not bother us."

"Yes, My Lady." I bow at the waist, as much of a dismissal as I level a stare at Bela.

She spares an approving nod, her smile tight and closed-lipped as she returns her attention to the suitor. I begin up the stairs without another word. She continues whatever conversation she was having with the young man, of which he responds with a lover's tone. I can feel his eyes upon me as they head into the dining room, watching me up the stairs, but I keep my chin high and my face bored.

I make sure I'm out of line of sight on the second floor before I pause in the doorway to an adjacent hall. I lean my spine along the threshold, contemplating why the hell my heart is raging, and why I wish I had iron claws to just tear that smug bastard to pieces.

I'd made things clear with Bela before I'd left to stay away from me, to not waste my time until she can decide what the hell we are.

What I am to her.

I have a faint idea on what fate will befall that man – and I don't feel the slightest bit guilty. The village would be better off without someone like him.

But still, watching Bela walk arm-in-arm with him, to know that beneath her façade there is a kind of interest in him; made worse when I recall the last few words I'd said to her before I left –

Cassandra's voice suddenly barks in my ear.

I gasp, startling and clasping my hand to my chest as a swarm of flies emerges before me, Cassandra's giggle reverberating all around me in the narrow hallway. They swarm and flurry and undulate like a lock of birds at twilight before gathering and materializing in the middle Dimitrescu daughter. She steps forward out of the swam, clad in a black dress with a low, lace front. Her hair rests in loose waves. The topaz of her choker necklace stark against her pale skin, the obsidian sword she had gifted me is strapped along her back.

"Oh, that never gets old." She giggles. "It's not too often I see you unhinged."

Wonder what she considers 'unhinged' considering the things she's lured me into seeing. The things she's done to me.

I give an annoyed sigh, but still curtsy unceremoniously. "Lady Cassandra."

As the middle daughter approaches, I can only stare at her in a distracted fascination. I look around her and see no lingering flies, her form as solid as a rock.

"What?" she asks, her impish smile faltering.

"It's just, intriguing to see."

"What?"

"The flies. The way they materialize and disappear; how you're form remains solid and whole despite it being made of those little things."

My honesty seems to throw Cassandra off, because she blinks in a heartbeat of silence before seemingly adjusting her expression. "So, Bela finally told you our little secret, hm?"

"I wouldn't say told as much as showed."

"Oh? And how did she have to show it?"

Rather than throw the eldest daughter to the wolves, I decide to say, "It was a matter of life and death."

That seems to throw her again, as she blinks a few more times before squaring her shoulders. "Did she tell you how this happened?"

"No."

"And you're okay with that?"

"It's not my business to ask. Not if I want to keep my head." I notion my eyes to the sickle strapped to her waist.

The middle daughter smiles as she runs her finger over the curving blade. "Welcome back, by the way."

Something in my chest falters as I realize she's the first person of the family to greet me. Bela didn't even greet me, while I had to announce my presence to Lady Dimitrescu. Façade or not, servant or not, she still could've said hello.

"Aren't you supposed to be down there entertaining your guest?" I ask.

"Nope," she folds her arms. "He is someone strictly for Bela. I wasn't allowed to have any part of it." She purses her lips in a playful pout. "Shame. But the good news is, that leaves some free time for me – and since you just came back from Aunt Donna's home, that leaves some free time for you as well."

I could lie – but Cassandra would confirm it with her mother, and then I'll be sleeping in a dungeon cell with a literal knife set in my back.

"What is it that you want, Lady Cassandra?"

She scoffs. "I give you a wonderfully made gift, and you call me Lady Cassandra?"

I resist the urge to look at the sword strapped to her back, the hilt poking over her shoulder. "I'm merely trying to be respectful."

"I don't hear you call Bela that."

"She insisted I greet her casually. I'd rather not disobey her orders." But warmth floods my cheeks, gods damn it. "But, what did you want from me, La – Cassandra?"

The middle daughter shrugs her shoulders. "Well, since Bela will be distracted with her 'company,' perhaps you and I can use this opportunity to get to know each other better."

"I've gotten to know you plenty." I snarl, scrunching the scar only a few centimeters from my eye. I can only hope she remembers when I nearly blew her hand off. Even if she could disperse into a swarm, I still managed to scare her.

"Yeah, but I want to see the side of you that Bela sees." She coos, prowling around me like a cat eyeing a canary. "I just figured since Bela is going to be busy for a bit, it will allow us some time to bond. And besides," she sighs, "I would be lying if I said I didn't want to learn some of your moves."

I arc a brow, "Moves?"

"Yeah, the things that you do when you fight . . .?"

I sway my weight between my feet. "You, want me to teach you how to fight?"

Cassandra nods. "Surprised?"

"Very."

"Well, ever since I saw you and Bela shooting, I've been curious about what else you learned. I want to be stronger, better."

"I . . . didn't expect this from you. I assumed you would think it's unnecessary, given your current state of . . . person."

"It doesn't hurt to know how to be better in a fight. Especially in a situation where I'm at a disadvantage."

"What disadvantage? You can turn into a swarm of flies."

Cassandra's face turns faintly serious, yet questioning as her brows tent towards each other. "Didn't Bela mention how we don't like the cold?"

I pause. No, she hadn't. At least, not in explanation. She mentioned she didn't like the cold the day I was first attacked by the lycans, but she's accompanied me ever since and –

Come to think of it, she did look rather, irritate while we were on our last hunt, even before we were attacked by that vârcolac.

"The cold does, something to you, doesn't it?" I ask.

Cassandra purses her lips, shifting into a grin as her eyes scour about the space around us. "It's a disadvantage. That's all I'll say."

I scoff and roll my eyes, reeling in my temper.

She bats her eyes. "Does it really matter what my reasons are? You just said it's not your business, and isn't it good that another young, defenseless woman wants to learn how to defend herself?"

I snort. "You're anything but defenseless, but . . . you know what? You're on."

Cassandra bursts into excited laughter before floating around me – more of her flies materializing. "Oh, this'll be fun! Who knows, with me, you might even get some answers. If you play nice enough."

I give her my own venomous smile. "I look forward to it. Where will we go?"

"There's a ballroom we can practice in. Follow me."

And I do.

I follow Cassandra throughout the castle, counting the turns and piecing it together in my mental map. When we arrive, I'm baffled at the room.

It's not the same ballroom where I had originally shot with Bela. In fact, calling it a ballroom is incorrect. In fact, it's an actual training room the same size as the opera hall, with more windows and a lower ceiling. Though most of the weapon racks remain empty, some hold training staffs and wooden swords. Most of the proper weapons have been stuffed away into the castle armory. Outside the wall of stain-glass doors, a veranda sits with a white, painted sparring ring.

I look all about the space, surprised that such a room even exists in this castle still. With the all-female help, I thought Lady Dimitrescu would've renovated the room into something else. On the checkered tile floor, another sparring ring has been incorporated into the design of the tiles – a dizzying illusion that has me blinking to refocus my eyes.

"So what exactly do you want to learn, here." I ask as Cassandra skips across the room, towards the ring.

"I just want to learn how to defend myself." She says, twirling towards me, the skirt of her dress billowing.

"If that is true, then be warned, I'll throw a lot at you. Everything I learned from my own mentor . . . and my own bruises."

"Your father taught you, right?"

There was such genuine curiosity that I blink for a heartbeat. "Yeah. He wanted to make sure I'd always be able to protect myself."

A nod. "Smart man."

I meander over towards the doors, looking out over the veranda. "Will we be using real weapons?"

"What do you mean 'real?'"

"I mean will we be using actual blades, or wooden ones?"

"Why would I use wooden weapons?"

I run my tongue across the front of my teeth. I tut with disproval, "It's called starting with the basics. You can't just swing a sword around and call yourself a solider." I make a point to take the sword from her back. To my surprise, she lets me. "It takes time and practice. As good with a sickle you might be, you need to get close enough to a person to do so."

"You make it sound like I'm doing the attacking." She grins with a cross of her arms.

"Combat is about controlling conflict – putting the battle on your terms. You should always be acting, never reacting."

In one smooth motion, I fling open one pair of doors, letting in a searing autumn wind.

Some leaves blow in from the gust, and as Cassandra squeals in surprise, I open another set. And another.

My skin easily crawls with goosebumps, a chill ripping its way down my spine. Several pieces of my hair rip from their braided plait, now fluttering on the wind like a cornsilk ribbon.

"What are you doing?!" Cassandra seethes, sickle already in hand.

It is here I can see bits and pieces fall off her arms, her sleeves, her skirt – and I realize those are the flies. The cold makes them drop dead. They must stick together as means to keep warm.

And if Bela had split into a swarm in the autumn cold . . . it could've been deadly.

"You already have an advantage over every man and woman in this village. If we're going to train, we need to train you at your disadvantage." I say, my voice firm and unyielding, just as my father's when he taught me. "Someone could discover this weakness and exploit it – you need to be ready if, and when, that happens."

"No one is going to find out," Cassandra growls, more animal than human.

She charges and swings, but I strike, ramming my fist into Cassandra's arm, sending the sickle soaring through the air. In the same breath, my palm hits the daughter's left arm, knocking it aside, too. As Cassandra staggers back, my leg comes up, and her eyes bulge as my foot slams into her chest. The kick sends her flying, and her body crunches as it hits the floor and slides across the tiles, bumping into the base of an embedded column.

She snarls at me with grit teeth as I approach, adding extra swagger into my gait. Slowly, I draw the sword from my back, the metal singing as I unsheathe it.

"You may think the battle is always on your side, but there will come a time when you have to fight through your weakness. Either by purpose, or accident." I hiss.

Cassandra's breathing begins to saw in and out of her. If an autumn chill is doing this to her, I can't imagine what the winter must feel like for her – for Bela.

Cassandra tries to lunge at me again, arm raised with her gleaming sickle. I easily block and parry with my sword, ducking as her free hand comes to claw out my eyes. I follow my momentum and swipe at her legs, knocking her feet out from under her. Cassandra's back hits the tiles with an affirmative crunch. Another growl, another teeth-flashing snarl.

"You're angry. Good. But don't react – channel that anger –"

Cassandra gives no warning as she attacks, feinting right and aiming low. The fluidity tells she's killed men with that move before — sliced them clean in half. But I dodge her with brutal efficiency, deflecting and positioning to the offensive, and that is all that Cassandra manages to see before I bring up my sword on pure instinct. She charges at me again, no different than an angry bull, and I spin the blade down, holding it to my side.

I raise my free arm up and sidestep Cassandra, before whacking my foot into the shin.

The middle daughter howls in pain, tumbling but remaining on her feet.

Until she takes another step. Then she collapses to the floor, more flies falling off of her like embers to a fire.

My lips tug upwards, probing Cassandra to see red; let her know I'm toying with her.

Not for amusement—no, to prove some point. As some added salt to the wound, I sheathe the blade at my spin.

I don't even need a weapon to fight her.

I give the daughter credit – she pushes herself back on her feet, snarling no different than an animal . . . if animals could throw tantrums.

She runs at me again, swinging her sickle about once more, making these pitched grunts. It is too easy to dodge and jam the crook of my thumb into her throat. I bite back the disgust as I feel it crumple beneath my hand like lumped sand, the flies dropping dead.

Cassandra doesn't see the second blow coming to her legs. Then she is blinking at the wooden beams of the ceiling, gasping for breath as the pain arcs through her spine.

I snarl down at her, the tip of the blade angled to pierce her throat.

And for the first time since I first came to the castle . . . Cassandra looks unnerved.

"The worst thing about being overconfident, is underestimating your opponent." I grit.

Cassandra blinks. "You never said anything."

"You never asked."

She props herself up on her elbows, and I lower the blade. "Why didn't you do anything before? Why didn't you do anything when I –"

She apparently can't bring herself to finish the sentence. Confirmed when her eyes flick to the scar just beside my eye.

My lip curls. "Because it didn't matter. And because I didn't want to show it. I don't need a bigger target on my back."

"Bigger, target?"

I shrug my shoulder, sheathing the blade once more. I walk over and begin to close the doors. "The village already had their assumptions about me, I guess I just, didn't want you or the servants of the castle to have any either."

"But you could've defended yourself."

"And then what? Your mother sees me as a threat and has me killed immediately? No thank you."

Cassandra is on her feet now. "I don't think she would've killed you."

"Really?" I doubtfully say. "You don't think she'd want some kind of warrior's blood in her 'special wine?'"

I wait for her to deny my skills as warrior-like, but it doesn't come.

"So . . . your whole goal in taking this job, was just to be like everyone else?" she asks.

I close the final door, a wave of heat washing over me and perspiring my forehead. I lock it tight, pressing them together to ensure they're sealed. "No. It was to bring income for my family. We hit a rough patch after my father passed."

"Still, you were trying to be feeble and frail, when in reality you could tear a man's head off?"

I blink, but straighten my spine. "Yes. Why?"

"Because it sounds stupid."

I slowly turn to her. "Excuse me?"

Cassandra rolls her eyes. "You have some incredible talent, Erika. You could use it for something far greater than just washing dishes and hunting in the woods."

I can barely process the possibility that she said my name. It sounds so foreign on her lips. "And what would I become? Hand to House Dimitrescu? A champion of Mother Miranda?"

"Sure sounds better than just cleaning lintels out of the fireplace."

"Well, I can't. Or, I won't. My father taught me how to defend myself, and that's all I'm using for – defense."

Cassandra crosses her arms, seemingly upset that I didn't acknowledge her praise, if that's what that was. How many others – let alone mortal servant girls – has she complimented? Has seen real potential in? But I won't disgrace my father's name by abusing the skills he trained me in. He wanted me to protect myself, not slaughter those who are seemingly inferior.

"The village already has its own collective opinion about me. Coming here, despite the hazard, it was a new start. I could blend in with everyone else and not receive judgmental gazes or hateful glares. I could try to show people who I really was – not who my mother imprinted on us. I don't think I would've made many friends either if I had gotten some special treatment."

"They seemed to handle you becoming Mother's and Bela's personal servant." Cassandra notes.

I shrug in agreement, but the situations were different. They all know the simplified reasons as to why I'm handmaiden to the Mistress and her eldest daughter; and they even seemed grateful, since it seemed like one of the harder positions to have taken.

"It's different." Is all I say.

A moment of palpable silence, and then, "You don't seem to like your mother much, do you?"

I don't bother sounding pleasant. "Not after the things she did." Cassandra's eyes flick to the scar on my right hand, detailing the slight odd bend in my fingers. I wouldn't be surprised if Bela had told her, it doesn't really make a difference. "To everyone." I add.

I take a calming breath as I imagine little Lacy sitting on the steps of our door, covered in snow, shivering and blue, and almost lost to the searing cold – while my mother dozed off drunk by a warm fire.

"Look, my personal life aside, do you still want to learn, or not?"

She blinks, eyes flicking to my hands again, and I realize I'm still holding her sickle. Despite my better judgment, I hand it back to her.

She says, "You could've prevented me from doing that to you."

I lower my gaze, staring at my toes and kicking at nonexistent dirt on the checkered tile. "Not like I could've done anything, anyway. Not with your mother watching. She'd probably slice my hand before I could even raise it to you. Besides, I only try to use it if I have to."

"But you could've slaughtered those villagers if you wanted to."

"And I wouldn't, despite all want that filled me." My voice has dropped, catching in my throat.

"Why?"

"It wouldn't do me any good anyway. Maybe in a way I'd be proving them right – that I come from some kind of fucked up family, and with my mom being no better than a whore, I'd be no better than an animal."

"I'd rather be seen as an animal than some harmless damsel."

"A harmless person is not a good person. A good person is a very dangerous person who has it under voluntary control." I quite my father. Cassandra's brows lift. "So, do you want to keep training like this, or not?"

The middle daughter blinks, and looks past me towards the shimmering doors. As if she could see the impending winter beyond.

"We normally never go anywhere in the winter." She says more to herself than to me. But then she adds, "I guess it would be useful to know in case someone starts making trouble around the castle."

She gives me a look that has me saying, "I won't tell anyone."

"You would've by now if you cared." She confidently counters. "But, yes. I would love to know how you fight."

I approach the middle daughter, stopping barely a foot from her. "Will your mother approve?"

"She'll have to. But I don't see why she wouldn't."

"Will you tell her about what happened?" I ask.

"No." she grins, "No one needs to know about how I got my ass handed to me. I have a reputation to uphold."

I suppress my own smile. "I am pretty busy – hunting in the morning, Lady Dimitrescu for the afternoon, and Bela for the rest of the evening."

"I'll figure something out with them."

"I hope Bela will be okay with this."

Confusion tents the daughter's brow. "Why wouldn't she be?"

Maybe because of all the times you hurt me, or tried to kill me? Maybe because she doesn't trust you or Daniela after everything you pulled to try and make my life miserable? Or because she genuinely cares about me in a way that's more than just a servant, and she wants me all to herself . . .? But –

"Never mind." I dismiss, ignoring the sting in my chest.

Later that night, Cassandra stands with Bela in the shadows atop the mezzanine, staring down at Erika as she punches at the dummy situated in the center of the floor. She'd sent a message to Bela saying she was going to train for a few hours after dinner, and she'd invited Cassandra to come along to watch.

Her sister had been unusually quiet – simply staring at Erika with something that looked like admiration. Perhaps she could now see why Erika is such a threat to them. To Mother Miranda.

Erika grunts, throwing punch after punch, left-right-left-left-right. On and on, as if she had something burning inside of her that she can't quite get out. Her skin shines, and Bela swallows at the thought of licking each droplet of sweat off her arms, her hands, her forehead – that beautifully curving ass.

Her dinner with the noble's son had been as expected – boring. The man was about as deep as a tidal pool, and all he kept asking about was Erika. Not that Bela gave him her name, and made it clear that she was not to be mentioned.

At least she got to enjoy a nice, rough evening with him before she slit his throat and Daniela dragged him to the dungeons. But still, it felt, empty – worthless. Not in the emotional way; she never had any emotion for him – but it didn't bring her the ecstasy it did like with Erika. It felt good, it was . . . alright. She'd been expecting more with a man of his handsomeness. Apparently, nobility doesn't teach much in the ways of lovemaking.

"She looks stronger than before," the middle daughter says quietly. "She's done a good job getting back in shape." Erika punches and kicks at the dummy, dodging invisible blows. She wears nothing but a grey, sweat-stained band over her breasts, black leggings revealing the curves of her thighs. "You think she can keep herself quiet?"

Erika swings her leg through the air, connecting with the dummy's head. It rocks back. The blow would have knocked out a man. "I think if she doesn't get too riled and keeps a cool head, she might. But she's . . . wild. And unpredictable. She needs to learn to control her feelings—especially that impossible anger."

Which is true. Bela doesn't know if it was because of her mother, or from her father's training; whatever the cause of that unyielding rage, she can never entirely leash herself.

"Who's that?" Cassandra asks sharply as Bianca enters the room and walks over to Erika. She pauses, rubbing her wrapped knuckles, and wipes the sweat from her eyes as she waves to the beautifully tanned-skinned servant.

"Bianca," Bela says. "A scullery maid from the kitchen."

Bianca says something to Erika that set her chuckling. Bianca laughs, too. "She actually made a friend?" Cassandra says, raising her brows as Erika demonstrates a move for Bianca. "She's training her?"

Bela shrugs. "I'm not sure. This is the first time I've seen them together, here. The two of them seemed to have grown close – especially over the week Erika's ankle was healing."

"And you allow this?"

Bela hides her glower at her sister's tone. "If you want me to put an end to it, I will."

Her sarcasm bristles her sister's skin, but Cassandra watches the two servant women for another moment. "No. Let them be together. The other servants are bitches — she could use an ally."

"That she could."

Cassandra turns from the balcony and strides off into the darkness of the hall beyond. Bela watches her sister disappear, her black cape billowing behind her, and sighs.

She knows jealousy when she sees it, and while Cassandra is clever, she is just as bad as Erika at hiding her emotions.

Her feet heavy, Bela follows after her sister, hoping Cassandra wasn't about to drag them all into serious trouble.