I FALL INTO A RHYTHM EASILY OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS.
I wake up early in the morning, exchanging polite nods and greetings with the others in the room. I gossip when appropriate and ask questions when I can.
I quickly learn that the mute servants are also Mainlanders. There are twelve of them total; six males, six females. None of them look a day past sixteen.
It still puzzles me how the Mistress has a spy among their rank, but it's not something I spend too much time on. The Mistress has connections everywhere, and it is best not to ask questions I do not want answers to.
One night, after a particularly long day in the kitchen, in which I make no progress in my assignment, but have earned many sores on my feet from running the length of house delivering food, six of us settle down in a circle around one lone lantern.
Shiva, the seventh, always comes back late. Rumor has it that she rendezvous with a lover in town.
The crickets chirp an easy melody, and dim silver light from the moon trickles in from the one window we have. An errant cloud crosses the moon's path every now and then, casting strange shadows into the room.
It's the perfect night to tell tall tales and speak of the unspeakable.
"What happened to them?" I ask Twi, voice hushed. "Why are they like that?"
Twi looks around furtively, her dark curls bobbing as she does. I've discovered that she is the resident gossip on this corner of the hal and provides useful information. I don't even have to pretend to be a busybody; Twi spills everything she knows to anyone who will listen.
"The master hates when the servants speak," Twi says, voice hushed. With the way her eyes gleam and her cheeks flush, it's as if she's telling a bawdy love story, not a morbid truth. "They say he has shady business on the mainland, and paranoid that his servants would leak details, he cut out all their tongues."
The color drains out of several faces. "Will he do that t' us?" one of the ladies ask. Her name is June. She's the mother of four, though she rarely talks about her children. There's always a pinched look on her face anytime anyone brings it up.
Twi doesn't have an answer.
"I'm gon' warn you young'ns now, but be careful. All of them are young," June says as she heaves herself up to her feet.
She gets ready to go to bed, and the rest of us follow.
But when everyone is breathing evenly and heavily, I get up, slipping out of the room silently. It is more out of habit than real need. Working in the mansion is tiring, and many of the servants sleep like they are past death the moment they lie down.
I don't blame them. Even I am feeling the toll. The Rozi house may be all that it is, dirty secrets and all, but it is a well kept dungeon of secrets. An efficient staff of servants keeps the place orderly and clean while providing us with all our meals and clothes.
I've never given it a second thought, even in my previous assignments. Being a tutor or maid or lady-in-waiting for a day is hardly the same as doing it day in and day out for weeks, nevermind months.
I wonder if the servants in the Rozi house are also forcibly mute. It seems like the sort of thing the Mistress would take delight in doing. I've never paid them enough care to notice.
I glide through the servants' hallway into the main hallway. Square in shape, it loops around the center of the house — the courtyard — and has numerous exits and entrances and doorways into other parts of the house.
I ghost down a hallway that seems to appear suddenly to the right, with no indication or sign. I found it accidentally earlier today, and added it to my mental map of the mansion. It leads into an even narrower hallway, which I have found leads into a small room that might have once been a food pantry or hideaway for kids.
It's a good place to hide and plot a murder. Or hide the accessories for one.
I nudge some dirt covering the far wall, which reveals the bottom edge to a piece of peeling wallpaper. There is no light in the room, but I know there is a crevice behind the wallpaper, and in that crevice is one of my daggers.
The other is on my body.
Tonight, I will need both.
I close the door to the room, taking a left instead of a right. This takes me to what seems like a forgotten servants' entrance or fire exit on the far side of the mansion. The door is covered with ivy, and mold has started weakening the wood.
The moon shines gently, approvingly, as I make my way into the crisp night air.
On nights like these, I understand why wolves howl.
It is a perfect night to tell tall tales and do the unspeakable.
Energy pulses through my veins, and I grip my two daggers tightly. I am the best for a reason. For others, each and every assignment is merely that -- an assignment.
For me, it is practice. A hunt. A change to whittle my skills and whet my appetite for vengeance.
It's about time to begin the assignment properly.
I take a few more deep breaths of musty pine and mountain fog, then slip back into the house.
My late night explorations the last couple of days reveal that the first floor seems to hold the parlor, sitting rooms, living rooms, a formal dining room, the kitchen, the servants quarters, and the courtyard.
The west side of the second floor holds the master suite, a smaller dining space, a kitchenette, and a parlor. The piano in the parlor had a fine layer of dust of the over, which I dutifully brushed away on the third day.
I plan to scout the east side tonight. Fine silver rays from the full moon spill onto the long blue carpets that line the hallways. Tall windows to my left look into the courtyard, still well-lit with bright lanterns, despite the hour.
Another private suite seems to occupy most of the east side. Probably the room of the so-called esteemed young master. A set of large French doors stands off the side of the room, as if guarding it. I open the doors to find a large balcony. Large enough to fit the entirety of our seven-person servants' room.
I also find the young master himself.
He stands with his back to me, but when the door creaks as it opens, he turns around to face me.
I curse inwardly, though I school my features into that of contrite apology. I had thought everyone would be asleep at this hour.
I curtsy and back away, making to leave, acting as if it was completely natural for me to come to the second floor balcony in the first place.
"Wait, you don't have to leave. I won't tell my father," he says, reaching a hand out.
I don't look up, still trying to look apologetic.
"I didn't think anyone would be here," I whisper hoarsely, as if I am frightened.
But seeing how soft and thin his hands and wrists were the first night, I know I have nothing to be frightened of. This boy has never picked up a sword in his life, let alone even a stone or rock. He couldn't hurt a fly.
I peek up at him from beneath my lashes, then look away, abashed.
"I couldn't sleep," he says, by way of explanation. "You couldn't either?"
I keep my head down. "No," I say, my voice meek. "Please don't punish me. I'll be more careful next time."
I could most definitely have slept if I tried. But then I would be wasting precious time.
I watch his hands as he pats a wicker chair besides him, flinching as his hands near me. "I won't hurt you, but come sit with me. This balcony is too big for one."
I approach the seat hesitantly. He sits in another chair besides me, though a small table separates us. He has bought my entire act, though I had few doubts that he wouldn't.
Neither of us talk.
I glance at him from my periphery. He has his father's looks and his mother's build, though the same features that make Bran look like a beast make his son look stoic.
His dark curls frame eyes that gleam silver in the moonlight, and high, sharp cheekbones. He looks blankly out into the night. I follow his gaze and see that the balcony overlooks the road back towards the capital. On a clear night, perhaps we would be able to see a few lights and fires burning, but tonight, the mist is as thick as usual.
He catches one of my glances and gives me a wry smile. "I promise I won't hurt you. You look like you want to run."
I shake my head, still keeping it low. I throw in a tremble, for good effect.
"I'll leave, if it makes you more comfortable," he says, getting up from his seat.
I blink. How unexpected.
I had expected him to stay, to taunt me further, to assert his power. I know his type, and they are all the same.
They hide behind their father's power, never needing to dirty their own hands. They are weaker, but crueler than their fathers.
"No, please don't, sir. I'll leave," I make to scamper away.
"No, I will go."
His voice is firm. I hear his footsteps as he leaves, though I do not lift my head until I hear the door close behind him.
How curious.
I leave after a few more minutes to head back to my room. That's enough exploration for the night, and acting subservient has exhausted me. But I cannot deny I am pleased. I am now another step closer to another one of my targets.
Killing two birds with one stone.
But as I head into the servant's corridor, it doesn't escape my notice that there is a silent shadow beside a burnt out lantern. Her back is turned towards me, and her cropped dark hair spills over a nightgown, many times washed and worn. She turns towards me as I slip into my room, her eyes dark.
Rowena.
Is it a blessing or a curse that she cannot speak?
I clean my daggers carefully, worrying at their sharp edges with a cloth as worry pierces my heart.
There is nothing she can say to the Mistress that would jeopardize me. Nothing at all. I have done nothing wrong or out of line.
I remind myself of this over and over. I am the Mistress' perfect pet. I have never failed, except for once. And I will not fail now. Especially not now.
∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗
The next morning, I wake to the sounds of worrying. A few women I don't recognize are in the room, and they pace to and fro.
"Mel, Shiva hasn't come back," Twi says, hurrying over.
"Why?" I say, staying in bed as I brush my hair.
"That's not important," Twi says dismissively. "But what will we do?"
I raise an eyebrow. "What does it matter?" I eye the ends of my hair. I had been in such a hurry to leave the other day that I had neglected to dye it again.
"Don't you understand? She serves Lord Bran. If she doesn't show up, he's going to cut all our tongues off," she says, horror laced in all her words.
I start weaving the strands of my hair into a long braid. There's no visible gold yet, but I should be careful nonetheless. "I'll take her spot," I say brightly. "Shiva and I look alike enough."
Twi looks at Shiva's empty bed, then at me. She nods once. "You really do. I hadn't noticed. But are you sure?"
"Yes. No one will notice a thing."
"Oh Mel, thank you! You're so brave." Twi takes my hands and hops with relief, her curls shaking as she moves.
I'll have to start my braid over again, I think, annoyed as my hair unfurls around my shoulders.
I keep my thoughts to myself and smile at her gently. "I'm not being brave, I'm just doing what I have to."
When I finish changing, I head to the kitchen for duty. I am immediately given a tray, complete with a fine clay pot filled with breakfast tea and a china plate of eggs and fresh baked bread.
"Do you know where Lord Bran's room is?" the servant handing me the tray says gruffly. I nod. My nighttime explorations have taught me much.
The corridors are quiet as I hurry up the stairs to the master suite. No one is awake except for the staff in the house. The few I pass in the hallways give me a quick nod, placing their finger to their lips in an attempt to warn me to stay quiet.
When I knock on the door, there is no sound at first. I knock again once more, this time insistently.
"Come in," a gravelly male voice says.
I enter, my eyes adjusting quickly to the dark. I set the tray down, careful to look only down at my hands.
"Come here," he says, his voice emerging from the shadows of his bed. His wife lies still besides him, though if it weren't for the faint movement of her hair as she breathes, I would think her dead. "Bring me the food."
I do, obediently, then back away to leave.
He barely glances at me as I close the door. I scoff under my breath. For all his cruelty towards his servants, he doesn't care much about them. He didn't even notice I wasn't the person who usually brought his food.
I hurry down the stairs and reenter the kitchen, only to hear Madge's complaints that Shiva still has not shown up. She curses the girl's irresponsibility.
"Once these girls have a lover, they think they can stop working. Is their head full of clouds?" she mutters towards Yasmina, a girl two rooms down from mine. Yasmina nods, though she doesn't take her eyes away from the carrots she is chopping.
Whop, whop, whop, her knife goes as it hits the cutting board.
Rowena gives me a cursory glance as I enter the kitchen. She doesn't say anything. But she probably knows.
Shiva isn't gone because she got too caught up meeting her lover in town.
Shiva is gone because I buried her.