Countess Vivienne of Hensbury had never liked visiting the lesser rooms of the palace, as it was always filled with filthy, smelly servants. The stench of boiled starch, poverty and anxiety always seemed to cling to the air no matter how well the marble gleamed or how often the maids scrubbed the floors. She stood at the corridor outside the servant's quarters, her fan in one hand, her eyes fixed on the girl who had just emerged from the kitchens carrying a tray of folded linens.
"Elisa," she called.
The maid froze at the sound of her name, her spine straightening instinctively. Slowly, she turned, the color draining from her face when she saw who it was.
"My lady," Elisa murmured, bowing her head.
