You begin swaying subtly midway through a polite conversation in the parlor. A hand to your temple. A carefully measured breath. You blink once, twice, slowly, letting your lashes flutter as if fighting to stay upright. Levi turns his head just slightly, catching the shift in your posture. You don't look at him, but you know he's watching. You tilt your weight again, your fingers gripping the back of a nearby chair for balance.
"I'm terribly sorry," you murmur to no one in particular. "The heat must've caught me wrong."
There's a rustle of polite concern, but no one stands.
Levi is at your side in two strides, a hand steady at your back, firm but not frantic. "She'll lie down," he says smoothly. "New surroundings. The travel's taken its toll."
You nod weakly, playing into it. "Just a moment, love. I'll be fine."
He doesn't speak again—just walks with you down the corridor, slow and measured. The moment you're out of earshot, his voice drops.
"What's the play?"
"I need to scout," you whisper. "Back halls. East wing. Ten minutes max."
He doesn't question you. Just presses a hand briefly to your lower back in silent assent before peeling off at the stairwell, making it look as though he's returning to the parlor.
—
The air shifts the moment you step into the east wing. Quieter. Stiller. The decor is less polished—more practical. Oil paintings give way to mounted beasts. You walk lightly, ears tuned to the creak of floorboards, the hiss of gas lamps.
You pass a few closed doors, each identical in gilding. Then—a study. The door is slightly ajar. You nudge it open.
Inside: thick carpets, dark walnut paneling, and on the far wall, mounted hunting trophies—fangs, antlers, claws arranged like a gallery of menace. You step closer. There's a cabinet—locked. And behind it, the wall's symmetry feels... false.
You touch the leftmost antler. It's solid. No give.
A mechanism, maybe. But not one you can crack without tools.
You don't linger. Every second risks discovery. You smooth your skirts and glide back toward the main corridor.
—
As you near the parlor again, the household's rhythm returns—voices, distant laughter, clinking glasses.
You don't see her until she passes you.
A servant, tray in hand, gaze fixed on the floor. She doesn't speak. Doesn't slow. But her shoulder brushes yours with the precision of intent.
Something slips against your hip. Light. Small.
You keep walking. Don't turn. Don't react.
Upstairs, safely back in your suite, you find the note tucked beneath your sash.
Midnight. Servant quarters hearth. Don't wear perfume.
It isn't signed.
—
The manor is asleep, or pretending to be. You slip down the back staircase, barefoot and silent, skirts tied for ease. You move like a whisper, heart pounding steady beneath your ribs.
The servant quarters smell of starch and coal. You follow the heat until you see her—waiting beside the hearth, no longer in uniform. Her eyes meet yours.
"You're not noble," she says.
You smile faintly. "Neither are you."
"I saw the fainting act," she adds. "It was good. But not for us."
You step closer. "You passed the note?"
She nods. "Name's Marla. And I don't want to see another girl disappear in that place."
Your voice lowers. "What do you know?"
"There's a study. East wing. Hunting trophies. The leftmost antler—press the base, twist, then pull. Hidden compartment. I've cleaned around it. Saw the scratches."
You blink. "There's a key?"
Marla nods. Presses a cold piece of iron into your hand. "Fits the cabinet. I swiped it weeks ago. Been waiting for someone who might do something with it."
You grip the key. "Why help us?"
Her voice tightens. "Because I've seen what he does when no one's watching. And because you're not like them."
You pause. "You're risking everything."
"So are you," she says. Then she glances toward the stairwell. "You should sneak in tomorrow. That place won't be guarded for a specific window of time—just after the banquet starts, when everyone's distracted by the masquerade. I've memorized the rotation. You'll have a shot. But only then."
You stare at her. "Why trust me with this?"
Marla holds your gaze. "Because I want someone to make it out."
Then she vanishes into the dark.
—
You ease the door shut behind you as you return to the suite. Levi is pacing, shirt undone at the collar, tension thrumming through him.
"You took too long," he mutters.
You press the key into his hand. "Marla. Servant girl. She clocked me. And she helped."
His eyes narrow. "How much does she know?"
"Enough. She's seen the study. Knows about the mechanism. Left antler. Cabinet's locked, but this fits."
He weighs the key in his palm, then glances at you. "And we trust her?"
"No. But we need her."
You sit down slowly, fatigue catching up to you. Levi doesn't move.
"She says there's a window tomorrow night," you add. "Right after the banquet starts. She knows the guard rotation."
"I don't like relying on anyone we didn't choose," he says.
"Neither do I."
But this time, you both know—you have no other choice.