Twenty minutes later, I positioned myself near the servants' common area, close enough to observe but far enough to appear disinterested. Thomas had vanished from the group shortly after our little cleaning incident, and I'd been tracking his movements through peripheral vision and the soft sounds of footsteps on stone.
The ambitious footman reappeared from the direction of the administrative offices, his face carrying that particular look of someone who'd just confirmed their worst suspicions. His usually impeccable posture had shifted slightly—shoulders back, chin raised just a fraction higher than before. The walk of a man who'd discovered he held valuable information.
Hook, line, and sinker. Nothing quite like vindication to transform a suspicious servant into a motivated investigator.
Thomas approached the group of staff members clustered near the kitchen entrance, his movements deliberate. I watched him exchange meaningful glances with several of the older servants, the kind of silent communication that developed among people who lived their entire lives reading the moods and secrets of their betters.
"Found what you were looking for in the steward's office?" asked Martha, the head cook, her voice pitched low enough that the nobles wouldn't hear but loud enough for Thomas to catch the implication.
Thomas's jaw worked silently for a moment before he nodded. "The young master wasn't wrong about certain... habits."
Perfect. Let the servants' gossip network do what it does best—spread information faster than wildfire.
I turned my attention back to the main group as they approached the servants' quarters. During the pause, the hierarchy had reshuffled itself. Lord Blackwood now walked a half-step ahead of Father, a subtle shift in position that was as loud as a shouted command. Leo maintained his place at Father's right shoulder, radiating that insufferable confidence that came from never doubting your own righteousness for even a heartbeat.
"The search will be conducted methodically," Blackwood announced to the assembled servants, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, each syllable polished by generations of noble entitlement. "We understand this is an unusual situation, but rest assured that the innocent have nothing to fear."
Leo nodded approvingly at this pronouncement, as if Blackwood had just quoted from some sacred text of nobility. "Truth always rises to the surface," he added, his sapphire eyes scanning the group of servants like a benevolent deity surveying his mortal flock. "Justice protects those who walk in the light."
Oh, for the love of... Does he practice these speeches in front of a mirror every morning? 'Truth always rises to the surface'? What's next, 'The righteous sleep soundly at night' or perhaps 'Evil trembles before the righteous sword'? I bet he has an entire journal filled with these banal platitudes, ready to deploy at a moment's notice.
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, desperately keeping from snorting at the sheer theatrical banality of it all. Here was the kingdom's golden boy, spouting empty platitudes about justice while standing three feet away from a man orchestrating the execution of an innocent servant. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife, serve it on a silver platter, and still have leftovers for tomorrow's breakfast.
Lyra stood among the other maids, her face pale as fresh parchment but remarkably composed. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white with tension that betrayed her inner turmoil, but her spine remained ramrod straight. She met Leo's gaze directly when he looked her way, offering a small, dignified nod of acknowledgment that spoke to either remarkable courage or complete innocence.
Probably both. The girl has steel in her spine, even if she doesn't know she's about to need every ounce of it. The script doesn't give her character enough credit.
Grundy stepped forward with practiced deference, producing a ring of keys from his belt that jangled with quiet menace. "Shall we begin with the newer staff quarters, my lord? They would have had the most recent opportunity during the festival preparations."
The suggestion sounded perfectly reasonable to anyone who wasn't aware of the careful choreography behind it—the subtle theater of false justice being enacted. Grundy's pale, calculating eyes swept over the group of servants like a predator selecting its prey, lingering just long enough on Lyra to make his target unmistakably clear to anyone paying even the slightest attention.
And of course, none of these noble idiots are paying attention. Too busy admiring Leo's inspiring leadership.
"A logical approach," Father agreed, though I caught the slight tightness around his eyes that suggested he was less than thrilled about having his servants treated like criminals. "Kaelen, you mentioned familiarity with the staff. Do you have any observations to share?"
The question caught me off guard, though I managed to keep my expression appropriately vacant. Father rarely addressed me directly during formal proceedings, preferring to pretend I didn't exist rather than acknowledge the family embarrassment.
Careful now. Too much insight and they'll start wondering where the village idiot learned to think.
I shuffled my feet and hunched my shoulders, letting my voice take on that wheedling, uncertain quality that made people want to look away. "I... well... everyone seems nervous? But I suppose that's normal when there are accusations flying around."
"Indeed," Leo said, his tone suggesting he found my observation both obvious and slightly disappointing. "Fear is a natural response to the presence of justice."
Justice. Right. Keep telling yourself that while the real criminal stands two feet away, probably calculating how much gold he can steal before anyone notices the ledgers are missing.
Grundy unlocked the first door, revealing a small but tidy room containing two narrow beds and a shared wardrobe. The space belonged to two of the newer kitchen maids, both of whom stood trembling in the corridor as Blackwood's guards began their search.
The process was thorough and invasive. Every drawer was opened, every garment shaken out, every personal possession examined and catalogued. The guards worked with the mechanical routine of men who'd conducted far too many such searches, their faces impassive as they violated the small privacies that made life bearable for the servant class.
I watched Lyra's face as the guards dumped out a small wooden box belonging to another maid. A few copper coins, a pressed flower, a folded letter. Worthless trinkets. Her jaw tightened, a subtle shift that betrayed more than any outcry could.
That's what she's afraid of. Not the accusation, but the violation. The moment they handle your few, precious things and remind you that nothing, not even your own small history, is truly yours.
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