A woman in her late twenties moved quietly through the manor's second-floor corridor, a feather duster in one hand, a cleaning cloth tucked into her apron pocket.
The hallway was elegant. Polished wooden floors that gleamed in the afternoon light streaming through tall windows, expensive paintings hanging at precise intervals, decorative vases positioned on pedestals like they were worth more than she'd earn in a year.
They probably were.
Her chestnut brown hair was tied back in a practical braid, a few loose strands escaping to frame her face.
Green eyes, tired but still sharp, scanned the surfaces she cleaned with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this work for years.
Who'd learned to become invisible.
She wore the standard maid uniform of the household. Black dress with white trim, fitted but modest, designed to be functional rather than flattering.
