Elina knows she isn't as brilliant as Daisy, but there's one thing she's exceptional at—solving puzzles.
While Daisy runs alongside Father, eager to uncover the secrets of his lab, Elina spends her time with riddles, puzzles, and chessboards. From them, she's learned something valuable: in the world of aristocrats, a "poker face" is simply a poetic way of lying through a mask. Her employer, though—he doesn't seem a liar— but he's certainly the type who prefers to disguise his goals as something that amuses him, keeps him in control, and entertains him, as he once said.
"Tell me a story every evening — about the man in that manor. Every movement. Every habit. Entertain me."
He's just a bored nobleman, really. One who craves information about his cousin in that same manor, disguising his espionage as a game.
And Elina is now the first pawn he has moved — either to set the game, or soon to be sacrificed.
"Pay attention to details," Father would say to Daisy every time she stitched the rabbit wrong, and he reminded Elina the same way whenever she made a blunder move in chess.
She might not know who that nobleman truly is, but she knows he placed her into that manor under a false identity, judging by the outfits Winston gave her. Her simple task, worth fifty thousand jules, is to trade her time to observe the noble's cousin — his target. Each evening, Elina reports back to him by turning her observations into stories.
That manor is filled with distrust and betrayal. Whatever the nobleman's true intention toward his cousin is, it's no longer Elina's concern. She just has to prove she knows how to entertain him.
The night is bright tonight — the moon shining strong. Though it's almost a new day, so technically it can't be called night anymore. After Winston dropped her off at the little building behind the mansion, Elina was alone again. Alone, and free.
The breeze and the trees surrounding her carried a kind of peace she hadn't felt in a long time. It was like inhaling fresh air after too long underground — that breathless laugh while running downhill, sunlight catching your skin. She'd almost forgotten what that felt like.
The feeling of being alive.
Elina stepped into her target's territory. Her gaze swept upward toward the hall cloaked in darkness — not a single candle lit. Two carved wooden staircases descended gracefully from the flanking galleries, like something out of an old dream.
The hallway was hollow, empty. Furniture blurred into shadow. A stairway led to the upper floor in the center. Her footsteps echoed softly as she entered the living room — the fireplace nothing but a black pit. Above her, a crystal chandelier caught the moonlight, scattering it into dizzying shards across the walls.
In the dark, Elina moved by the faint shapes of the furniture — the sofas circling a low table, a half-finished tea set left cold. Beside the fireplace stood two tall grandfather clocks, their polished pendulums ticking in perfect, unnerving rhythm.
She had until evening. She could start now— figure out about what kind of family she'd stepped into, and maybe even piece together who her employer truly is.
The Viscount. Winston had mentioned that, so the man in this building, sleeping inside, must be him, the Viscount is his cousin.
Elina stepped into the living room, moving slowly, eyes sharp.
The walls were lined with portraits, armour, and swords.
Her gaze caught on a framed drawing, not hung but lying on the floor, half-covered by cloth. She crouched, fingertips tracing the edge of the ornate frame. Carefully, she peeled the fabric away — and the inscription at the bottom revealed itself, letter by letter:
N
A
M
O
L
O
S
Thunk!
Her breath hitched.
A dagger slammed into the painting, missing her hand by inches. Elina jerked back, heart spiking.
Had she triggered a trap? Old manors were full of them, especially ones built by paranoid nobles.
But no — there, in the dark, a man sat on the sofa. Watching her.
"I'm—sorry," Quinn said, slowly straightening up. "I'm your new maid. Elina. Winston sent me."
"At this hour?" The man's voice was low, edged with suspicion.
Elina hesitated. She stood still, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed — a perfect imitation of the maid she once had back home, the one who'd always lowered her eyes whenever she didn't have an answer.
The silence stretched. Awkward, heavy.
Elina glanced around, as if someone else might appear and explain the situation for her. Of course, no one did because no one else is here!
She took a cautious step forward. The man was still sitting there, motionless, his hand fumbling along the side of the sofa as if searching for something.
A lantern sat on the floor near where his hand groped.
Frowning, Elina crouched and reached for it.
She looked up — his hand froze midair. The lantern flame was faint, barely alive; she hadn't noticed it before. The candle inside was almost spent. For some reason, Elina didn't dare breathe too loudly. The man hadn't spoken again — he sat like a statue, silent and still.
For a long moment, Elina stayed there on her knees, holding the lantern that was now just smoke and dying wax. She didn't move. She watched him — the dark silhouette, unmoving — and wondered if she was imagining him from sheer exhaustion.
Then his hand moved again. Still searching in the same place, patting the air, unfocused.
Elina tilted her head, letting a shaft of moonlight spill across the room. It hit his face — and her breath caught. His eyes didn't follow the light. His hand kept wandering, aimless....
Elina froze, the realization locking her in place. The lantern slipped from her grip and hit the floor with a soft clatter.
He's blind.
The sound shattered the air.
In an instant, the man moved — fast, precise. That groping hand was no longer searching; it was striking. His arm shot out, catching her by the throat and throwing her back onto the sofa.
She gasped, not from pain but shock. The grip on her neck was firm, not crushing. His other hand traced her face, fingertips deliberate, searching her features as he leaned closer.
Her pulse thudded hard.
In the silence, only the ticking of the clocks and the sound of her and his breathing filled the room.
As he caressed her face, his cold gray eyes—alive with a faint, unreadable glint—met hers in shock. His features were all sharp lines and quiet menace, the kind of beauty that invited no warmth. His skin held a pallor that made the darkness of his hair—black as spilled ink—even more striking, each strand falling in deliberate disarray across his brow. Shadows kissed the hollows beneath his cheekbones.
His hand, cold and steady, glided over her brow and cheek. The faint scent of mint drifted between them as his fingers brushed the bridge of her nose.
"Who sent you?" he asked, his other hand still resting against her throat. There was no real pressure now, but with his weight above her, she couldn't have resisted him anyway.
Elina tried to breathe.
"I asked who sent you," he repeated, his gaze probing, daring her assumptions.
Elina swallowed hard. "I—I'm your new maid. I'm sorry for barging in, I—"
"Tell me who sent you here."
"No one," Elina stammered, forcing her voice steady. "I'm just a maid… just here to work."
The grip at her throat eased. The warmth of his hand faded.
Elina stared up at him, confused. One of his eyes was clouded, while the other gleamed with unsettling clarity.
The man slowly eased off her. Elina seized the moment, scrambling back until she was pressed into the corner of the sofa, clutching herself tight. Her breath came in ragged bursts, as if her very spirit had nearly fled her body.
"So… Winston brought you in, you said?" His tone was calmer now—almost casual.
Elina nodded, rubbing the red mark on her neck.
"Why aren't you answering?"
"Y–yes," she stammered. "Yes, Winston brought me here. From the brothel not far from here."
The words tumbled out fast—an attempt to build trust, though her wary eyes never left him, searching for any hint of his condition.
"A brothel?" He scoffed, rubbing a hand over his face. His head turned slightly—but not quite toward her.
So he is… or isn't?
"I'm Francis," he said.
"Uh—Elina," she replied quickly.
"You already said that." His brow furrowed. "You don't sound like you're from around here."
"What gave it away?" The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She slapped a hand over her mouth.
"Your accent," he said flatly. "You speak perfect Vandralian, but it's thick—foreign."
Well spotted, she thought. So he's not deaf after all.
"I left home… from far away," she improvised. "Came here looking for work." She loosened her grip around her legs, trying to look less cornered.
"You came looking to work in a brothel?"
"No!" Elina shrieked, her voice cracking. "I was just—in the wrong place, wrong time, I—"
She froze as Francis stood. Tall, unsteady, wrapped in a bathrobe, he stumbled into the corner of the low table. Then his hand shot out—grabbing the dagger mounted beneath a painting.
He leveled it at her.
Elina's breath hitched. Her chest tightened. She rose from the sofa, edging to the far side of the table—keeping it between them. A decent barrier, at least, against a half-blind man who clearly wasn't as helpless as he seemed.
"You lied," he said.
"No," Elina gasped—her voice breaking higher than she meant.
"Winston sent you because Charles hired you."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Deny. Deny. Deny.
The mantra repeated in Elina's head as Francis toyed with the dagger, flipping it up and down. He'd given no sign of true blindness; his aim was flawless.
"That tone," Francis scoffed, fingers playing along the blade. "You don't speak like a maid. You must've come from wealth — you don't know the manners." His voice slowed and tightened. "A maid doesn't sneak in while the master sleeps. A maid wouldn't dare come near unless told."
Elina pictured her employer discovering her failure and, worse, her head rolling into the gutter.
Deny, deny — just deny.
"I'm new....to everything," she said, forcing the lie out. "My family went bankrupt."
"Bankrupt?"
"We made… medicine," she improvised.
Francis shifted along the edge of the low table, using it to navigate. Elina slid the opposite way, quiet as a shadow.
"Hmm is that so...., now tell me why Charles sent you in."
Who is Charles?
Panic prickled down her spine. She backed away as he angled toward her.
"I—" she hesitated, eyes fixed on the dagger that could land at her throat any second. "I don't know who hired me. I only know Winston was there with him. Winston brought me here."
Maybe she should tell the truth and figure the rest out later. Better to keep both men guessing than to trade honesty for a blade.
Francis sighed and smoothed his hair back. "Is he blond?"
"Yes," Elina answered, confused.
"Theatrical? Dramatic?"
"Yes."
"That's Charles."
"He's… your cousin."
The word slipped out before she could swallow it.
Francis stood still.
Elina stared at the dagger.
Three seconds to be logical.
Three seconds to be sharp.
"Am I allowed to offer you a deal?" she blurted, then steadied herself. "Sir."
"A deal?" Francis's tone lifted, intrigued, "What could a maid possibly offer me?"
"Loyalty."
"From someone who already ready to betray the man who brought you in? "
Because she had to, she thought. Because lying now might save her life and she could sort out the conscience later.
"Because," she said, choosing her words, "you clearly don't have anyone you can trust in this...place."
"I never did," he admitted.
"Then you can have me," she said. "I'll help you."
"Help me with what, exactly?"
"Anything that keeps that dagger from sticking into me," Elina said. "That would be a great start."
Francis stood still. Elina couldn't read his expression; the dim light from the moon and his stillness made him impossible to decipher. Was he actually considering her offer?
She bit her lip, her legs trembling as thoughts spiraled.
"I need to get Charles off my back," he said at last, voice low — the words falling heavy, almost like a confession.
"I can do that," Elina said quickly. "I can keep him informed — however you want."
Francis let out a short laugh that made her stomach tighten. "Yes. Be his good little spy. Entertain him however you want."
"I thought you wanted him off your back," she countered. "If I keep him updated, talk about your days—"
"Give it two weeks," he cut in. "He'll get bored and lose interest in whatever I'm doing."
"If that's the case—"
"—He won't discard you," Francis said flatly. "I promise."
Can either of their promises be trusted?
"I don't like coffee," he added abruptly, voice turning curt again. "And I like to sleep in. Wake me only when the sun's nearly at the roofline."
Then he dropped back onto the sofa, limbs heavy, head sinking into the cushion.
Elina blinked. He's going to sleep? Here?
"Did you hear me?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"Y–yes, sir," she stammered. "But… are you—"
"I assume you know where the servants' quarters are?"
"Yes."
"Then go. I don't want to be disturbed."
She stood there for a moment, stunned, watching him settle in as if nothing had happened.
When his head turned slightly toward her again, Elina snapped to life, spun on her heel, and walked out as fast as her legs would carry her.
He slept in?"
"Yes."
"The whole day?"
"Yes. He did drink some tea in the afternoon."
"He drank tea… and then continued to sleep?"
"Yes."
Elina smiled gently, glancing at her employer. She hoped he enjoyed her little storytelling of the evening, though his subtle look of confusion slightly dimmed her hope.
"Hmm," he murmured.
She smiled even more, taking in the sheer scale of the library in the main building.
Then, casually, the man slid a hand into his usual dark suit and pulled out a gold coin. With a flick, he sent it spinning into the air; it landed perfectly back in his hand. He placed it on the table.
"I'm Charles," he said, nodding toward the coin as if instructing her to take it. "Charles Solomon. The Viscount's cousin."