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The girl, Eliza, didn't move. She couldn't. She was a rabbit frozen by the glare of a wolf, her body fused to the spot, her plain face a mask of such abject terror it was almost grotesque.
"My... Lord...?" she whispered, her voice not even carrying.
The footman she had been hiding behind, a large, burly man, took a half-step away from her, as if her fear were contagious. He exposed her completely.
"I find," the Duke said, his voice still a soft, conversational purr, "that I must repeat myself."
He took one, single, silent step toward the assembled staff.
Eliza screamed.
It was not a yell, like the Head Cook's. It was a short, sharp, terrified shriek, and then she fell, her legs giving out, just as the Head Cook had. But this was not a fall of defiance. It was a collapse.
She crumpled to the black marble floor in a heap of gray-and-black uniform, and she began to sob.
It was not the rage-sobbing of the Head Cook. It was the desperate, pathetic, hiccupping wail of a child who knew, absolutely, that she was about to be punished.
"My lord, please, I didn't do anything!" she cried, her voice muffled by the floor. "I... I just... I just talked! It was just words! I... I didn't touch him! I didn't even go to the tower! Please, my lord, please!"
She was confessing. She wasn't even trying to lie. She was a coward, through and through.
Zander stopped. He was now looming over the entire staff, a giant shadow of judgment. He didn't even look down at the weeping girl.
His cold, obsidian gaze... was on me.
"Governess," he said.
I flinched so hard my teeth clicked. 'Oh, no,' my mind screamed. 'What now?'
"This maid," he said, his voice flat. "Did she... interact... with you?"
This was it—the second trial. I was the witness. I was the evidence. I looked at the weeping, pathetic girl on the floor. She had woken me. She had called Kaelen a monster. She had sneered at me in the kitchen.
I was so, so tired. I was sick of this. I just wanted it to be over.
"Yes, Your Grace," I said, my voice flat, dead with exhaustion. "This morning. She... she woke me. She was the one who told me... 'the little monster' had spilled his soup."
Eliza let out a wail. "I... I didn't mean it! It's just... It's just what everyone... calls him!"
And there. She had said it—the second fatal admission.
The Duke's head snapped down, his gaze finally landing on the weeping maid. "'Everyone'?" he repeated, his voice silky-smooth. "'Everyone'... calls my nephew... a monster?"
Eliza, I think, finally realized what she had said. Her sobbing stopped. She was just... frozen, her eyes wide, her mouth open, a string of saliva connecting her lip to the floor.
"Who," Zander Voronoff asked, and his voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it, "is 'everyone,' Eliza?"
He was hunting. He wasn't just cutting the leaves. He was digging for the root.
Eliza was a cornered, terrified, and not very bright animal. And she did what all cornered animals do. She tried to save herself by offering up a bigger target.
"I... I..." she stammered, her eyes darting around wildly, looking for... for... Her gaze landed on the one other person who was standing apart from the staff—the Head Butler.
Thorne.
"HIM!" Eliza shrieked, and she pointed, her entire, trembling arm shooting out, a bony, accusatory finger aimed directly at the Head Butler.
Thorne, who had been standing like a statue, waiting for his own execution, flinched. He looked as if he had been physically struck.
"IT WAS HIM!" Eliza screamed, scrambling to her knees, her face a mess of tears and pure, desperate, back-stabbing terror. "MR. THORNE! HE... HE TOLD US! HE SET THE POLICY!"
The... policy?
[...SYSTEM ALERT: NEW KEYWORD... 'POLICY'... DETECTED.]
Zander Voronoff went completely, utterly still. He didn't turn. He didn't move. He was a statue of black marble.
"A... 'policy'?" he repeated. His voice... was shaking.
No... not... not shaking. It was vibrating. He was vibrating with a rage so cold, so profound, it was making his voice thrum, like a low-frequency earthquake.
"YES!" Eliza wailed, hysterical now. "He... he said... he said, 'The child is a curse! He is not to be coddled! He said, 'The Duke... your grace... wishes him to be...' to be... 'kept out of sight'! He... he said... he said you didn't want to be bothered!"
She was sobbing, but she was talking. She was ratting him out. "It was Thorne who assigned him to the East Tower! It was Thorne who cut his firewood rations! It was Thorne who told the Head Cook to... to... 'serve him what he deserves'!"
"It was... it was..." Eliza's voice finally broke. "...it was Thorne! It was all him! I... I just... I just worked here! I just... followed the rules! PLEASE, MY LORD! PLEASE!"
She finished, her confession hanging in the air, a final, damning, terrible silence. Every eye in the room... was now on the Head Butler.
The man was gray. He was not pale. He was a creature of ash. He was staring at Eliza, his mouth slightly open, his eyes dead. He had been so utterly, so completely, so pathetically betrayed.
And Zander Voronoff... he finally, finally, turned.
He turned, his entire, towering body, away from the weeping, confessing maid. Away from the terrified staff. Away from me.
He turned, and he faced... his Head Butler.
He just... looked at him.
Thorne, under that silent, cold, burning gaze... he did not crumble. He did not weep. He did not beg.
He had been, I realized, a true nobleman, once. He simply... wilted. He straightened his tie. He smoothed his waistcoat. And then, with a slow, gray, tired dignity... he sank to his knees.
He did not plead. He did not cry. He just... knelt.
"My Lord," Thorne whispered, his voice a dry, dead, empty thing. "What... what she... what the maid says... is... it is... true."
Confessed.
Zander Voronoff... did not speak. He just... breathed—a long, slow, shuddering breath. And then... he closed his eyes.
For one... two... three seconds. He just... stood there. His eyes closed. He looked... He looked tired. He looked... like a man who had just... broken.
When he opened his eyes... the cold, burning fury was gone. The void was back. The ice was back. The emotionless, terrifying, logical Duke... was back.
"Head Butler Thorne," Zander said, and his voice was the flattest, most dead thing I had ever heard.
"You... who I trusted with my house... and... with... him."
He... he couldn't even say Kaelen's name.
"You," the Duke said, "will go to the dungeons."
Eliza, on the floor, let out a tiny, relieved sob. Thorne... did not react. He just... knelt.
"You will... not... be executed," Zander continued, his voice a monotone. "You will... be held. Until I decide... what... a just... punishment... for this... is."
He turned away from Thorne. He was done.
"Guards," he said, his voice flat. "Take them both. The maid, Eliza, get rid of her—the same as the cook. Thorne... is to be held. Securely."
Eliza's gasps rippled through the room. Eliza, who had thought she was safe, let out a new shriek of despair. "NO! I TOLD YOU! I HELPED! NO!"
The guards moved. They grabbed the screaming, hysterical Eliza. They caught the silent, kneeling, dead-eyed Thorne. And they... they dragged them both away.
The Great Hall was now almost empty. There were... maybe a hundred servants left. And they were all... staring... at me. At me... and the Duke.
Zander Voronoff stood in the center of the room, his back to me. He was just... standing there. He had done it. He had cleaned house.
He... he had... he had believed me, did he? He had thought a 19-year-old, soot-covered, 'garbage-bin' girl... over his entire household.
[...SYSTEM... RECALIBRATING...] [...Reputation (Zander Voronoff): 10 / 100]
Ten points? I... I...
My legs, which had been holding me up through sheer, terrified adrenaline for hours, finally gave out.
I didn't faint. I just... collapsed. My body simply stopped working. My knees hit the cold, black marble floor with a crack that echoed, just as the Head Cook's had.
The world was swimming, black spots dancing in my vision. I was so tired. And... I was so, so cold.
[...WARNING! 'STAMINA' AT 1%!] ['MALNUTRITION' STATUS... CRITICAL!] ['HYPOTHERMIA' ... INITIATING!]
"No... no..." I whispered, my voice a pathetic little croak. "Not... not now... I... I won..."
I heard a sound. A sudden, sharp rush of air. A whisper of fine wool.
The Duke had turned. He was looming over me.
I was on the floor, at his feet, just like all the others. I failed, my panicked mind whimpered.
"Governess," his voice was suddenly close. So close. And was it... cold?
A shadow fell over me, followed by a sudden, impossible weight. And warmth.
Something heavy, warm, and impossibly soft landed on my shoulders. It smelled of ozone and winter.
My numb, clumsy fingers fumbled at the thing. It was wool. It was black. It was his. It was the Duke's perfect, silver-embroidered, impossibly expensive coat, draped over my ruined, filthy body.
My eyes, heavy as lead, forced themselves to look up.
Zander Voronoff was kneeling.
He was kneeling in front of me. Just as he had at the gruel, he was in his shirtsleeves, a pristine, white, aristocratic shirt in the freezing, cavernous hall. He was staring at me.
His face was not cold. It was... confused. His black, obsidian eyes were wide. He looked... lost.
"You..." he whispered, his voice a raw, confused, human sound. "You truly are... a pathetic thing... To have fought so hard for this."
And then, my eyes closed, and the world finally, finally went black.
(End of Chapter 10)
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