"There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen."
***
Thomas's hands stopped moving. Just for a second. His eyes flicked toward Grundy, then back to the mess on the floor.
I saw it happen. The exact moment the seed took root.
There you go, Thomas. A nice little detail about your superior's drinking habits. The kind of innocent observation that might explain those financial discrepancies you've been too scared to question. The kind of detail that makes you wonder what else is hiding in those locked desk drawers.
"Here, let me help with that." Lyra appeared behind me with rags and a bucket.
"Thank you," I mumbled. I scrambled to my feet and nearly tripped over my own boots. "I'm sorry. I should have been more careful. I'm always breaking things. Making messes..."
Grundy hurried over. His face showed patient tolerance, but his eyes were busy. "No harm done, young master. These things happen."
He glanced at Thomas. Held the look a beat too long.
Thomas noticed. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed just a fraction as he went back to gathering the soaked rags.
Hook, line, and sinker. You just confirmed his suspicions without saying a word, Grundy. That guilty little glance was worth more than a signed confession.
Twenty minutes later, the investigation group had moved deeper into the servants' quarters. I positioned myself near the common area, a cramped space with worn benches and an unlit fireplace.
Thomas had disappeared after our cleaning incident. Now he reappeared from the direction of the administrative offices.
His posture had changed completely. Shoulders squared instead of slumped. Chin up instead of tucked. He walked like a man who'd just found a winning lottery ticket in his pocket.
Well, well. Looks like someone just took an unauthorized peek at the steward's expense records. What did you find, Thomas? Inflated supply costs? Phantom vendors? Or maybe just a detailed log of liquor purchases that don't match the household's entertainment budget?
Thomas approached a small cluster of staff near the kitchen entrance. He exchanged looks with several older servants. The kind of looks that said everything without words.
"Found what you were looking for?" asked Martha, the head cook. She'd been with House Leone for thirty years. She'd seen enough household politics to recognize trouble when it walked through her kitchen.
Thomas's jaw worked for a moment. Then he nodded. "The young master wasn't wrong about certain habits. Very specific. Very expensive. Habits that seem to have been funded from somewhere interesting."
Martha's eyebrows rose. She glanced toward where Grundy stood with Lord Blackwood. "I see. And I suppose those habits might explain why the supply budget has been so tight these past months?"
Perfect. The servant's grapevine is faster than any royal messenger. By dinner, every member of the household staff will know Grundy's been skimming. By tomorrow morning, half the town will have heard the rumors.
I turned back to the main group. Kept my expression confused, like I couldn't quite follow what was happening around me.
The hierarchy had shifted while I was gone. Lord Blackwood now walked a half-step ahead of Father. His investigation. His authority. Leo stayed at Father's right shoulder, the dutiful ally ready to support the cause of justice.
"The search will be conducted with all due respect for the privacy of the innocent," Blackwood announced. "We understand this is an unusual circumstance, but the innocent have nothing to fear from the light of truth."
Leo nodded. Hand on his sword hilt. That unconscious gesture of righteousness he probably practiced in front of a mirror. "Truth always rises to the surface when given the opportunity. Justice protects those who walk in the light."
For the love of... does the author just have a macro for this guy's dialogue? CTRL+V Righteous Platitude Number Seven. I swear, if I have to listen to one more fortune cookie philosophy lesson, I'm going to develop an ulcer.
Lyra stood among the maids. Her face was pale but composed in a way that made my chest tighten. Her knuckles were white where her hands clasped at her waist, but her spine stayed straight. Her chin stayed up.
When Leo's gaze swept over the servants, she met his eyes and gave a small nod.
The girl has steel in her. Most people in her position would be crying. Begging. But Lyra's going to meet this whole farce with her head held high.
Which is going to make it so much more satisfying when I pull this off.
Grundy stepped forward with a ring of keys. They jangled in the stone corridor like a warning. "Shall we begin with the newer staff quarters, my lord? They would have had the most recent opportunity to observe the layout of the house."
His eyes swept over the servants. Lingered on Lyra just long enough to make his target obvious.
And none of these noble idiots are paying attention to the subtext. They're so focused on the surface performance that they can't see the puppetmaster pulling strings right in front of them.
"A logical approach," Father agreed. I caught the tightness around his eyes. He wasn't comfortable with this, but he lacked the political capital to object. "Kaelen, you mentioned familiarity with the staff. Do you have any observations?"
Careful. Too much insight and they'll wonder where the village idiot learned to think. Too little and I lose my excuse for being here.
I shuffled my feet. Wrapped my arms around myself. "I... well... everyone seems nervous? But I suppose that's normal when there are accusations and guards going through your things."
"Indeed," Leo said. His tone managed to convey both agreement and disappointment at how obvious my observation was. "Fear is a natural response to the presence of justice. The guilty fear exposure. The innocent fear being mistakenly accused. It is the burden of those who seek truth to distinguish between the two."
Justice. Right. Keep telling yourself that while the real criminal stands two feet away, holding the keys and directing the search.
Grundy unlocked the first door with a theatrical twist of his key ring.
The room behind it was small but tidy. Two narrow beds against opposite walls. A few pegs for hanging clothes. One shared washbasin. A tiny window that let in grey afternoon light like it was doing the room a favor.
The kitchen maids who shared this space stood in the corridor. Their eyes were wide as guards began the search.
I watched a guard pick up a small wooden bird. Someone had carved it by hand. Amateur work, but you could see the care in it. He turned it over in his thick fingers like it might somehow hide a priceless artifact.
Then he tossed it back onto the bed.
Just dropped it among the maid's belongings like it was nothing.
This is what power looks like. Not the fancy words about justice and truth. This. A guard with thick fingers pawing through everything you own while you stand in the hallway and watch.
My gaze found Lyra again.
Her expression had changed. The stoic composure had cracked. Something more vulnerable showed through now. More defeated. She watched the search with the hollow resignation of someone who knew exactly what was coming and couldn't stop it.
That's what she's afraid of. Not the accusation. Not the punishment. It's this. The violation. The moment when they rifle through your few precious things and remind you that nothing is truly yours.
Your privacy. Your dignity. Your small treasures. All of it can be swept aside whenever it's convenient for your betters.