"The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil."
***
Grundy led us down the narrow corridor toward the servants' quarters. His keys jangled against his belt with every step. The steward's shoulders had straightened since we started this whole farce. The nervousness from earlier was gone, replaced by the confidence of someone running a script they'd memorized.
Look at him. Already imagining how Lord Blackwood will praise his "diligence" in uncovering the theft. Already counting the bonus he'll receive for his loyal service. Already planning how to spin this to make himself look indispensable.
You really should have quit while you were ahead, Grundy. Greed always makes people overreach.
The nobles followed behind like vultures drawn to roadkill. Lord Blackwood walked with the stern authority of someone about to witness justice. His wife had stayed back at the manor. This was beneath her direct involvement. Father maintained his political distance, present but not participating. And Leo strode forward with that insufferable confidence of his, probably composing some grand speech about consequences in his head.
The servants pressed themselves against the walls as we passed. Their faces were carefully blank, but I caught the glances they exchanged. Slight widening of eyes. Almost invisible shakes of heads. Some of them looked toward Lyra's door with pity. Others with outrage.
They know. Maybe not the details, but they know something stinks. They've worked alongside Lyra for months. They know she's not a thief. But what can they do? They're servants. Their word means nothing against a steward's testimony and physical evidence.
We stopped before a door near the end of the corridor. The servants' quarters were arranged by seniority. The longer you'd worked here, the better your room. Lyra, being relatively new, had one of the smallest rooms in the worst location. Close to the kitchens, which meant noise and heat. Far from the washing facilities. A room that said "you haven't proven yourself yet."
Grundy made a show of looking through his keys, but his fingers went straight to the right one. Another tell. A man who'd visited this door recently enough to remember which key fit.
"Lyra Ashford's quarters," he announced. His voice had just the right note of regret. The tone of a man forced by circumstances to investigate someone he'd rather believe innocent. "She's been with us for... what? Three months now?"
"Four," Father corrected. He'd always had a good memory for staff details. A politician's skill.
"Of course. Four months. Still quite new to the household." Grundy inserted the key like that fact somehow made her guilt more believable.
The door opened with a soft creak.
The room inside could charitably be called spartan. A narrow bed with a thin mattress. A small wooden chest, its surface scarred from years of use by previous occupants. A washbasin with a cracked mirror above it. A single window that looked out onto the kitchen courtyard, offering a view of stone walls and garbage bins.
Everything a servant was allowed to own. Nothing more. No decorations. No personal touches. No sign that anyone truly lived here rather than just existed between shifts.
Lyra stood in the doorway. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. Her hands were clasped in front of her. Her face was pale but composed, though I caught the tremor in her fingers. She knew something was wrong. The presence of so many nobles for a simple room inspection would have told her that much.
"Miss Ashford," Lord Blackwood said. His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "We need to search your quarters. You understand this is merely procedure."
"Of course, my lord."
Grundy entered first. His eyes scanned the room with the intensity of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for. He made a show of checking the wooden chest, lifting out her few possessions with exaggerated care. A spare dress, slightly faded but meticulously mended. A small sewing kit with needles and thread arranged neatly. A worn prayer book that looked like it had been read so many times the spine had cracked in three places.
"Nothing here," he announced. He set each item aside like it might contain hidden compartments.
Leo stepped into the room. His presence filled the cramped space. He positioned himself near the window, probably thinking the light made him look dramatic.
"The truth has a way of revealing itself," he declared. "No matter how cleverly hidden."
Oh, shut up, Leo.
Grundy moved to the washbasin. Ran his fingers along its edges. Then the small window, peering into the space between the frame and the wall. His movements were getting more theatrical with each empty search. Building toward the inevitable reveal with the timing of a stage performer.
The other nobles watched from the doorway. Some looked genuinely invested. Others clearly wanted this business concluded so they could return to more important matters. Father's expression stayed neutral, though I caught the slight furrow in his brow. He was already thinking about the political fallout.
Finally, Grundy approached the bed.
He knelt beside it. His hands moved along the mattress, fingers probing the edges and testing for tears or openings. Then the corners. Working his way toward the center. The perfect imitation of a man who had no idea what he'd find but was determined to be thorough.
Here it comes.
"Wait." Grundy's voice carried a note of surprise that would have been convincing to anyone who hadn't seen him plant the evidence hours earlier. "There's something here."
Lyra's face went white.
The room went silent. Everyone leaned forward, even the nobles who'd been bored a moment ago. Grundy's hand disappeared under the mattress. His expression shifted from surprise to grim satisfaction as his fingers closed around something.
He pulled out a velvet pouch. Dark blue. Expensive looking. The kind of thing that definitely didn't belong in a servant's quarters.
Grundy stood up slowly. Drew out the moment. Then he opened the pouch and tipped its contents into his palm.
A necklace. Emeralds and gold. Glittering in the dim light from the window.
Lord Blackwood's family heirloom.
"Well," Grundy said. His voice was heavy with false regret. "It seems we have our answer."