* * *

"Oh, my poor, poor heart. Oh, whatever shall I do to ease its inundated self?"

Whenever Durrell got to pacing about like a human-sized hare, one of her arms digging firmly into her hips and the other hovering above her midriff—the untrained eye would safely assume that she struggled with digestion issues, or maybe it was simply Lucy's preferred take on it, but—every staff expected some inexorable and disastrous consequence to transpire in exchange for a sort of restored tranquillity.

"It can only go on for so long without giving out if this nuisance," her index finger held Lucy firmly at gunpoint, "Remains under this dignified roof!"

"Calm down, Elizabeth." A stout man seated behind a mahogany Directoire desk, Mr. Valingo, stood to approach the unrepentant maid across him who shifted anxiously in the gold, damask-patterned upholster armchair she occupied. His face shone with pristine venerability, Lucy noticed. Outliving his fair share of chaos yet still appeasing the inanity with a jovial outlook, she was nothing more than a rebellious adolescent under his astute gaze.

Light coming in from the room's transom windows played across his rich, silver locks, even the deftly shaved sideburns that extended across the length of his upper lip. Guardedly clasping each hand in the other's grit, "May you grace us with your side of the story, Auclair?" he asked.

"Grace us?" An indignant howl bounced off the room's Oakwood-panelled walls. "Richard, have you lost your good mind? It has yet been a month, but her offences are boundless! We do not need her side of the story any more than we need ruin!"

"Elizabeth," he tested the amicable use of her name again, but requested complete silence in lieu of calm. Their relationship resembled that of an older brother and a younger sister's—the "I love and appreciate you, little one, but zip it and control yourself" sort. And it was powerful, too; seeing how quickly the lioness Durrell herself backpedalled, receding into one of two settees adjacently placed between a long coffee table, it truly was shocking.

"I'm afraid that, while I am brazen, sir, I'll become the embodiment of a heel."

"As afraid of probable destitution?" A cynical, exhorting smile lifted his delicately preened brows.

"No, sir."

"The carriage you lent out bearing the royal family crest... it's gone missing, did you know?"

"No, sir," her fingers broke into a fervid sweat, less worried about the damned vehicle than the way Valingo's coffee black eyes dissected her every thought—and as per usual, her face's intractable expressiveness rendered her a (guilty) open book. "I have nothing to do with it. Madam Purstek"—how Lucy loathed addressing the bitch with a dignified title after she had practically cracked her skull half-open—"Asked for a coach and I did as so. She mentioned something about furtively acquiring it without disclosing a thing to the second prince. But that's all, I swear it!"

After exchanging glances with Durrell, who disapproved of his likeliness to believe her, Valingo decided to probe another topic—the latest quandary which she threw herself head-first into. Soldiering on, he asked: "Auclair, what exactly is your relationship with Sir. David Elijah?"

"Elijah David?"

"Yes, child. The very and only one."

At the sound of his name, her stomach jerked up her esophagus and down. Her breath quickened. Her eyes trailed the lofty space of the housekeeper's room, seeking an apt placidity that would calm her racing heart while, taking notice of her unease, Valingo thoughtfully made his way over to the coffee table and poured a calming cup of Assam tea. She took it reluctantly and jittering, the cup ceaselessly clicking and clacking on its copper plate.

Conversely, Durrell scorned at the gesture, abhorring the idea of an interrogation that involved kindness.

The tea had not helped.

"Merthingham above—answer the simple question already, girl! We haven't all day!" Neither did her irritable company ease any disgruntlement. But unyielding and dead-set on finding her Zen, Lucy sought the comfort of nature; surely, its greenery was a definite place to find respite. Flowers, trees, fields-peaking in from transom windows or fixed within several hanging picture frames which accented the room's lofty walls should have done the trick... had all its teeming abundance not resembled Elijah's deep chartreuse corneas.

Nature itself was punishing me, she thought, before zooming in on another object: two antique ceramic dolls enacting a scene from an accolade where a knight knelt at the mercy of a fair maiden's sword.

"Mr. Valingo is talking to you, girl!" Durrell's screechy voice shook her nerves (again).

"W-what we are is..." It was much easier ratting out Delilah Pursteck, but her body simply revolted doing such injustices towards Elijah.

"Sir. David was unceasingly assaulted by a pack of wolves—pardon me. Ladies—and I had jumped in to help." He is kind, and despite festering parvenu affiliations or his overwhelming burly semblance, having little—no, having absolutely no business in her carriage predicament, he chose to help, regardless. "He is of respectable character and has not compromised me whatsoever." And because Eli promised a solution, she purposefully embellished the truth, assuredly convinced that a knight never goes against their enduring word. "Sir. David would calm any woman whose nerves unbecame of her in such a quandary..." she looked Valingo dead in the eyes, continuing. "Just like now, you poured me a hot, conciliating cup of tea and I thanked you, I thanked him."

Valingo's eyes glittered with venerable amusement.

"That's all there is between us!"

"I don't doubt that." Gingerly, he returned to his desk, foraging for a quill pen and book—presumably a ledger because it evidently pleased Durrell's silent fury—gracing his penmanship across its smooth manila surface. "The part where you thanked me earlier did elude my ears, however."

"Oh," was all she thought (and voiced), followed up with: "Sir, I didn't mean to disparage the kind gesture or conflate it with nugatory, ostentatious theatrics."

"Lucy Auclair."

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you read often?"

"Pardon me, sir?"

No one ever asked that; only ever shunning her volatile, atypical vocabularic repository.

"No, rarely, sir. Actually..."

I led an entirely different life in an entirely different universe—without the wonders of magic, without shadowing, carnivorous creatures lurking in towering forests, solely coming out to have their occasionally meaty fill. I lived in a world where technology was the order of the day; knowledge, accessible with a single careless click.

English was the businessman's language, and I was English. I also happened to be deaf... bullied... yet hopeful. I read books like crazy. I was an avid bookworm—these outlandish words, somehow carrying through despite English and Merthinian vernacular.

Lucy fantasized recounting all of this in the short ten seconds he awaited a response. The subtle movements of his quill hitting her ears with alarming intensity, every stroke awakening suppressed desires, urging her to take an over-indulgent step towards what people here called insubordination.

"I speak exceptionally well, don't I?" a sardonic whisper gave out amidst the congested competing options. Just touching a pen and not being of at least gentry upbringing is tastefully considered a mortal sin. So, of course, she couldn't rebel.

"Richer than an attending lady-in-waiting," Valingo humored, and Lucy shrugged.

In a way, she simply dreamt too much to be of this world. Everyone knew main characters were the only ones obliged to taste the excitement of zeal—and that she evidently wasn't. The one thing she was, however, was frank and honest. And, hard as it may be to believe and act on, fostering affection for the narrative was frank and honest in itself-plus safer in the long run.

Pausing briefly to take in her subtle chagrin, "Richer than the queen?" Valingo tested, fully knowing trouble could arise from their playful banter. But banking on the kind man having her back—uniform with Durrell—Lucy inadvertently performed a nonpareil imitation of the fuming woman's umbrage, regardless. "Richard, how dare you!"

The housekeeper, at first, wanted to further attest her outrage with more screaming, indictments, and affronted theatrics, but knowing it would only prove their point, "Enough small talk!" Durrell stood up, dusting her unblemished dress with excess vigor.

In her head, she swore to confront Valingo about revisiting his poor etiquettes, especially amongst filly, immature children—because that is what Lucy clearly was; foolish beyond a doubt! If a girl, young enough to be her niece, happily mocked her at his approval... Valingo unquestionably tainted her honor beyond repair today and would definitely receive a mouthful about this—for the rest of his already fleeting life.

Approaching the door, she concluded, "Deduct her wages and call it a day already! There is work and it cannot magically be done!"

"DEDUCT MY WAGES?" A piercing cry rang from Lucy's lips, compelling Durrell to stiffen.

Creaking her rusty neck, she cast a goading glare over the arrogant maid before quietly leaving, allowing Valingo to finish the untasteful work of clean-up.

"Mr. Valingo, it isn't my fault girls chased that poor, naked Adonis of a man!"

"It is your fault for leaving your station at the scullery."

"I-"

"It is your fault a carriage is missing, further endangering the lives of our Majesties' during this precarious war." He stood from his seat, intending to help her from hers, but she was already standing—because of the shock incited earlier. "Did you really expect to walk out of this unscathed, unsullied, and bearing little to zero consequences, young girl?"

Lucy gave no response, solemnly staring at the empty spot he had previously occupied.

"Durrell is right; there's work to be done."

That was her cue to leave. So, ignoring this extended arm, she walked to the door, solus.

"And if it means anything..." Barely hearing the last part, "It's your fault that Tyrone has to suffer the same fate," she was out the door.

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