Lucy was unsure what to do, taken aback by the sudden hungry, apple-tasting lips searching her mouth savagely. Her mobcap flew to the ground as he bit his fingers deep into her neck, dexterously and selfishly maneuvering to find pleasurable positions which would satiate himself, not caring if the feeling was reciprocated. Sensing her resistance, he doubled down by carving her frame into his laboured chest with his other hand, making sure she knew any effort would end futilely—and that what was to come was inexorable because he was a hungry predator, starved of any type of appetizing meals he once kindled surfeit pleasures in.

Delilah couldn't turn him on, not even in the pretentious form of magic Lilith Houghton attempted the day before—which, by definition, is a tainted illusion of authentic need.

He needed something else—someone else.

Her... whoever this servant was.

The brazen nature of which she embodied—along with plenty of impertinence—bordered on exciting. Her purposeful careless words... and especially her pitch-black iridescent eyes, stunning him senseless—just like they had the day they first met.

When she'd nudged him off herself some minutes ago, instead of leaving, she lingered for some time, only to regale him. A curt "You're a onetime ticket; I couldn't lose you" was her response when he asked why, before she left and returned with a tray of bland-tasting dishes and a huge jug of water. A very, very huge jug of water, he sweltered.

"Here's the deal."

"A deal?" He asked, groggily lifting his weight up into an indented pillow, the unapt breakfast tray—baring six pieces of toast, lazily cut banana strips, and an overflowing ramekin topped with pulpy applesauce—threatening to plunge and spill its contents as he settled into a drooped position.

"I'm Lucrecia, you hear me? Lucrecia Harthin!"

He stared at her, as if demented, spooning a generous slush into his mouth while she rambled on incoherently.

"I'm not nice, is what I'm trying to say. I'm cruel. A bitch, in simple terms. I intercepted a royal wedding by persuading the prince not to own responsibility. I stole a poor girl's position. I'm a nasty leprechaun. I'm... I'm..."

Now she simply looked flat-out confused.

"A villainous bitch," he helped, playing along with whatever script she was getting at. "Check! Please, go on, Missus Harthin."

"Do be serious! You sound like a perverted schoolboy."

"For you," he smiled, "I'll be more attentive than any valedictorian could possibly be."

* * *

"Auclair?"

Sophie blanched, watching the notorious insubordinate parlour maid—who, three days ago, had been relegated to the kitchen's dull scullery—scuttle down the hallway, vigorously scrubbing her hand across her swollen lips. The head housemaid, struggling to balance some very expensive tea sets on very expensive china trays with two very occupied hands, grew unforgiving, internally enacting a subconscious game of which burdened emotion is splayed across my countenance at this moment.

Shock?

Frustration?

Or had it been perplexity?

Then, from behind her, exiting the green drawing-room, Theresa looked on, equally curious about the unlikely scene. Between her and another's grasp were boxes that cradled cleaning apparatus: feather dusters, scuttles, scrubbing brushes, a water-soda concoction, even polishing mixtures that suddenly toppled over, snapping Sophia from her elongated trance. As the other maid eyed Theresa like she had just committed regicide, she started picking up each item, only slowing down when Sophia, fortunately, had the grace to disregard the scene and soldier on ahead—followed by the docile tool of a maid.

Theresa turned, hunted for any traces of her friend in the empty hall before sweeping a gaze across the direction Lucy just emerged from, only to spot a tall personality fade in and out of focus. Its hair was a grimy red with faint grayish traces, sailing the floors like a stormy sea. Its terribly skeletal, jagged shoulders competed with gravity's downward pull, as well. And its purple gleaming eyes mimicked searchlights in a stormy sea. Everything happening thus far should've sparked Theresa's spineless fight-or-flight gear, yet watching it draw dangerously close... she just had to question how powerful this creature really was.

She felt her skin sag, her limbs going limp when its purple-crested irises sucked any trace of colour from her chocolate-melting ones.

ÂĈɔÈʩĦɤē... ĎÆÃÂɔĦ...

Have you seen the girl?

Sincere rebuttal seemed to come (too) easily. Then, just like that, it left—disappearing into the room's warm ambiance after stalling for an unclear reason.

Dazed and heavy-headed, she remained crouched, panicked in a scavenging position indefinitely with sweat trickling off her forehead, forming meandering depressions in her skin from the obscene weight of it. Slowly but surely, her hands regained motion, shuddering. Her eyes began shooting about, turning without head rotation, and her heart drummed through her chest when she finally collapsed into the arms of a robust but savvy male.

She picked up his scent—of clean, male skin with minimal traces of salt from hastened scamper. His voice was smooth and low... executive yet comforting. She softened.

"Mr. D-David..."

The first footman wasn't alone, however, she noticed.

"It couldn't have gotten far," the brawny stranger beside them explained. His errant locks, compared to the suited footman's, were a spiky dark-brown that revealed slight golden iridescence at certain viewing angles. And unlike David's urgently pale dermis, his was unregally tanned, marred like an inconspicuous workman mingling amongst porcelain lackadaisical aristocrats.

"W-what happened? What w-was that?"

The stranger jogged away further down the hall, as her eyes thoroughly focused, taking in his proper attire—juxtaposed by his firm grip on two golden scabbards hanging off finely sculpted hips.

"A northern assailant."

"That's no a-assailant!"

David's brows creased, helping her to her feet, as careless flutters struck his lashes at her casual curiosity. Beautiful batting sequences followed, unveiling his inner workings which sagely pondered if admitting the distasteful truth would harbour any significant consequence. "It's a changeling," he said, finally. "And we have proof suggesting it's neither demonic nor a slow duplicate."

"What a-are the distinctions?" Theresa asked, still shivering as David led her back into the drawing-room and sat her on a lime-gold damask upholstered stool. Briefly closing the door behind them, he knelt before her, pressing an enchantment relic to her head—cards used by those who couldn't wield magic either internally or directly.

Then, after murmuring (in ancient Merthinien) incantations, "There," he stood, allowing his hands to linger momentarily on her sleeved elbow. "Remain here until Valingo arrives, you trouble-seeking chit. Durrell or Nolan may show up, but do not leave unless Valingo parts with you, understood?"

"David, what exactly did that do?"

Registering his scowl, "Thank you... I meant to say thank you," she muttered gratitude instead, beaming as he exited the door with warmth suffusing a generous inch of his frigid person.

Theresa lounged, unnaturally calm in the mute room, recalling when Lucy and she previously hid in it some days ago, trying to escape exactly this; or, as Durrell would put it—ruin. Its protective cloak should've felt suffocating, hinting at a terrible omen of unpleasant things to come.

"How ridiculous," she grumbled, fingers tapping restlessly on the upholstery's golden arm, before getting up to explore the enigmatic room devoid of windows, which only made it appear doubly unwelcoming. Framed impressions and some particular vase-accommodating niches dented into four floral-patterned walls attempted to compensate for its austere design, but Theresa refused to trust such a consequential place. Yet her senses betrayed set sentiments, remaining null and indifferent as she made a round around the room, perusing quickly and eventually returning to the more exciting sofa.

"People do not go from being scared out of their skin to enjoying a relaxing promenade under perfectly temperate afternoon weather," she said, contemplating why only queer neutrality flushed her senses in such a predicament. "It simply must be that spell Mr. David cast."

Eying the door which hadn't budged since ten minutes ago, "Oh, how desperately Miss Lucy needs it..." Remaining friends through all this mayhem truly would be a remarkable feat, considering present calamities—being victims of such unwelcome circumstances.

But surely she will forgive, Theresa assumed, alighting again towards the door.

Towering sculptured ceilings and their exceptionally shaped columns drew a parallel with Sir. David's skillfully developed muscles from two days ago—she couldn't help blushing—which only deepened her uncertainties.

"If he's chasing whatever that creature is, skipping out on tonight's imperative pronouncements..." a queazy thrill pulsed through her tract, ruining the cinch of Mr. David's subduing spell. "On Merthingham's grave, it just has to be serious."