Through Another Life

Chapter Four – The Most Dangerous Thing a Maid Can Have

The most suspicious thing about me that morning was that I was behaving perfectly.

No sighing.

No muttering.

No staring into the distance like I was calculating the downfall of fictional aristocracy.

Just quiet, obedient, broom-holding excellence.

Mrs. Evan even paused while passing me in the corridor, squinting like she could smell good behavior and didn’t trust it.

“Done with the east hallway already?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said politely.

It physically hurts.

She grunted. “Then stop standing like a decorative statue and go help in the linen room. We’re short on proper thread for repairs.”

Thread.

I kept my face calm. Neutral. Unbothered.

Inside?

Opportunity has entered the chat.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The linen room was chaos — torn napkins, loose hems, missing buttons. Banquet preparations meant everything had to look respectable.

Mrs. Evan stormed in behind me, muttering about “lazy hands” and “invisible effort.”

I lifted a frayed tablecloth carefully. “Ma’am, we’re low on white thread. And the thinner needles are bent.”

She sighed dramatically. “Of course they are. Nothing in this house survives.”

I hesitated just enough to look unsure. “Should… someone fetch more from the market?”

She looked at me.

I looked small. Harmless. Replaceable.

Perfect.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Go. Straight there and back. Don’t wander. And don’t touch anything you can’t afford to breathe near.”

“I won’t, ma’am.”

I absolutely would.

The market road was louder than usual, carts rattling past and vendors shouting over each other.

Felicia was already waiting near a bakery stall, waving me over like we were meeting for crime.

“Lina’s inside,” she whispered, pointing to a narrow shop squeezed between a cobbler and a spice seller.

I stepped in—

—and my chest tightened.

Fabric.

Bolts of it stacked along the walls. Soft cottons. Stiff silks. Dyed linens. Laces hanging like delicate cobwebs. Chalk markings on a cutting table. Pins glinting in sunlight near the window.

It smelled like thread, steam, and something warm I hadn’t felt in months.

Purpose.

Behind the counter stood Lina.

Early twenties. Sleeves rolled up. Measuring tape draped around her neck like a badge of honor. Tiny pinpricks dotted her fingers.

She looked tired.

She looked capable.

She looked like someone who didn’t have time for nonsense.

“This is her?” Lina asked, eyeing me.

Felicia nodded. “This is Brie.”

“I can sweep,” I said quickly. “Sort scraps. Thread needles. Anything small.”

Lina studied me a moment longer… then jerked her chin toward the worktable.

“Start by separating usable scraps from waste. Neatly.”

I nodded and got to work.

I didn’t rush.

Didn’t show off.

Just… handled fabric the way hands remember things even when life changes.

Fold with the grain. Don’t stretch biased edges. Stack by weight.

Lina noticed.

She didn’t say anything at first, but she kept glancing over.

After a while, she brought over a half-finished sleeve. “Pleats are uneven. Fix it.”

I took it carefully.

Counted the spacing.

Adjusted tension.

Smoothed the line.

Tiny stitches. Even. Clean.

When I handed it back, she checked both sides.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

I shrugged. “I pay attention.”

Which wasn’t a lie.

In my old life, I had studied fashion design.

Spent years learning structure, drape, balance.

I even had my own small brand.

Maison Étoile.

House of the Star.

It wasn’t world-famous, but people who cared about craftsmanship knew it. Clean silhouettes. Sharp tailoring. Details you noticed only up close.

I had built things from sketches.

From nothing.

And now here I am again…

Just needing fabric.

Just needing a chance.

“I can’t come often,” I said quietly while Lina re-pinned the sleeve. “My household doesn’t know I’m here to work. Just errands.”

Lina didn’t look surprised. “Servant?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “Fine. You come when you can. Small jobs only. If anyone asks, you’re delivering or collecting.”

Relief settled into my bones.

“I won’t cause trouble,” I said.

“See that you don’t,” she replied — but not unkindly.

Felicia beamed like she’d personally invented sewing.

By the time I returned to the estate, the sun was higher and my fingers were dotted with fresh pinpricks.

Proof.

I slipped back inside with thread and needles for the linen room like a perfectly obedient maid.

Mrs. Evan barely looked at me.

Which was exactly the point.

I went back to scrubbing, carrying, and bowing.

Nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Because now, beyond these walls, there was a place where my hands meant more than labor.

A place where I wasn’t just the girl who would die in chapter five.

They thought I was just a servant.

They forgot…

I knew how to build something out of scraps.