By my third morning at Greyhaven, I had learned that being a maid involved far less dramatic servitude than Caelum’s knife-point ultimatum had suggested.
Mostly, it involved trays.
Breakfast trays, tea trays, documents carried between rooms, and one particularly unnecessary silver tray Grace insisted should be used for Caelum’s coffee because, according to her, “the Alpha notices when things are out of place.”
I suspected the Alpha noticed far too much in general.
Grace placed a black coffee beside a small plate of toast and pushed the tray toward me.
“Study. Second floor.”
“I know where it is.”
“I know you know.”
There was enough amusement in her expression to make me narrow my eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That never means nothing.”
Grace smiled and returned to slicing fruit.
I
