Estella’s sharp voice said to Aria. “When you’re done, you’ll fetch fresh sheets for Lady Mira’s bed. And polish the silver before lunch. Try not to bleed on anything.”
“Yes, Lady Estella.”
Estella smirks, satisfied, and sweeps out of the room, leaving the scent of rose oil in her wake.
The silence that follows is heavy. Only the faint creak of floorboards and Aria’s ragged breathing fill the grand chamber. She sits back on her heels, blinking at the patterns of light spilling through the window — pale, ghostly stripes cutting across the floor. Dust motes dance like fading stars in the beam.
For a moment, she closes her eyes.
It’s just work, she tells herself. You’ve endured worse. Keep breathing.
But deep down, beneath the exhaustion and the pain, something small and fragile aches —
