Chapter 4
The transition from the blazing chandeliers of the main hall to the subterranean service corridors was jarring. The air grew damp, thick with the scent of old lime, wet stone, and boiling potatoes from the distant kitchens. Clara led the way, moving with the silent, practiced stealth of someone who had learned to make herself invisible. Her bare feet knew every uneven slab of the stone floor in the dark.
Julian followed closely behind, ducking his head to avoid the low oak beams overhead. The bright blue suit looked absurdly out of place down here, a splash of royal brilliance swallowed by the perpetual gloom of the servants’ domain. Every few steps, he checked his pocket to ensure the pearl was secure, treating the tiny object like a talisman protecting them from the horrors above.
“Here,” Clara whispered, stopping before a heavy wooden door tucked beneath the soaring curve of the grand staircase. It was an alcove usually reserved for broken furniture and discarded linens. She pushed the door open with a soft groan of dry hinges.
Julian stepped inside, illuminating the cramped space with the glow of his smartphone. The room was sparse—a thin straw mattress tossed onto a wooden pallet, a cracked washbasin, and a small wooden crate serving as a makeshift table. On the crate sat a single, half-burned candle and a small, crudely carved wooden bird.
“You live here?” Julian asked, his voice cracking slightly as the reality of her daily existence washed over him.
“Madam Eleanor said rooms with windows were for people who earned their keep,” Clara replied simply, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and pulling her dirty knees to her chest. She didn’t sound bitter; she sounded resigned. It was the voice of a child who had never known warmth, sunshine, or kindness.
Julian pulled a small handkerchief from his breast pocket and knelt before her, gently reaching out to wipe a smudge of soot from her cheek. She flinched at first, bracing for a hand that usually brought pain, but when the cloth brushed her skin softly, she relaxed, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
“What is your name?” Julian asked gently, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “Clara? Is that what they call you?”
“The cook calls me Clara because she found me near the cloisters,” the girl answered, looking down at her scarred fingers. “She said I came with a basket of laundry when I was a baby. But sometimes, when I close my eyes in the dark, I remember a music box. And a lady who smelled like sweet lavender.”
May you like
Julian’s chest tightened. The memories she described matched the nursery rhymes their mother used to sing before the fire swallowed the west wing. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. Clara wasn’t a stray foundling or a kitchen orphan. She was the legitimate daughter of the Duke and Duchess, hidden away by a treacherous relative who wanted the title and the vaults entirely to herself.
“That lady was our mother, Clara,” Julian said softly, his voice trembling as he spoke the word our for the very first time. “And you are a Vane. Not a servant. Not garbage. My sister.”
