The search of the first room yielded nothing, as expected. The second room produced similar results. Grundy made appropriate noises of concern and disappointment, his performance polished enough to fool anyone who wasn't looking for the tells.
But I was looking, and I saw the way his eyes kept drifting toward the end of the corridor, where Lyra's room waited. The slight tremor in his hands when he thought no one was watching. The way he kept checking the position of the sun through the narrow windows, as if timing were somehow important.
Getting nervous, aren't you? Starting to wonder if your plan is too simple, too obvious? Good. Nervous criminals make mistakes.
We were halfway through the third search when I noticed movement near the administrative wing. A young kitchen boy—couldn't have been more than fourteen—emerged carrying a small stack of leather-bound ledgers. He moved with the careful gait of someone carrying something important, his eyes fixed on his destination.
The boy was heading toward the courtyard, where a small stone incinerator stood ready to burn refuse and worn-out materials. The ledgers in his arms looked old but not damaged, their leather covers worn smooth by handling rather than aged by neglect.
Well, well. What have we here? Spring cleaning, Grundy?
I glanced around the group, noting that everyone's attention was focused on the current search. Thomas stood with the other servants, but his eyes kept flicking toward the administrative wing, as if he were tracking the same movement I'd noticed.
Perfect. My ambitious footman is already thinking like an investigator.
I waited until the boy was halfway across the courtyard before making my move. Stepping away from the main group, I wandered toward where Mira stood with several other servants, my movements casual and aimless.
"Mira," I called out, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry to the nearby servants without drawing attention from the nobles. "That's strange."
The maid turned toward me, her expression cautious but polite. "Young Master?"
I pointed toward the kitchen boy, who was now feeding the ledgers into the incinerator one by one. "Why would anyone burn account ledgers? I thought Father said financial records must be kept for seven years. Is Steward Grundy making a mistake?"
The question came out in my usual tone of confused incompetence, as if I were genuinely puzzled by something beyond my understanding. But I made sure my voice carried just far enough for Thomas to hear.
Mira followed my gaze, her brow furrowing as she watched the boy work. "Those do look like ledgers," she agreed, her voice uncertain. "But I'm sure the steward knows what he's doing."
Oh, sweet summer child. Your faith in authority figures is almost touching.
But Thomas had heard, and I saw his entire body go rigid as he processed what I'd said. His head snapped toward the courtyard, watching the kitchen boy feed another ledger into the flames. The footman's face went through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, and then a kind of cold fury that spoke to years of resentment finally finding a target.
There we go. Now you're not just wondering about drinking habits. Now you're wondering about embezzlement, fraud, and exactly how deep this particular rabbit hole goes.
Thomas took a step toward the courtyard, his movement sharp and purposeful. Several of the other servants noticed the change in his demeanor, following his gaze toward the incinerator where evidence of financial crimes was literally going up in smoke.
"Thomas?" Martha's voice carried a note of concern. "What's wrong?"
The footman's jaw worked silently for a moment, his eyes fixed on the burning ledgers. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of quiet authority that came from absolute certainty.
"I need to speak with Lord Blackwood," he said, his words falling into the sudden hush that had descended over the servant group. "Immediately."
And there it is. The moment when the hunter becomes the hunted.
From across the courtyard, I caught sight of Grundy's face as he noticed the commotion among the servants. The steward's carefully maintained composure cracked for just an instant, revealing the pale, sweating features of a man who'd just realized his carefully laid plans were beginning to unravel.
The kitchen boy, oblivious to the drama unfolding around him, fed the last ledger into the flames and dusted off his hands before heading back toward the kitchen. The evidence of Grundy's financial crimes rose into the autumn air as smoke and ash, but the damage was already done.
Thomas was moving now, his stride confident and determined as he approached the group of nobles still engaged in their futile search for a stolen necklace. Behind him, the other servants whispered among themselves, their voices carrying the kind of electric excitement that came from witnessing the downfall of someone they'd learned to fear.
Beautiful. Just beautiful. Nothing quite like watching a corrupt official realize that his own greed has painted him into a corner.
I drifted back toward the main group, timing my return to coincide with Thomas's approach. Leo was still making pronouncements about justice and truth, blissfully unaware that the real criminal was standing close enough to touch. Father and Blackwood were discussing the methodology of the search, their voices carrying the kind of dry authority that suggested they were both going through the motions.
And Lyra... Lyra was watching Thomas approach with the wide-eyed look of someone who sensed that her fate was about to change, though she couldn't yet tell in which direction.
Hold on, girl. The cavalry is coming, and they don't even know they're riding to your rescue.
Thomas cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noble conversation. "My lord," he said, addressing Blackwood directly. "I believe there's something you need to see."
The footman's voice carried a weight that made everyone turn to look at him. Even Leo paused in his speechifying, his sapphire eyes focusing on Thomas with the kind of attention he usually reserved for matters of cosmic importance.
"What is it, Thomas?" Father asked, his tone suggesting mild irritation at the interruption.
Thomas's gaze swept over the assembled nobles before settling on Grundy, whose face had gone the color of old parchment. "It concerns the real reason for today's search, my lord. And I'm afraid it has nothing to do with stolen jewelry."
Game, set, and match. Sorry, Grundy, but when you play chess with someone who's read the ending, you're going to lose every time.