Grundy led us down the narrow corridor toward the servants' quarters with the measured steps of a man heading to his own triumph. His keys jangled against his belt, each metallic note marking another second closer to Lyra's doom. The steward's shoulders had straightened, his earlier nervousness replaced by the confidence of someone executing a well-rehearsed plan.
Look at him. Already savoring the moment. Already imagining how Lord Blackwood will praise his 'diligence' in uncovering the theft.
Behind us, the procession of nobles followed like vultures drawn to carrion. Leo's golden hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the corridor windows, his sapphire eyes bright with anticipation of dispensing justice. Father walked beside Lord Blackwood, their conversation a low murmur of administrative details and social pleasantries. Lady Vivienne had remained in the main hall, claiming the servants' quarters were beneath her station.
The servants pressed themselves against the walls as we passed, their faces masks of careful neutrality. But I caught the glances they exchanged, the way Martha's weathered hands clenched into fists at her sides, how Thomas's jaw worked silently as he followed our procession.
They know. Maybe not the details, maybe not the full scope, but they know something stinks about this whole affair.
We stopped before a door near the end of the corridor. Grundy made a show of consulting his ring of keys, though I noticed his fingers went directly to the correct one without hesitation.
"Lyra Ashford's quarters," he announced, his voice carrying just the right note of regretful duty. "She's been with us for... what? Three months now?"
"Four," Thomas corrected from behind us, his tone flat.
Grundy's eyes flicked toward the footman, and for just an instant, I caught a flash of irritation before the steward's professional mask slipped back into place. "Of course. Four months. Still quite new to the household."
The door opened with a soft creak, revealing a room that could charitably be called spartan. A narrow bed with a thin mattress, a small wooden chest, a washbasin, and a single window that looked out onto the kitchen courtyard. Everything a servant was allowed to own, and nothing more.
Lyra stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in a simple braid, her hands clasped before her. She was eighteen, maybe nineteen, with the kind of quiet beauty that spoke of dignity maintained despite circumstances. Her brown eyes held no fear, only a calm acceptance that made my chest tighten unexpectedly.
She doesn't even know what's coming. She thinks this is just another search, just another indignity to endure.
"Miss Ashford," Lord Blackwood's voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "We need to search your quarters. You understand this is merely procedure."
"Of course, my lord." Her voice was steady, respectful. She stepped aside, her movements careful and controlled.
Grundy entered first, his eyes already scanning the room with the focused intensity of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for. He made a show of checking the wooden chest, lifting out her few possessions with exaggerated care—a spare dress, a small sewing kit, a worn prayer book.
"Nothing here," he announced, though his performance was far from over.
Leo stepped into the room, his presence filling the cramped space. "The truth has a way of revealing itself," he declared, his voice ringing with self-righteous conviction. "No matter how cleverly hidden."
Oh, you have no idea how right you are, golden boy. The truth is about to reveal itself in ways you never expected.
Grundy moved to the washbasin, then the small window, his movements becoming more theatrical with each empty search. The other nobles watched from the doorway, their faces reflecting various degrees of interest and impatience.
Finally, the steward approached the bed. He knelt beside it, his hands moving along the mattress with the careful motions of someone conducting a thorough search. His fingers probed the edges, the corners, working their way toward the center.
"Wait," Grundy's voice carried a note of surprise that would have been convincing to anyone who hadn't seen him plant the evidence hours earlier. "There's something here."
His hand slipped beneath the mattress, and when it emerged, he held Lady Blackwood's emerald necklace. The gems caught the afternoon light, throwing green fire across the shabby walls of the servant's room.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lyra's face went white, her brown eyes widening as she stared at the necklace in Grundy's hand. "I... I've never seen that before. I don't know how—"
"How indeed," Lord Blackwood's voice had gone cold as winter stone. "Guard!"
The soldiers who had accompanied our search moved forward, their hands already reaching for Lyra's arms. She didn't resist, didn't run. She simply stood there, her world crumbling around her as the trap snapped shut.
"My lord, please," her voice cracked, the calm composure finally breaking. "I didn't steal anything. I would never—"
"The evidence speaks for itself," Leo interrupted, stepping forward with the bearing of a man about to deliver divine justice. "Miss Ashford, you stand accused of theft from a noble house. The penalty for such a crime is—"
"HE'S THE THIEF!"
The shout came from behind us, cutting through Leo's pronouncement like a blade through silk. Thomas burst into the room, his face flushed with exertion and righteous fury. In his hands, he clutched what remained of several leather-bound ledgers, their edges blackened by fire.
"Who dares interrupt—" Lord Blackwood began, but Thomas was beyond caring about protocol.
"Marcus Grundy is the thief!" The footman's voice carried the kind of authority that came from absolute conviction. "He's been embezzling from the household accounts for months!"
Grundy's face went ashen, the color draining from his features as if someone had opened a vein. "That's... that's ridiculous. This man is clearly trying to deflect attention from—"
"These are the account ledgers for the past six months," Thomas continued, holding up the partially burned books. "I found them in the incinerator, along with evidence of forged entries and falsified records. He's been skimming from the household budget and doctoring the books to cover his tracks."
The room erupted into chaos. Lord Blackwood's face darkened like a thundercloud, his eyes fixed on Grundy with the kind of cold fury that preceded executions. Father stepped forward, his politician's instincts recognizing a scandal in the making. Leo looked confused, his prepared speech about justice and consequences suddenly irrelevant.
But I wasn't watching the drama unfold. I had positioned myself against the doorframe, examining my fingernails with the kind of bored disinterest that suggested I found the entire affair beneath my notice. After all, what did the third son of a declining house care about servant politics and financial irregularities?
Perfect. Just another day of noble drama that goes right over poor Kaelen's head. Nothing to see here, just the family embarrassment being his usual oblivious self.
The argument continued to rage around me. Grundy was denying everything, his voice rising to a near shriek as he tried to maintain his innocence. Thomas was laying out his evidence someone who had spent years watching corruption from the sidelines. Lord Blackwood was demanding explanations, his voice cutting through the noise like a sword through silk.
And through it all, Lyra stood frozen in the center of the storm. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, darting from Grundy's ashen face to the half-burnt ledgers in Thomas's hands.
She looked like a woman who had been prepared for the gallows, only to watch the executioner be arrested instead.
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