Jemma flexed her fingers, testing the bandage the house nurse had wrapped around her palm. The sting had dulled, but the tightness of the dressing was a constant reminder of the jagged glass she'd picked up earlier. She wanted to leave the dining room, to put distance between herself and him but she hadn't taken more than two steps when his voice stopped her cold.
"Don't move."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The weight behind it sank into her bones, freezing her mid-step. She looked over. Xavier sat at the head of the table, coffee cup balanced in one hand, the other resting loosely on the arm of his chair. He hadn't even looked at her when he'd spoken. That somehow made it worse.
"I—" she started, but he finally lifted his eyes to hers. The slow precision of the movement made her feel like he'd measured the moment and found her interruption… unnecessary.
"You're not dismissed."
The words closed around her like a locked door. Mandy, who was standing at the far end, paused. Jemma caught the flicker of something in her face, pity, maybe, or warning, before she slipped quickly into the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Jemma stood rooted in place, spine stiff, nails biting into her palm through the bandage. The silence pressed in, the faint tick of the grandfather clock filling the air until Xavier set his cup down and rose. The scrape of the chair legs on marble made her flinch.
"Follow me."
He didn't look back to check if she would. He didn't need to. His stride was unhurried but certain, as though confident she'd trail him no matter how much she hated it. And she did, because she'd learned what defying him cost.
The hall outside was flooded with pale morning light, but it didn't warm anything. Every servant they passed seemed to shrink into themselves, stepping back against the wall, eyes fixed on the floor. The silence wasn't polite, it was survival.
They stopped at a set of tall double doors. Xavier pushed one open and stepped inside. Jemma followed, blinking at the sudden shift in air and light. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper, the quiet almost heavy. The library stretched out in front of her, two floors of shelves climbing toward the ceiling, ladders leaning against them, sunlight spilling through high windows.
"Sort them." His voice was clipped, stripped of anything resembling patience.
Her brow furrowed before she could stop it. "Sort them how?"
The look he gave her was enough to slice through the air between them. "By subject. Then author. Don't touch the top shelves."
She glanced at the towering rows. "That's… going to take hours," she muttered.
His jaw shifted, the faintest grind of teeth. "Then stop wasting time."
Her lips pressed together, trapping the words she wanted to throw back. She turned to the nearest shelf, brushing her fingers across the dusty spines, the silence swallowing every movement. It was too quiet. Without thinking, she began to hum — a low, tuneless sound meant more to steady her than to fill the air.
"Stop."
The single word cracked through the room, sharp as breaking glass. She froze mid-note, looking over her shoulder. "It's just humming," she said softly.
"Not in my house."
The way he said it carried no room for argument. It was the same tone people used when stating the law. His eyes lingered for a second too long before he turned away, settling at the desk at the far end of the room.
Jemma swallowed the urge to hum again out of spite. She focused on sorting, sliding books into neat lines, brushing dust from faded covers. Her mind drifted despite her efforts, unbidden images clawing up, her father lying still on the floor. That same cold expression was here now, sipping coffee while she worked like a fixture in the room.
The ache in her hand made her clumsier. One book landed on the table with more force than she meant. The sound echoed.
Across the room, his voice carried. "Problem?"
Her chest tightened. She could have said no. She should have. Instead, something sharp slipped out. "Only that I'm not your maid."
His chair scraped back, the sound slow and deliberate. He didn't rush. He just stood and walked toward her, each step measured, stretching the moment.
When he stopped in front of her, she could see her own reflection in his dark eyes. "You are," he said quietly, "until I decide otherwise."
The softness of the tone didn't soften the meaning. It was a lock clicking shut. He didn't wait for her answer, just turned and walked back to his desk.
She tightened her grip on the book in her hand, the leather warm from her skin. She kept working, every movement heavier, aware of his gaze dropping to her at intervals. She didn't look up often, but when she did, he was already looking.
Minutes stretched into something slower. She wasn't sure when she began humming again (softer this time, almost under her breath) but he didn't stop her. She caught herself halfway through a shelf and hesitated, waiting for his voice to cut her off. It never came.
She kept going, the sound soothing in a way that made her feel foolish. The work blurred dust, spine, alphabet, repeat. Her shoulders ached. By the time she set the last book in its place, the sun had shifted, casting the room in gold.
She turned, ready to slip out without a word, but his voice caught her.
"If you hum again in my presence without permission, you won't like what follows."
The words were low, almost casual, but the way they settled in the air made her pulse quicken. Her stomach tightened. She gave a short nod and turned toward the door.
"You're dismissed."
It was the first thing he'd said all day that she wanted to hear. She left without looking back, though she felt his gaze following her until the door closed.
The hall felt different after the library, cooler, almost lighter but her shoulders still carried the tension from hours of sorting under Xavier's gaze. She turned a corner, heading toward her room, when the low murmur of voices drifted from the kitchen.
She didn't mean to slow her steps, but the words pulled her in.
Two maids stood near the counter, Tricksy and Dianna, the dull thud of knife on wood punctuating their hushed tones. Tricksy was chopping carrots with mechanical precision. Dianna, broader and younger, was plucking herbs from their stems, her eyes flicking toward the doorway as though expecting someone to appear.
When they saw her, both women paused.