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.
"You were in there a long time," Tricksy said, her tone deceptively casual. The knife kept moving, but slower now.
Jemma gave a noncommittal shrug. "He had me sort the shelves."
"Shelves don't take six hours," Dianna said, not looking up from the herbs.
Jemma's fingers tightened against her side. "Maybe not for you."
Tricksy's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "We heard you humming."
That made Jemma's steps falter. She looked between them. "And?"
"And he didn't stop you," Dianna said quickly, as though cutting off Tricksy's lead. She plucked a leaf with more force than necessary. "Not the second time, anyway."
Jemma let out a quiet scoff. "You were eavesdropping."
"We don't need to eavesdrop," the older maid replied, voice light but eyes sharp. "Sound carries in this house."
Jemma shook her head and made to leave, but their tone shifted, not teasing now, but almost conspiratorial.
"He doesn't let anyone get away with something twice," Dianna said, lowering her voice further. "Not unless—"
"Unless what?" Jemma cut in, her own voice sharper than she meant.
Tricksy's knife stilled on the cutting board. "Unless it serves him."
The words hung there for a moment, heavier than the smell of the herbs.
Jemma crossed her arms. "It was just humming. He probably didn't notice."
Dianna's brow rose. "He notices everything."
That truth, because she knew it was true, made her want to end the conversation. But they were both looking at her now, as though she'd returned from someplace dangerous and they wanted to know what she'd seen.
"What did he say when you finished?" the older maid asked.
"Nothing important," she muttered.
Tricksy hummed, the sound almost amused. "If it wasn't important, you'd say what it was."
Jemma's patience snapped. "You both have work to do. So do I."
She turned to go, Dianna's voice followed her, softer now, almost like a caution. "Be careful. Sometimes he's quiet because he's already decided something."
That one lodged in her chest, more stubborn than she wanted to admit. She didn't look back, just walked faster until the kitchen voices faded.
Her room felt smaller than usual when she slipped inside, but at least it was hers. She shut the door, leaned against it, and closed her eyes. The sting in her bandaged hand had dulled, but her head throbbed with the weight of the conversation.
She didn't even bother with her shoes. The bed dipped under her as she collapsed onto it, curling slightly on her side. The quiet here was different , no footsteps, no eyes following her, no voices pressing questions she didn't want to answer.
Her eyelids grew heavy. She thought of the warning — If you hum again in my presence without permission… — and of the strange way he'd let her continue before saying it.
She told herself it didn't mean anything.
But she didn't quite believe it.
Sleep claimed her before she could try to untangle why.
Jemma stirred awake later than she intended, the sunlight slanting sharply through the curtains. Panic gripped her as she glanced at the clock, far past the time she was supposed to report. Her chest tightened, and her hand instinctively brushed at the bandage, the memory of her previous injuries adding weight to her fear.
She moved quickly, almost stumbling in her haste, and made her way down the main hallway. That's when she saw him, Xavier, standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her with a cold intensity that made her stomach drop.
"Late," he said, flat, deliberate. No warmth, no pause, just a statement of fact.
"I… I—" she started, but the words caught in her throat.
"Clean the windows in the main hall. Every single one. Before dinner."
Her stomach twisted. She had hoped the library punishment would be the end, but she only nodded, forcing herself to move. The weight of exhaustion from the morning and the library task made each step heavier, but she followed his silent lead down the hall to the vast wall of windows.
Hours passed as she worked methodically, the sharp scrape of the cloth against glass echoing in the near-empty house. Xavier remained nearby, silent, watching from the stairs or leaning against the railing, his eyes dark and unyielding. Every now and then, she caught his gaze, and a shiver ran down her spin, a reminder that any hesitation or mistake could be noticed.
Finally, when the last pane gleamed under her careful work, he nodded once. "Dinner," he said simply.
Jemma exhaled, relief mixing with exhaustion. She made her way to the kitchen, gathering the tray of food. Her bandaged hand throbbed faintly, the sting a reminder of her own limits, but she ignored it.
In the dining room, Xavier was already seated, black-shirted and immobile at the head of the table. His piercing gaze tracked her every movement as she set the dishes down with trembling hands.
She placed each item carefully, aware that any misalignment would draw his scrutiny. He didn't acknowledge her with a word, only continued eating with measured, deliberate movements.
Jemma stood silently, holding herself tense, waiting for the briefest signal that she could leave.
Finally, he looked up and said, "You may go." His voice was sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument or delay.
She let out a quiet breath she hadn't realized she was holding and retreated toward the hallway, muscles aching and mind heavy with the day's events.
As she entered her room, the door clicked softly behind her. She fell onto the bed, curling up and letting the exhaustion wash over her. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax, though her chest still tightened at the thought of his gaze.
Jemma sank into a chair in the corner of her room, rubbing her aching hands. The library task and the window cleaning had left her drained, but sleep felt impossible now, she knew Xavier would not tolerate oversleeping again.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Jemma?" a familiar voice called gently.
"Come in," she said, her voice hoarse.
Lucy stepped inside, her expression a mix of concern and quiet caution.
"You look like you've been run through a storm," Lucy said, approaching and resting a hand lightly on Jemma's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"I'm… fine," Jemma muttered, though her throat tightened. "Just tired."
Lucy tilted her head, studying her friend. "Tired doesn't even cover it. That man doesn't let you catch a breath, does he?"
Jemma let out a frustrated sigh, pressing her palms against her face. "I thought the library task was punishment enough, but he gave me the windows too… and now I have to serve dinner."
Lucy nodded knowingly. "I remember my first year here. He's usually not interested in who serves him or who handles his tasks as far as they're completed in a quick pace. I can't imagine being in your place. You're learning fast though." Her voice softened. "But don't let him break you. He's… ruthless, yes, but he's predictable once you understand his patterns."
Jemma gave a small, bitter laugh. "Predictable doesn't make it any easier."
Lucy smiled faintly, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. "You'll get through it. Listen, just do what he says, keep your head down, but… don't forget you have to survive, too. That's the most important part."
Jemma nodded slowly, drawing in a shaky breath. "I'll try."
"Good." Lucy straightened and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.