"She is cruel and wicked."
Those words wouldn't leave the Marchioness alone. They echoed in her mind long after Lavender had gone to bed.
Lavender had never spoken ill of anyone before, not once in all her months under their roof. She was quiet, careful, sometimes too careful. And yet tonight, she had said those words with such certainty that it had shaken her.
Surely the child had exaggerated, Beatrice told herself. Governess MacLeary was known all through Britannia for her discipline and fine manners. Many noble families had begged for her services, even sent letters of recommendation. Losing her would be… difficult.
But still, the way Lavender had said it. Cruel and wicked.
Beatrice rubbed her temples and tried not to think too much.
---
Meanwhile, in the Sparrow library a tall, sun-warmed room that always smelled of ink and old paper. Lavender sat alone at the wide mahogany desk. The quill trembled slightly in her hand.
Governess MacLeary stood behind her, tall and stiff, like a statue waiting to strike.
"I finished, ma'am," Lavender said in her small voice.
The paper before her was full of careful letters, uneven, yes, but neater than before. Her fingers were blotched with ink, her wrist sore from hours of trying.
MacLeary snatched up the page and glanced over it. Her mouth tightened.
"Your L's are too stiff, your t's look like u's, and you've forgotten half your dots," she said crisply.
Lavender's little smile wavered. "I tried my best," she whispered. "I worked very hard."
"You tried your best?" The governess gave a sharp laugh. "Child, your best would shame a stable boy. You speak like a broken doll and write like a savage."
Across the room, behind a shelf, Martha , the maid froze where she stood, her hands tightening around the stack of books she carried.
Lavender's eyes went wide. "I am not a savage," she said quickly.
The governess's face twisted. "How dare you raise your voice? Is that how you were raised back in that wild little country of yours?"
Lavender's voice faltered. "No, ma'am."
"Then again," the woman sneered, lowering her tone, "I suppose one can't expect manners from your kind. Your skin alone says enough."
Martha's breath caught. The few servants nearby went still as stone.
Lavender felt her heart slam against her ribs. The heat in her chest rose like fire. "You are cruel," she said, shaking. "Cruel and wicked!"
The governess blinked, shocked that the quiet little girl had dared answer back.
Before she could speak again, another voice, calm but trembling with fury, filled the room.
"How dare you speak to my daughter that way?"
The Marchioness stood in the doorway, pale and furious, her silk skirts whispering as she strode in. The servants gasped, no one had ever heard her raise her voice.
"My lady..." the governess began, but Beatrice's eyes burned.
"My daughter came to me crying," she said, her tone tight. "And now I see why."
The governess straightened. "My lady, the girl is… impossible. I have tried everything, but she refuses to learn..."
"She is lying!" Lavender's voice cracked as tears filled her eyes. "She called me names ... said ugly things about me!"
The governess flushed, her composure slipping. "That is absurd..."
"Enough," said the Marchioness sharply. "I will not have cruelty or deceit in this house. Not from you."
"My lady," the woman tried again, her voice shaking now, "please, I..."
"You are dismissed."
The room went so quiet that even the clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking.
MacLeary's mouth opened and closed once. She had never been dismissed before. Not once.
"Very well," she said at last, her voice cold. "But don't expect any governess to come near this place again. Not after they hear about your precious little daughter."
Her eyes darted toward Lavender and she gave one last venomous glare, but the girl didn't flinch. She only lifted her chin and stared back, her small hands trembling but steady.
The Marchioness moved closer, placing a hand on Lavender's shoulder. "Come, darling," she said quietly. "You've done nothing wrong."
Lavender looked up at her, tears still clinging to her lashes, but a tiny, brave smile tugged at her lips.
Someone, at last, had believed her.