Chapter 4 – A complete misunderstanding

I waited exactly thirty seconds before opening the door.

The hallway was long. Dark wood floors. Tall windows. A line of paintings of dead Vandermeres staring down at me with various levels of disappointment. The ancestor on the left looked like he wanted to file a complaint.

I stepped out.

My boots clicked on the wood. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed the quarter hour. The lavender smell from my room followed me into the hall like a guilty pet.

I had two goals.

Goal one. Find Lira. Apologize. Explain that I had not, in fact, ordered her to do whatever that was.

Goal two. Do not get cut in half by the hero in three weeks.

Goal one was looking harder.

I followed the soft sound of voices down a side staircase. Polished banister. Red runner carpet. A small marble bust of someone who looked deeply judgmental on a pedestal at the bottom.

Two more flights down, the voices got clearer.

Three of them. All female. All very much not happy.

I pressed my back against the wall at the corner.

The hallway opened into a small servants’ alcove. White tile floor. A long wooden bench. A window letting in pale grey light. Lira stood in the middle of it, still red-faced, gripping her apron with both hands as it might fly away.

Two older maids stood across from her.

One was tall and thin with iron-grey hair pulled into a bun so tight it could probably cut glass. The other was short and round with a stern mouth and reading glasses pushed up on her forehead.

I crouched behind the corner.

I am not proud.

“Lira, dear. Slow down.”

“I cannot slow down, Mistress Hilda. I have done a terrible thing.”

“What kind of terrible thing?”The young master.”

The tall maid sucked in a breath through her teeth.

The short maid’s hand flew to her chest.

I winced.

Strong opening, Lira. Real strong.

“What did he do to you, child?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“He did not do anything.”

“Lira.”

“I swear, Mistress Hilda.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I am not crying.”

“You are absolutely crying.”

“…A little.”

I dropped my forehead against the wall.

This was already going badly. We were six sentences in. The short maid had begun rolling up her sleeves like she was about to fight someone. Possibly me. Probably me.

“Lira. Listen to me very carefully.”

“Yes, Mistress Bertha.”

“Did the young master raise his voice?”

“No.”

“Did the young master throw anything?”

“No.”

“Did the young master say anything cruel?”

“No.”

The two older maids exchanged a very long, very loaded look.

Mistress Hilda’s eyebrow climbed about half an inch.

Mistress Bertha’s reading glasses slid back down her forehead.

“Lira.”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling us the young master was kind?”

Lira opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

A small, strangled noise came out.

Mistress Hilda took one step closer.

“Lira.”

“He.”

“Yes.”

“He told me.”

“Yes.”

“To calm down.”

The alcove went so quiet I could hear the clock three rooms over.

Mistress Bertha, very slowly, reached up and removed her reading glasses.

Mistress Hilda, very slowly, set down a stack of folded linens she had been holding.

I held my breath.

“He told you. To calm down.”

“Yes, Mistress Hilda.”

“In what tone?”

“A. Soft tone.”

“A soft tone.”

“Yes.”

“Lira, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you did not hit your head?”

I almost laughed out loud. I had to bite the inside of my cheek. Every single person in this house was apparently checking each other for head injuries today. I was going to have to start a chart.

“I did not hit my head, Mistress Hilda.”

“And then what?”

“Then.”

“Yes.”

“Then I.”

She made a small, agonized sound.

“I chased him around the room.”

The silence that followed was, somehow, even louder.

Mistress Bertha’s reading glasses slid all the way off her forehead and landed in her open palm. She did not appear to notice.

Mistress Hilda’s hand drifted up to her mouth.

I closed my eyes very tightly.

Lira. Lira, no. Lira, oh my god.

“You. Chased. The young master.”

“Yes, Mistress Hilda.”

“Around. The room.”

“Yes.”

“On purpose.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

“Lira.”

“I do not know, I do not know, I do not know.”

“Did he run from you?”

“…Yes.”

“Why did he run from you?”

“Because I was. Reaching.”

“Reaching.”

“For him.”

A small choking sound came from Mistress Bertha. She might have been laughing. She might have been having a stroke. From this angle, both options looked equally likely.

Mistress Hilda’s mouth opened. And closed. And opened again. She had the same fish face I had been making about ten minutes ago.

I could not stay behind this corner forever.

Every second I waited, this story got worse. By the time these two were done with it, the official account would be that I had been chased through a wall, fought off three knights, and pulled a dragon out of the bathtub.

I stepped around the corner.

Three heads snapped toward me.

Lira squeaked—a real squeak. The kind of startled mouse makes. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, and her face went the color of an actual tomato.

Mistress Hilda’s spine straightened so fast I heard a click.

Mistress Bertha dropped her reading glasses.

I lifted one hand in a small, very calm wave.

“Hi.”

Three deep, perfectly synchronized bows.

“Young master.”

“Young master.”

“Y-young Master.”

“Please. At ease. Or whatever you say in this house. Stand up.”

They stood up.

Slowly. Carefully. The way people stand up when they are not sure if the floor is real anymore.

I walked the rest of the way down the steps. My boots clicked on the white tile. I kept both hands very visible. I tried to look as much like a normal teenage boy as possible, which was difficult, given that I was a fictional villain in a borrowed body with mind control fingers.

I stopped at a polite distance away.

“Sorry. I overheard.”

“Y-young master, I did not mean—”

“Lira. Breathe.”

She inhaled so sharply she almost choked.

I winced.

“Different breath. A normal one. In. Out. There you go.”

She did it.

Her shoulders dropped half an inch.

Mistress Hilda’s eyes flicked between us like she was watching a very confusing tennis match.

Mistress Bertha bent down and picked up her glasses. She did not put them back on. She just held them in her hand, like a person who had given up on seeing clearly today.

I cleared my throat.

“I owe Lira an apology.”

Three heads tilted at the same angle.

“You owe Lira.”

“Yes.”

“An apology.”

“Yes, Mistress Hilda.”

“From you.”

“Mhm.”

“To her.”

“Yes, that is how apologies usually work.”

Mistress Bertha sat down on the wooden bench.

Just sat. Like her knees gave up. She set her glasses neatly beside her on the wood and folded her hands in her lap, and stared at the middle distance like she was reviewing every choice that had led her to this moment.

I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Look. I had a weird night. I had a weirder morning. I am trying to be different. I startled Lira earlier. That was on me. Whatever happened after was, technically, also on me.”

Lira’s head snapped up.

“It was not, young master, it was—”

“Lira.”

“Yes, young master.”

“You are not in trouble.”

“…Oh.”

“You will not be in trouble later either.”

“Oh.”

“In fact. Nobody in this hallway is in trouble. We are pretending the last twenty minutes did not happen. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me. Personally. In writing. With nice handwriting, please.”

The alcove went quiet.

A small, strange thing happened on Mistress Hilda’s face. The corners of her stern mouth twitched. Just once. She squashed it down so fast you could barely see it. But I saw it.

Mistress Bertha, on the bench, made a small, surprised sound.

Lira just stared at me.

Then her shoulders started shaking again.

“Lira.”

“Yes, young master.”

“Are you laughing again.”

“No, young master.”

“You are absolutely laughing.”

“It is a concern, young master.”

“That is not what concern looks like.”

“I am very concerned, young master.”

Mistress Hilda made a sound that was definitely, definitely a snort.

I turned to her. Slowly. With great theater.

“Mistress Hilda.”

“Young master.”

“Did you just snort?”

“I did not, young master.”

“You absolutely did.”

“It was a sneeze, young master.”

“A sneeze.”

“A small one, young master.”

“Mhm.”

I crossed my arms.

I let the corner of my mouth tug up. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.

For one second, the whole alcove felt almost normal. Three women. One ridiculous boy. A weird, embarrassing, slightly haunted morning that everyone had survived.

Then Mistress Bertha looked up from the bench.

Her eyes were sharp behind her tired face. Sharper than I expected. She studied me for a long, careful second. Whatever she had been searching for, she seemed to find. She dipped her head, just a little. Polite. Quiet. Real.

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“Welcome home.”

The two simple words landed funny in my chest. A small warm thing under my ribs. Not the hypnosis warmth. A different one.

I cleared my throat.

“Right. Yes. Thank you. Anyway. Where is breakfast? The duke is, I am told, waiting.”

Three faces went pale at the same time.

Mistress Hilda glanced at the tall window. The pale grey light had shifted. The clock somewhere downstairs was already starting to chime the half hour.

Lira covered her mouth.

Mistress Bertha was already on her feet.

Somewhere, deep inside the house, a heavy door slammed open, and the deep voice from before began calling my name a second time. Closer now. Much closer.

Mistress Hilda took one careful step toward me.

“Young master. Run.”