CHAPTER 5: SILK AND SURVIVAL

Eva’s POV

The servants' hall at eight in the evening smelled of roasted turnips, boiled mutton, and damp wool drying near the hearth.

Around the long wooden trestle table, the estate’s maids, footmen, and stable boys sat elbow-to-elbow. Wood spoons scraped loudly against bowls as exhausted workers devoured their supper in relative silence, far too tired from twelve hours of labor to waste energy on talk.

I sat near the edge of the bench, my back straight, picking quietly at a piece of dry rye bread.

"Here," a quiet, dry voice muttered beside me.

A sun-browned hand slid half a salted plum onto my plate. I turned to see a maid with sharp hazel eyes, calloused hands, and dark hair pulled back into a severe knot. It was Nell—a scullery maid who mostly kept to herself, spent her days scrubbing iron pots, and had zero interest in court gossip.

"You look like you're chewing on gravel," Nell said softly, taking a huge bite of a turnip. "Eat the plum. Keeps your throat from drying out."

A small, genuine smile touched my lips. "Thank you, Nell."

"Don't mention it," she replied, though her eyes were friendly. "I just hate seeing good fruit go to waste."

Before I could reply, a loud, theatrical sigh echoed from the middle of the table.

Laura sat surrounded by two younger maids, holding a crumpled, week-old copy of the capital newspaper that a carriage driver had brought in from town. She held the parchment close to the oil lamp, running a thumb over the heavy black ink.

"Listen to this," Laura announced, raising her voice just enough to get the room's attention. "The Duke of Sterling raised the grain tariff in the eastern province by three silver pieces. It says here... 'The royal court has sanctioned the... the...'"

She trailed off, her brow furrowing as she struggled over a long word.

"'The co-co-co-er-cion...'"

"Coercion," I said softly, the word slipping past my lips before I could stop myself.

The low chatter in the hall died down. Laura froze, her eyes snapping up from the paper to lock onto me.

"What did you say?" Laura asked, her voice dropping into a defensive sneer.

"Coercion," I repeated gently, keeping my tone flat and humble. "It means forced compliance, Laura.The word is coercion."

Laura’s face flushed red. She slammed the newspaper down onto the table, making the candle flicker.

"Look at our new little maid," Laura scoffed, glaring across the benches. "Sits there in grey linen like the rest of us, but speaks like a capital scholar. Where did a girl who scrubs floors learn words like that, hm?"

An awkward silence fell over the room. Nell shifted beside me, shooting me a subtle warning look.

"I can read a little," I replied smoothly, lowering my eyes to my plate. "My former mistress allowed me to look through discarded books while I cleaned."

"A little?" Laura spat, leaning across the table, her dark eyes sharp with suspicion. "You don't just read words, Eva. You handle a needle like a dressmaker, you walk without a sound, and you know political terms. A girl from the northern slums doesn't have hands like yours."

She reached across the table, grabbing my right wrist before I could pull away, yanking my hand into the lamplight.

"Look at her hands!" Laura called out to the table. "Not a single chemical burn from the lye. No scars from the washboards. Who are you really? An escaped convict? A disgraced noble’s bastard hiding from the magistrate?"

"That is quite enough, Laura."

Mrs. Gable’s sharp voice cut through the room. She stood at the threshold, her iron keys rattling at her hip. Her stern eyes swept over the silent table, landing on Laura’s grip on my wrist. Laura instantly dropped my hand and slid back into her seat.

"Return to your suppers," Mrs. Gable commanded coolly. She looked at me, her face unreadable. "Eva. Step into my pantry."

Cold anxiety prickled down my neck, but I rose instantly, smoothing down my apron as I followed the head housekeeper into her quiet, stone-walled office.

Mrs. Gable closed the heavy oak door, shutting out the murmurs of the servants' hall. She walked behind her tall desk, pulled open a ledger, and dipped her quill into dark ink.

"Sit," she ordered.

I sat on the low stool before her desk, keeping my hands folded tightly in my lap to hide the subtle tremor in my fingers.

"Laura is a bitter girl who fears losing her standing," Mrs. Gable began, her voice calm as she wrote. "However... she is not entirely wrong. I reviewed the weekly pantry accounts you tallied for the cook this afternoon. Your handwriting is clean, your arithmetic is precise, and your posture is far too refined for a parish workhouse."

Mrs. Gable set her quill down, leaning her forearms on the desk as her sharp gray eyes locked onto mine.

"House De Witt does not harbor fugitives, Eva," Mrs. Gable said plainly. "Nor do we employ spies. Who were your previous employers? And where did a maid learn to write like a lady?"

The room went completely quiet. My heart hammered against my ribs.

If she starts checking with magistrates or looking for official papers, my story crumbles before I even get close to Sterling’s ledgers.

I took a slow, quiet breath, letting my shoulders slump slightly and forcing a look of quiet, tragic shame onto my face.

"My father was a village clerk in the eastern valleys, Mrs. Gable," I lied, keeping my voice low and soft. "He had no sons. He was a proud man who loved books, and he spent his spare coppers buying discarded manuscripts to teach me how to read, write, and keep accounts in the evenings."

Mrs. Gable didn't interrupt. She simply listened, watching my face closely.

"Three months ago," I continued softly, "he passed away from lung rot. To pay the apothecary for his medicines and settle his debts, we had to sell our cottage and everything inside it. I had no brothers, no dowry, and no family left."

I raised my head slowly, looking Mrs. Gable in the eye with a steady, quiet desperation.

"I took service as a maid because it was the only honest work that would put a roof over my head," I said softly. "I try to hide my reading because other maids treat me poorly for it. Just as Clara did tonight. I am no fugitive, Mrs. Gable. I am simply an orphan trying to earn a living."

Silence stretched across the small room. The flickering candle on the desk cast long shadows against the stone wall.

Finally, Mrs. Gable picked up her quill again. She dipped it in the ink and made a swift mark beside my name in the register.

"A clerk's daughter," Mrs. Gable murmured, her tone softening just a fraction. "That explains the handwriting, at least."

She closed the ledger with a quiet thud.

"You will keep your mouth shut regarding political tariffs in the hall, Eva," Mrs. Gable instructed sternly. "And you will not show off your skills in front of the other girls. Jealousy among servants only leads to trouble."

"I understand, Mrs. Gable. Thank you," I breathed, bowing my head.

"Return to your quarters and get some sleep," Mrs. Gable added, pulling another set of linens from her shelf. "Tomorrow is a heavy work day, and I expect you focused."

"Yes, ma'am."

As I stepped back out into the cool stone corridor, closing the pantry door behind me, I leaned my head against the wall and let out a long, silent breath.

Laura’s suspicion had come dangerously close to ruining everything—but my lie had held. I was safe for now, still invisible in the shadows of Valenridge Manor, waiting for my chance to strike.