CHAPTER 9: THE DUPLICATE AND THE DUST

Eva’s POV

The stolen boundary treaty felt heavy against my ribs, tucked deep inside the inner lining of my apron.

Back in the servants' quarters, every floorboard creak sounded like Lucian’s boots coming to confront me. His cold reprimand back in the study kept echoing in my head: Forget your place in this house again, and I will personally see to it that you are dismissed.

He was far too sharp. It wouldn't take him long to realize one of the older trade maps on his desk had gone missing. If I kept the original, he’d lock down the manor before the week was out.

I needed an exact copy. And I needed to swap it back onto his desk before he noticed.

“You're pacing like a caged fox,” Nell murmured, setting down a heavy wicker basket of damp wool near the washbasins. She wiped her sweat-slicked forehead with the back of her wrist, her sharp hazel eyes cutting right to me.

I stopped, smoothing down my skirt to hide the nervous tremor in my hands.

“Nell,” I said softly, stepping closer so the other maids washing linens by the hearth couldn't hear. “I need a favor. A big one.”

Nell raised a dark eyebrow. “How big?”

“I need to slip down to the town market for two hours,” I whispered. “I'll take the night shift for you tomorrow—all the iron pots, the grease traps, everything. Just cover for me if Mrs. Gable asks where I am.”

Nell crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing with quiet curiosity. “The market? What could you possibly need in the village so urgently that you're willing to scrub grease traps on a Friday?”

“It's... a friend's birthday,” I lied smoothly, forcing a small, sheepish smile. “A girl I grew up with in the valley. She's working at a bakery in town, and I promised I'd stop by to drop off a small gift before dark.”

Nell stared at me for a long, quiet second. For a moment, I thought she’d refuse. Then she let out a dry, resigned breath and waved her hand.

“Go,” Nell muttered, pulling a fresh stack of damp sheets toward her basin. “If Gable asks, I'll tell her I sent you to fetch extra tallow candles from the lower cellar. But you owe me two shifts, Eva. Not one.”

“Thank you, Nell,” I breathed, relief washing over me.

I hurried to the maid’s wardrobe, pulling a thick, muted woolen shawl over my dark curls and wrapping it tightly around my face and shoulders. I couldn't risk taking a carriage or asking a groom for a ride, so I took the back footpaths through the estate's tree line, keeping my head down until the dirt road turned into the cobblestones of the village market.

The market square was loud, crowded, and bursting with life. The air smelled of roasting chestnuts, dried lavender, and wet slate.

I wove through the throngs of shoppers, my cross-body leather satchel tucked tightly against my hip, until I reached the small, ink-stained shop of a local printmaker at the edge of the square.

Inside, the shop was thick with the scent of dark ink and freshly pressed parchment. The old clerk behind the counter squinted through his spectacles at the yellowed eleven-year-old boundary treaty I laid out before him.

“This is an old court document, lass,” the man muttered, running a calloused thumb over the De Witt seal. “Where did a girl in a woolen shawl get a joint trade map?”

My pulse spiked, but I kept my tone light and casual. “It’s a prop for a village theater troupe, sir. We're putting on a historical play about the northern border disputes, and the director wanted the stage map to look authentic. I just need a clean ink copy on heavy paper so we don't ruin the original.”

The clerk looked at me, then down at the paper, and shrugged. “Fair enough. Give me twenty minutes.”

While the heavy iron press clanked and rolled in the back room, I stepped out onto the shop's wooden porch to wait, clutching my satchel.

Across the sunlit alleyway sat a small tailor's workshop. Through the glass window, I could see bolts of raw linen, coloured silks, and brass needles glinting in the light.

A quiet ache settled in my chest. Before my father died, before my life became about survival and hidden ledgers, I used to sit by the window for hours, sewing intricate floral patterns into handkerchiefs and reading history books. Now, my hands were rough from lye soap, and the only reading I did was in secret under dim candlelight. I barely recognised the person I had to be every day just to stay standing.

A burst of high, ringing laughter broke my train of thought.

In the centre of the square, a group of village children were dancing in a circle around a travelling fiddler, their wooden shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone.

For a single, fleeting minute, the crushing weight of my revenge felt light. I walked over, letting out a soft laugh as a little girl with blonde braids grabbed my hand, pulling me into their merry-go-round circle. I spun with them under the golden afternoon sun, the shawl slipping slightly off my shoulders, letting myself feel like a normal twenty-one-year-old girl for ten miraculous seconds.

“Eva.”

The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the music like a cold bucket of water.

I froze mid-step.

The laughter died in my throat.

Standing at the edge of the cobblestone circle, holding a basket of official estate apothecary supplies, was Mrs. Gable. Her iron keys hung quietly at her hip, her sharp gray eyes locked onto me with a look of stern, quiet disappointment.

The children scattered, continuing their game, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the square.

“Mrs. Gable,” I stammered, my face going pale as I quickly pulled my shawl back over my hair.

“What are you doing in the market, Eva?” Mrs. Gable asked calmly, stepping closer. “Did you ask for my permission to leave the estate grounds today?”

“I... no, ma'am,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I meant to—”

“You didn't mention a trip to town during morning inspection,” Mrs. Gable interrupted softly, her tone entirely flat. “And I certainly didn't assign you errands in the village.”

“I only needed to... to check on a friend,” I lied desperately, my hands tightening around the strap of my satchel. “Someone from my old parish was passing through, and I—”

Mrs. Gable held up a single, quiet hand, stopping the words dead in my mouth.

“You are out of lies, Eva,” she said quietly.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell between us.

I couldn't even look her in the eye.

Mrs. Gable turned toward a small black carriage parked near the apothecary.

“Collect whatever it is you came here to buy,” she instructed, her voice completely devoid of warmth. “And follow me to the carriage.”

Ten minutes later, with the fresh ink copy of the treaty safely tucked away in my satchel alongside the original, I sat opposite Mrs. Gable in the quiet, enclosed carriage.

The carriage wheels rattled over the rutted dirt road heading back toward Valenridge Manor. Neither of us spoke. Mrs. Gable sat straight-backed, looking out the window, her expression unreadable and cold.

My stomach churned with a sickening knot of anxiety.

I'm so stupid, I thought, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Why is it so hard to stay invisible? Why does every single move I make attract attention?

I had been at the estate for barely two weeks, and already I had angered Laura, drawn sharp suspicion from Lord Lucian, and now destroyed the quiet trust Mrs. Gable had given me.

If Mrs. Gable reported this to Lady Eleanor, I would be dismissed before the sun went down. The duplicate map in my bag would mean nothing if I was thrown out the front gates without ever setting foot near Lucian’s desk again.

I closed my eyes, listening to the monotonous thrum of the horses' hooves, praying silently that my entire mission wouldn't crumble before it had even begun.