In the days after the trial, Clara and Iris settled into a comfortable rhythm at the von Rhenia estate. Iris was only set to return to Claves at the start of the following week, so the pair had nothing but time. This meant mainly a lot of tea drinking, chatting, and even a trip to a boutique in the capital to buy some dresses Iris wanted—it was all very otome-coded, but Clara had to admit she had fun despite the clichés.

  But free time also meant she could finally investigate some more.

  The threatening letter had been nagging at her since she’d first found it. What deal had Stella made? With whom? How was it related to her suicide attempt? And was it connected with the trial and Helena Rosewood’s still unexplained near-fatal illness? There were still too many loose threads, and Clara hated loose threads. They had a tendency to unravel into much bigger problems at the worst possible moment.

  She’d tried asking the other servants, hoping that the result of the trial would change their attitude towards her, but they were still icing her out. She’d also tried to head into a local church and ask if they could cast the truth spell on her, but apparently only inquisitors could do that.

  So on the third morning after the trial, with permission from Iris, Clara rose with the sun and made her way to the stables.

  The von Rhenia stables reminded Clara of her world’s jockey clubs, where clients would often host fancy parties and other events. Rows of pristine stalls housed dozens upon dozens of tightly packed horses. There are probably more here than usual because of the duke’s aborted ‘plan’. Yet the expected foul smell of manure didn’t really appear to be an issue. Was there more magic at play here, or were they just constantly cleaned?

  After around an hour of waiting—most of which she spent petting the friendliest-looking horses of the bunch—a boy who looked about fourteen or fifteen appeared. He had a small bell hung at his waist, and was carrying a satchel of letters into the tack room. His generic, forgettable face, with brown hair and brown eyes, was well-suited for his job.

  “Hello,” she said gently. “I take it you’re the post boy?”

  “Name’s Denvel,” he nodded. “Denvel Hope. And who’re you?”

  “I’m Clara. I work here as a maid.”

  “Oh!” His eyes lit up. “You’re the maid who yelled at the Pope!”

  It seemed she’d gained a bit of a reputation. Well, at least based on how the boy had reacted, it seemed to be a favorable one, if only with the lower classes. She wondered what Warren would say if he heard about this—Clara Casewell, full-time maid, part-time Pope yeller. Loathe as she was to admit it, a part of her missed his sly humor.

  “I didn’t yell at the Pope,” said Clara, “I merely made some procedural objections.”

  “Sure.” Denvel grinned. “What can I do for ya, Miss Procedural Objections?”

  “I received a letter a few days ago. It was in a white envelope, golden wax seal, no stamp or return address. I was hoping you might know where it came from.”

  The boy scratched the back of his head and turned around with light steps. “I might remember an unusual letter like that.”

  Clara chuckled. Some things work the same no matter what world you’re in. Odd as it was, this brought her a measure of comfort.

  “Would this help jog your memory?” Clara held up a small coin—part of the wages she’d received from the von Rhenias, most of which seemed to have been sitting untouched in a locked drawer in her room.

  He turned to her and reached for the coin, and she pulled back her hand, sliding it into one of her pockets. “Information first, Denvel.”

  The boy laughed. “Right, right. A letter like that, without a stamp or a return address… It means it wasn’t collected by a bellboy or even put into one o'those new post boxes.”

  “So how was it sent, then?”

  He raised his arm and opened his palm. “Nah, now it’s your turn, Miss.”

  “Smart kid.” She pulled the coin out and pressed it into his hand. “Now tell me, how does one send a letter without using a bellboy or a post box?”

  “You just have to be important enough to hand it directly to the Postmaster General. Duke von Rhenia could do it, if he wanted to.”

  Someone important. Well, let’s test out some theories.

  “Would a baron be important enough? Or maybe an inquisitor?”

  Denvel glanced around the stables before answering. “A baron, definitely not. There’s way too many o’those for them to get special treatment. As for an inquisitor… I doubt a run-of-the-mill provincial inquisitor out in the sticks coulda done it, but maybe one that’s higher up?”

  Clara held her hand to her chin. So not Helena Rosewood or her father—at least not directly, though she couldn’t rule out Prince Lochlann’s involvement. But an inquisitor, especially an inquisitor posted at the capital, might have. With what the duke told her about Stella’s background as a church orphan, plus the golden key hanging in her room, the ties between Stella and the Church were certainly suspicious.

  “I’ve gotta get to my next stop now, Miss Procedural Objection. I’ll see ya around.”

  Clara took out another coin and flicked it upwards, and he caught it with a small jump. “Thanks,” she said.

  As Denvel disappeared around the corner of the stables with a wave, Clara heard hooves approaching. She turned to see Captain Ricardo dismounting a chestnut mare, sweat dripping down his brow. Instead of his dress uniform, he wore a simple short-sleeved black shirt—she could really see how muscular he was. I’ve got to admit he’s pretty striking.

  “Captain Ricardo.” She bowed her head slightly. “Returning from your morning training?”

  “Miss Casewell,” he said with a smile. “Yes, I was just getting her some exercise. What brings you all the way to the stables?”

  “I had some business with the post boy.”

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  “Ah.” He stroked the mare’s neck with a gloved hand, his expression thoughtful. “We didn’t get a chance to speak after the trial. I wasn’t there to witness it, but what you achieved was… remarkable.”

  “I did what I could for myself and Lady Iris.”

  He nodded as he started to remove the saddle from his mare. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, and his smile had turned serious. “You know, I’ve commanded men for ten years now. Good, loyal men.” He paused. That was surprising to her—the captain looked only slightly older than she was, so for him to have been a commander for ten years, he’d barely have been an adult at first.

  “My men are ready to die for the duke. It would be our honor to do so.”

  Clara felt a chill despite the morning sun, as she thought of hundreds of knights charging into battle. “I imagine that’s a heavy responsibility.”

  “It is.” Ricardo met her eyes. “A commander’s duty is to lead his men into battle when called upon. But his hope…” He exhaled slowly. “His hope is that the call never comes.”

  The implication hung in the air between them.

  “I’m glad the trial ended as it did,” Clara said softly.

  “As am I, Miss Casewell. If you are ever in need of a favor, consider me in your debt.”

  She didn’t think he owed her anything; her actions had been purely selfish. But having competent people in her debt could never be a bad thing.

  “I shall, Captain. I hope you have a pleasant day.”

  Clara walked briskly through the von Rhenia estate’s upper hall. Between waiting for Denvel and talking to Ricardo, she was already several hours late to her morning duties, and though she’d let Iris know beforehand, she still didn’t want to pile too much of her work on the other servants. Her reputation was already in the gutter, and that certainly wouldn’t help.

  As she got closer to Iris’s room, she noted some sort of commotion. The mahogany doors were wide open, and several maids were standing around them, looking discreetly within. Then there was a noise. It seemed like… sobbing?

  Has something happened to Iris? Clara hastened her pace.

  She squeezed through the maids around the entrance and walked into the room. Inside it was Iris—still in her nightgown, her eyes cold and narrowed. And in front of her was a maid with light brown hair, prostrating herself.

  “P-Please forgive me, m-my lady. It was an accident. Please!”

  “Lady Iris, what’s going on?” asked Clara.

  “Oh, Clara!” Iris’s eyes brightened. “You’re just in time. I was just about to call Captain Ricardo to lash this incompetent maid. Ten should be sufficient.”

  “Lash?!” Clara blurted out.

  How did the girl incur Iris’s wrath? Perhaps she’d stolen something? A pilfering servant wouldn’t be a surprise in a household like this, and that’d be the sort of thing that could warrant physical punishment back then, even if Clara didn’t agree with it. “What has she done, my lady?”

  “She was bringing me my morning tea while you were busy, then she tripped and spilled it all over my dress. It’s ruined, as you can see.” Iris gestured towards her bed. Atop it was a pale satin dress, with a large brown stain running down the front.

  Ouch. That’s a shame. But still—ten lashes over a dress, and from someone as strong as Captain Ricardo at that? It was clearly an accident, and the maid didn’t even look fully grown yet. With her freckled, childlike face, she looked around the same age as the post boy, even younger than Iris. In Singapore, the only place Clara remembered that still practiced lashing as punishment in her world, even six strokes were considered harsh.

  “Are ten lashes really an appropriate punishment for this?”

  “Hmm.” She stroked her chin, and for a moment she looked just like the duke. “You’re right as always, Clara. I was trying to be kind, but I suppose, given what happened, it ought to be at least fifteen. It can’t be helped.”

  The prostrated maid let out a whimper that made Clara’s heart clench.

  “My lady, with all due respect, that’s far too excessive!”

  Iris tilted her head. “But you said ten was too lenient. Shall we settle on twelve, then?”

  “I meant it was too harsh.”

  “Too harsh?” Iris’s eyes widened as if Clara had suggested the sky was green. “She ruined my dress. The brand-new one that came last week, with the lovely pearl buttons that Papa ordered from overseas.”

  “I understand, my lady, but—”

  “Do you know how long it took to find fabric in exactly that shade of champagne?”

  ‘Champagne’? Do they have a fantasy France here? Goddess, please spare me from the ‘hon hon hon’.

  “It took months, Clara. Months of watching fabric swatches arrive and sending them back because they weren’t quite right.” Iris placed a hand dramatically over her heart. “And now it’s gone. Murdered by tea.”

  Clara had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. The dress had been murdered by tea. This girl was absolutely ridiculous.

  “Perhaps you could dock the cost from her wages?”

  The young lady let out a sob. “No, please! Anything but that! I have a family! My p-parents need me!”

  “See? With how expensive this dress is, compared to the wages of a junior maid, she could work here for a whole year and still be in debt. Really, I’m doing her a favor by lashing her without seeking compensation,” said Iris.

  Clara took a deep breath. She’d negotiated with executives who’d wanted to tank billion-dollar deals over whose name came first in the announcement. She could handle one dramatic teenager with a ruined dress.

  “My lady, may I speak frankly?”

  “You always do,” Iris huffed, but she waved her hand in permission.

  “Lashing this maid—I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Clara knelt down.

  “I-it’s Emma, Miss.”

  “Punishing Emma won’t restore your dress. All it will do is leave a young woman scarred.” Clara gestured to the trembling girl. “I’d say the terror she’s experiencing now is a good sign she won’t repeat her mistake.”

  Iris furrowed her brow. “But if I don’t punish her properly, the other servants will think they can be careless with my belongings. Soon, they’ll be spilling tea on everything! My dresses, my shoes, my jewelry…”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works, my lady.”

  “It’s about setting an example, Clara. That’s what Papa always says a noble should do.”

  Clara glanced at the doorway, where the cluster of maids was still watching. Their expressions were a mixture of fear and resignation, as if they’d seen this before. It would be nice if she could improve Iris’s reputation, so that the world stopped seeing her like a villainess.

  “What if you were to set a different sort of example?”

  Iris perked up. “Oh? I’m listening.”

  “Instead of lashing her, you could assign her as a second personal maid for a while. That way, you and I can watch her closely and ensure she doesn’t make any mistakes. She’ll learn to be more careful, and the world will know that Iris von Rhenia is fair and merciful.”

  “Hmm.” Iris closed her eyes. “That does sound rather generous of me, doesn’t it?”

  “Extremely generous, my lady. Magnanimous, even. The other nobles would never be so kind, not even Lady Helena.”

  “You’re right. They wouldn’t.” A smile spread across Iris’s face—the smile of someone who’d found a brand-new way to show her superiority. “Very well! I shall be merciful!”

  She turned to the prostrating maid with a dramatic flourish. “You there. Emma.”

  “Y-yes, my lady?” the girl stammered, still not daring to look up.

  “You shall assist Clara in her work as my personal maid until we have made sure to correct your bad behavior. Let it never be said that Iris von Rhenia is without compassion.” She paused, then added, “Also, don’t carry tea anymore.”

  “Yes, my lady! T-thank you, my lady! Thank you!” Emma’s voice cracked with relief as she buried her forehead even deeper into the carpet.

  Iris waved dismissively. “You may go for now. And close those doors! Really, were you all raised in a barn? What were your governesses thinking!”

  The maids scattered like birds. But as Emma scrambled to her feet and hurried past Clara toward the door, she paused just long enough to whisper. “Thank you, Miss.”

  Clara gave her an acknowledging nod. The doors closed, and the room returned to its normal state. Iris flopped onto her bed with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, Clara, being benevolent is exhausting. How does Helena do it all day?”

  “I imagine one gets used to it.”

  “Well, I certainly won’t make a habit of it.” She examined her polished nails. “Though I suppose it did feel rather nice. Did you see how grateful she was? She looked at me like I was the Goddess herself.”

  Clara hid her smile as she folded the dress to see if it could be cleaned. “You were very gracious, my lady.”

  “I was, wasn’t I? Perhaps I’ll tell Papa about my act of mercy at dinner.”

  Later that afternoon, when Clara returned to the servant’s quarters, she noticed something different. The other maids still weren’t approaching her directly, but they weren’t avoiding her, either. One even gave her a small nod as she passed.