---
"May I assign the punishment in your stead, Head Maid?"
Paige nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
Marin drew a breath and delivered her verdict.
"These maids have demonstrated they cannot be trusted with their tongues. Allowing them to remain in positions where they interact with people will only invite more vicious gossip." She paused, letting the words sink in. "They should be reassigned to duties that require no human contact whatsoever."
Before she could finish, the maids erupted into wails.
"*Please*, no—!"
"*Ooooh...*"
Everyone present understood immediately. The only positions in the castle that required no interaction with people were the livestock duties—mucking out after the cows, pigs, and chickens on the estate's working farm. Work so foul that even the lowest servants avoided it.
"I'm not certain that will be sufficient."
Head Maid Paige's expression had gone dark. Her tone suggested she'd expected something far harsher.
And rightfully so. Whoever Marin truly was—commoner or hidden noblewoman—these maids had slandered their mistress's honor with the vilest possible accusation. By the laws of the duchy, Paige had every right to have their tongues cut out and their bodies thrown beyond the castle walls.
The maids sobbed in the corner, their wails filling the air. Yet in truth, Marin's sentence was merciful. Shockingly so.
"If you feel this insufficient, may I suggest one addition?"
"Speak."
"I understand there's been something called... *spiritual education* taking place."
Paige's face went rigid. Her gaze cut toward the huddle of maids with renewed sharpness.
"A relic of barbaric times."
"Unfortunately, it seems those times haven't entirely passed." Marin's voice remained level, but steel threaded through each word. "I have no desire to encroach upon your authority, Head Maid. But having witnessed what I've witnessed, I cannot remain silent. If I allow the abuse of a young maid to continue under the guise of discipline, I become complicit."
She turned to look at Julia.
The girl stood beside her with her head bowed, shoulders curved inward as though trying to disappear. Her red-rimmed eyes glistened with unshed tears, fixed on the ground.
Paige followed Marin's gaze. Understanding settled over her features.
"It will not happen again."
"Thank you, Head Maid."
Only then did Marin allow the severity to drain from her expression. She smiled—warm and genuine—as though they'd just concluded a pleasant conversation about the weather.
Paige stared at her for a long moment, something like surprise flickering behind her composed mask.
"Well then, Miss Marin." Butler Sebas stepped forward, poorly concealed pride brightening his weathered features. "First, we should arrange for the physician to examine—"
"Good *heavens*, Miss Marin! Your *face*!"
Olive materialized as if from thin air, his expression one of absolute horror.
"Mr. Olive."
Marin turned to him, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Having Sebas witness her disheveled state was mortifying enough. Now Olive had seen it all as well.
"Come with me." His voice carried unusual urgency. "His Grace is summoning you."
Every person present went still.
*His Grace?*
*Now?*
*Looking like* this*?*
---
"Oh God, oh God..."
Olive muttered the same phrase repeatedly as they hurried through the corridors, his footsteps sharp against the stone floors.
"Are you all right?"
Marin trotted after him like a chick following a particularly agitated mother hen, watching his profile with growing concern.
He stopped abruptly and whirled to face her.
"Is that question directed at *me*?"
"You seem... quite shaken."
"*Yes*, I am quite shaken!" His composure cracked along the edges. "How can—I mean to say, how can a young woman engage in physical altercations with *maids*? Rolling about on the ground, pulling hair, exchanging blows—"
He'd almost said *lady*. Marin heard the word he swallowed.
No matter how thoroughly she played the part of a commoner, the years of noble upbringing couldn't be erased. In Olive's world, noblewomen simply did not brawl with servants. The very concept seemed to be dismantling his understanding of proper behavior.
"They're women too, you know."
Marin shrugged.
"Yes..." Olive deflated visibly. "Yes, I suppose they are."
There was nothing more to say. He turned and resumed walking, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders.
"But why is His Grace summoning me?" Marin quickened her pace to match his. "He's been avoiding me for days."
"I have no idea."
He pressed his fingers against his temple as though trying to hold his skull together.
"Do you have a headache, Mr. Olive?"
"Yes. A severe one." He shot her a pointed look. "Because of *someone*."
"I'm sorry."
She ducked her head, genuinely contrite.
Olive suppressed a sigh and allowed himself to actually look at her.
Her carefully arranged hair had transformed into something resembling a bird's nest after a windstorm. Scratches decorated her cheeks and chin. Both sleeves of her dress hung in tatters, exposing pale arms beneath. And clutched to her chest—as though her life depended on it—was a hardbound book of fairy tales.
The longer he looked, the more absurd the image became.
*And she's about to present herself to the Duke like this.*
"You have nothing to apologize for." He managed to keep his voice steady. "Let's continue."
"Yes."
They approached the Duke's study in silence.
---
"Enter."
The command came before Olive could knock.
He lit the candles from the wall sconce and entered first, illuminating a path through the darkness.
Marin slipped in behind him, using his body as a shield, hoping to remain as invisible as possible.
"There's blood. Somewhere."
The Duke's voice emerged from the shadows—flat, certain.
*Like a bloodhound*, Marin thought, equal parts impressed and unnerved.
"Temporary."
"Yes?"
"Come here."
"...Yes."
Marin forced her reluctant legs to carry her forward, each step feeling like a march toward judgment. She probably looked like a kicked puppy. She certainly *felt* like one.
"What happened?"
"It's... nothing serious."
She attempted casualness, letting her gaze drift anywhere but toward him.
"Nothing serious, yet you smell of blood?"
"There was just a... minor disagreement among the women. Words were exchanged, and then—"
The Duke ignored her weak explanation entirely. His head turned toward the reliable source of information instead.
"Olive."
"The maids insulted Miss Marin, Your Grace."
"Insulted?"
"They called Miss Marin the Duke's... *courtesan*."
Olive's voice trailed into embarrassed silence on the final word.
"So. She struck someone again?"
The Duke's attention swung back to Marin.
"'Again'?" She'd been hanging her head in shame, but now it snapped up. "What do you mean, '*again*'?"
"Last time, you also resorted to violence. You claimed that sometimes, when there's no alternative, a person becomes harsher. Tell me—what was the dire necessity *this* time?"
"Um..."
"Answer."
"They struck first."
*Pff.*
Behind her, Olive's hand flew to cover his mouth.
The heavy black curtain—the one shrouding some deeper recess of the study—trembled slightly.
*There's no wind in here. Why did the curtain move?*
"A fighter, then."
The Duke's tone was lazily amused.
Olive abandoned all pretense of composure and began wheezing with suppressed laughter.
"That's not true."
Marin jutted her chin, refusing to acknowledge the muffled sounds of hilarity from behind her.
"Closer."
"Yes."
She dragged her feet forward until she stood within arm's reach.
The Duke extended his hand. This time, Marin offered only her wrist—she'd learned *that* lesson.
His fingers formed a ring around the joint, testing.
"No change. Why isn't it growing?"
"I've already finished growing."
"Consider the tree." His thumb traced a slow circle against her pulse point. "Branches can still thicken."
"And I am *not* a branch."
Sharp irritation edged into her voice before she could stop it.
The corner of the Duke's mouth lifted—just barely.
Marin found herself staring at his lips despite herself.
*Was that a smile? Or mockery?*
She shifted slightly, trying to get a better angle—and the movement brushed her torn sleeve against his arm.
The Duke flinched.
The reaction was immediate, visceral—as though she'd pressed hot iron to his skin.
"And did you tear your dress as well?"
Mortification flooded her cheeks. Marin grabbed at the ruined fabric, trying to pull it back into place.
"No."
"You believe that because I cannot see, you can lie freely?" His voice remained calm, which somehow made it worse. "Tell me, temporary—where does this boldness come from?"
The chill in his words cut through her defenses.
"I apologize. I lied." Marin folded immediately. "The dress is completely destroyed."
"Your only dress, which will now have to be replaced."
Marin whirled to face Olive, accusation blazing in her eyes.
He met her glare and shook his head rapidly—*It wasn't me. I didn't tell him.*
She squinted and turned back to the Duke, suspicion mounting.
"Are you *certain* you can't see anything?"
"Absolutely certain."
"Oh."
Her hand clapped over her mouth.
*He reads minds. That's the only explanation.*
"Olive."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Cut out their tongues."
"Understood."
Panic surged through Marin's chest. She raised her hand tentatively.
"Um—"
"I told you. No more 'ums.'"
She flinched at the interruption but pressed forward anyway.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I've already assigned their punishment myself. Please forgive me for overstepping."
Her voice came out softer than intended, anxious notes spreading through the darkness.
"What punishment?"
"She assigned them to the barnyard, Your Grace."
A pause.
"Merciful."
"No, it isn't." The words tumbled from Marin before she could stop them. "It's harsher than it sounds. The stench will permeate everything they own. No amount of washing will remove it. No one will want to stand near them, much less speak to them. They could spend their entire lives isolated—working, eating, sleeping alone—and die without another person willingly touching them."
As she spoke, doubt crept in.
*Was I too cruel? Perhaps I went too far...*
"So." The Duke's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "You won?"
---