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Marin perched on the edge of the worn sofa in the servants' reception area, her right leg bouncing in an anxious rhythm she couldn't seem to control.
*I made it this far. Don't fall apart now.*
She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, willing the trembling to stop. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape. Everything—*everything*—depended on what happened in the next few minutes.
*Click.*
The door swung open.
Marin's breath caught.
The man who entered was unexpectedly handsome. His dark brown hair fell in soft waves, and his warm brown eyes held a natural kindness, emphasized by the gentle downturn at their outer corners. A pleasant smile curved his lips—the sort of smile that put people at ease without any apparent effort.
*Olive Lyon.*
The name surfaced immediately from her memories of the novel. Duke Vines's personal assistant. A minor character, mentioned only in passing, but trustworthy and competent. The gatekeeper she needed to impress.
"You must be Miss Marin?"
His voice matched his appearance—warm, measured, welcoming.
"Yes!" Marin shot to her feet so quickly she nearly lost her balance. She dipped into a hasty bow, her cheeks flushing. "I'm Marin. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."
"I'm Olive Lyon, assistant to His Grace the Duke." He gestured toward the sofa with an elegant motion. "Please, sit."
"Yes. Thank you."
She lowered herself back onto the cushion, acutely aware of how her threadbare dress contrasted with the polished elegance of her surroundings. *Don't think about it. Focus.*
Never before had she felt so viscerally aware that she was living inside a novel. Here sat an actual character from the story—breathing, speaking, *real*. Cold sweat prickled along her spine. Her pulse refused to slow.
*This is it. This is really happening.*
Olive settled into the chair across from her and lifted a sheet of paper from the small table between them—the resume Marin had painstakingly fabricated.
"You have remarkably neat handwriting," he observed, studying the document with evident interest.
"Thank you, sir."
"Where did you learn to write?"
The question was casual, but Marin caught the careful attention behind it. Literacy among commoners was rare. Among common *women*, it was practically unheard of.
"I served a noble family from childhood." The lie came smoothly, rehearsed until it felt almost true. "The young lady and gentleman I attended were close to my age. They taught me alongside their own lessons."
"I see." Olive's expression remained pleasant, but something flickered in his gaze—curiosity, perhaps, or suspicion. "It's quite unusual for a woman in your position to be literate, let alone to write so elegantly. You have a rather remarkable history."
"Yes..." Marin's voice shrank. She felt herself wilting under his scrutiny, shame heating her cheeks.
*A commoner who can write. He must think I'm lying.*
And she *was* lying—just not in the way he suspected.
The truth was far stranger. In her previous life, Marin had been a dedicated reader, practically living among books. When she'd insisted to her father that she learn to read and write, he'd indulged her despite the raised eyebrows of their social circle. After that, she'd had little patience for the vapid tea parties and embroidery sessions that occupied most noble girls. Why waste time on small talk when there were stories to be read?
That bookish solitude had served her poorly after the family's ruin. A noblewoman who'd never made her debut, who had no connections, no marriage prospects, no practical skills—what options did she have?
So she'd done what necessity demanded. She'd cut her hair, bound her chest, and presented herself as a young man named Marion—her deceased brother's name. The disguise had worked well enough. Employers appreciated her quick work and neat writing. But she'd never been able to stay anywhere long. The more familiar people became with her, the greater the risk of discovery.
"Honestly," Olive said, drawing her attention back to the present, "you wouldn't have gotten through the door without a recommendation. You understand that, I hope?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
The recommendation had come from her last employer—a merchant who'd been impressed by "Marion's" efficiency and had connections to the Vines household. When she'd learned the Duke was seeking staff, she'd seized the opportunity without hesitation.
"I was told to expect a young man named Marion." Olive tilted his head, studying her with renewed interest. "You can imagine my surprise when a young woman appeared instead."
Marin's stomach clenched, but she kept her expression steady.
"Marion is my younger brother." Another lie, smooth as silk. "He decided to seek his fortune in the capital instead. When I learned of the opening, I didn't want to let such an opportunity pass. I hope you'll forgive my presumption."
She'd considered maintaining the disguise—arriving as Marion, continuing the charade indefinitely. But something had stopped her. If she was going to help the Duke, if she was going to use her knowledge to change her fate, she needed to do it as herself. As Marin. Not as a shadow wearing her brother's name.
"I see." Olive's tone remained pleasant, but a note of finality had crept in. "Unfortunately, we have sufficient female servants at present. And hiring for those positions falls under the head maid's authority, not mine."
*No. No, no, no—*
"But I—" Marin leaned forward, desperation bleeding through her careful composure. "I didn't come to be a servant. I came to be your assistant."
Olive blinked, clearly taken aback.
"Ah. That's... somewhat problematic." He shifted in his chair, his expression turning apologetic. "In that case, I'm afraid this interview has reached its natural conclusion—"
"I can be useful to you!"
The words burst out before she could stop them—too loud, too eager, too *desperate*. She saw Olive's eyebrows rise and forced herself to modulate her tone.
"I mean—" she swallowed hard "—I can be useful to His Grace."
The warmth drained from Olive's face.
His brown eyes, so gentle a moment ago, turned sharp and cold as winter steel. The pleasant smile vanished, replaced by an expression that made Marin's blood run cold.
"What exactly do you mean by that?"
His voice had dropped to something quiet and dangerous.
*Careful. Careful now.*
"Everyone in the western territories knows of the tragedy that befell His Grace." Marin kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. "The monster attack. His injuries."
Silence stretched between them like a blade.
"Miss Marin." Olive's tone could have frozen water. "Do you understand what you're implying?"
His face had become a mask of stone—all the warmth and kindness stripped away, revealing something harder beneath. This was not the minor character she'd dismissed as unimportant. This was a man who had devoted his life to protecting his master, and she had just stumbled into dangerous territory.
Marin pretended not to notice the ice in his gaze. Instead, she rose from the sofa and began scanning the room with apparent casualness.
"Miss Marin?"
She ignored him, her eyes searching frantically. *A book. I need a book. Any book.*
But this was the servants' quarters—functional, sparse, devoid of anything resembling literature. Shelves held ledgers and cleaning supplies. The windowsill displayed a wilting plant and—
*There.*
A slim volume, half-hidden behind the curtain, as if someone had set it down and forgotten it.
"Miss Marin!"
Olive's patience had worn through entirely. His voice cracked like a whip. But Marin was already moving, snatching the book from the windowsill and flipping it open.
She took a breath.
And began to read.
"*Where did the monsters come from?*" Her voice flowed out—clear, measured, resonant. "*Why did they appear? Scholars have pondered these questions for centuries, yet no satisfying answer has emerged. Perhaps this uncertainty explains why some have embraced a hypothesis that defies conventional proof: that monsters are not static creatures, but evolving entities, gradually adapting to their environment.*"
"What do you think you're—"
Marin continued as if she hadn't heard him.
"*Most established academics reject this theory outright. The esteemed historian Count Blecher famously dismissed it as 'the utmost nonsense, unworthy of serious consideration.' Yet the theory persists, passed down through generations of natural philosophers who find in it a certain elegant logic...*"
She paused, letting the last words hang in the air.
"Shall I continue?"
Silence.
Marin looked up from the page.
Olive stood frozen, his cold expression replaced by something far more complicated. His eyes had fallen closed at some point during her reading, and now he opened them with visible reluctance—as though she'd caught him in an unguarded moment.
"If His Grace finds it... uncomfortable to read documents himself," Marin said carefully, "I could do it for him. My voice may prove more pleasant than that of a male assistant."
The words felt bold on her tongue. Presumptuous. But she had nothing left to lose.
In her previous life, Marin had been an audiobook narrator. She'd spent years training her voice—learning to breathe properly, to pace herself, to bring words alive for listeners who couldn't see her face. After regaining those memories, she'd never planned to use those skills. They seemed irrelevant to survival in a world without recording technology.
But desperate circumstances demanded desperate measures.
"Please." Olive's voice had lost its edge. He gestured toward the sofa, looking somewhat dazed. "Sit down for a moment."
"Yes, sir."
Marin lowered herself back onto the cushion, clutching the book against her chest like a talisman. Her heart raced, but she kept her face carefully neutral.
*Did it work? Did I—*
"I don't have the authority to hire you for such a position."
The words landed like a blow.
"Ah..." The sound escaped her before she could stop it. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.
*The rent. The medicine. The food. Winter coming, and no money for firewood.*
For a dizzying moment, she saw golden coins sprouting wings and flying away into the grey winter sky. All her hopes, all her plans, dissolving into nothing.
Marin lowered her head. Despair settled over her like a physical weight.
"However..."
She didn't dare look up.
"You truly do read beautifully. I confess, I'm surprised." Olive's voice had warmed again, touched with genuine admiration. "It's a most unusual talent. Quite remarkable, actually."
"...Thank you." The words came out hollow. What good was praise when it couldn't pay for bread?
"Reading documents for His Grace is not the same as ordinary secretarial work," Olive continued. "It requires someone of particular discretion and skill. I cannot hire you myself—but I *can* recommend you to the Duke directly."
Marin's head snapped up.
"What?" She stared at him, not quite believing what she'd heard. "Truly?"
"Yes." A wry smile crossed Olive's features. "Let's see what His Grace thinks. Besides—" he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose "—I've been racking my brain over this very problem."
Since the Duke had lost his sight, the burden of reading aloud had fallen entirely on Olive's shoulders. His Grace was a perfectionist who could tolerate no carelessness, even in trivial matters. Documents had to be read multiple times. Details had to be repeated until they were committed to memory. And the Duke's mood—unpredictable at the best of times—determined whether any given session would be productive or agonizing.
The work had piled up. Important decisions remained unmade. And Olive, competent as he was, had only so many hours in the day.
He studied the young woman before him with fresh eyes. Her dress was clean but obviously old, the fabric worn thin at the elbows and cuffs. Her wrists looked too delicate, her frame too slight—as though she hadn't been eating properly for quite some time. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled back severely, dulled by what he suspected was malnutrition, though it caught the light from the window and shimmered with hints of silver and gold.
Her skin was pale as fresh snow. Her eyes were the soft green of new spring leaves. Her lips held a faint rose color that might have been natural beauty or might have been the flush of desperation.
Pretty, he decided. But unremarkable at first glance. The kind of face that faded into crowds, that failed to leave impressions.
But her *voice*—
Her voice was something else entirely.
When she read, it was as though the words themselves came alive. The dry academic text had become compelling, almost musical. He'd found himself drawn in despite his suspicion, despite his irritation, despite every instinct warning him to be cautious.
*If His Grace responds to her the same way...*
"Come with me," Olive said, rising from his chair. "I'll take you to meet the Duke."
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