***
The Duke's question, "What... is that?", hung in the air like a death sentence.
It was so quiet, so devoid of emotion, that it was a thousand times more terrifying than a scream. He was still pointing, his black-gloved finger aimed at the patch of congealed, gray gruel that stained the floor in the corner.
Kaelen was frozen in his nest of blankets, his small body trembling, clutching the stolen bread. I was by the door, frozen, my heart a cold, tight knot in my chest.
Only Thorne, the Head Butler, moved. He looked from the Duke's impassive, icy face to the spoiled food, and a strangled, wheezing sound came from his throat. He was a weasel caught in a trap, and he did the only thing a cornered weasel knows how to do: he tried to lie.
"My Lord, that... that is nothing!" he stammered, his voice a high-pitched, reedy thing. "It is... it is the meal from this morning! The one I was told the... the child... threw upon the floor!"
He said the word "child" as if it were a curse.
"He's an ungrateful, vicious creature, my lord, just as we all feared!" Thorne continued, his words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. He was building his case, painting Kaelen as the villain. "He refuses to eat. He... he spits! He snarls! And this governess,"—he spat my name—"she is clearly no better! She... she broke into the storage to... to light a fire! An arsonist! She stole from our kitchens, a thief! You see, my lord? They are... they are a matched pair of vermin!"
He was panting by the end of it, his face slick with a sheen of cold sweat, despite the room's chill. He looked at the Duke, his eyes wide and pleading, desperate for his master to agree, to see the "truth" he was spinning.
Zander Voronoff had not moved.
His head, however, slowly turned from the patch of gruel to look at the Head Butler.
"Vermin," Zander repeated. His voice was a soft, cold, curious sound.
"Yes, my lord!" Thorne said, seizing the moment. "A... a plague on this noble house!"
"This... vermin..." Zander continued, his voice still terrifyingly quiet, as if he were an academic pondering a new specimen. "...is my brother's son."
Thorne's face, which had been regaining some of its smug color, went completely, instantly, chalk-white. He looked like he had been struck by lightning.
"My... My Lord... I... I only meant..."
"You," Zander said, cutting him off, "will be silent."
Zander Voronoff finally moved.
He stepped fully into the room, his long, black, silver-embroidered coat sweeping over the dusty, splintered floor. He was a shadow, a giant, a force of nature.
His movement was the one thing Kaelen, who had been frozen in terror, couldn't handle.
The boy let out a high-pitched, terrified squeak and scrambled backward, his bare feet kicking at his nest of blankets. He pressed himself into the corner by the hearth, as far away from the Duke as possible, his magenta eyes blown wide, his small chest heaving. He was a cornered animal, and the apex predator had just entered his den.
Zander, to my utter shock, ignored him.
He ignored the child's terror. He ignored me by the door. He ignored the cowering, hyperventilating Thorne.
He walked, with a slow, deliberate, aristocratic grace, not to the fire, but to the other corner of the room. He stopped, his polished black boots just inches from the overturned wooden bowl and the patch of congealed, gray filth.
He stood there for a long, silent moment, just... looking down.
Then, in a move that shocked me to my very core, Zander Voronoff knelt.
It was not a crouch. It was not a squat. It was the graceful, controlled, one-knee-to-the-floor kneel of a knight, a king, a man in absolute and total command of his own body. His black coat pooled on the filthy floor around him, but he didn't seem to notice or care.
He was now at eye level with the mess.
I watched, my heart in my throat, as he... investigated.
He didn't touch it. He would never, ever feel it. But he leaned closer, his aristocratic, perfect face a mask of cold, concentrated focus. He saw the dust. He saw the splinters of wood from the floor, mixed into the congealed food. He saw the faint, gray-blue sheen of what could only be mold.
He saw that it was not just "spilled." It was inedible. It was rotten.
He stayed there, kneeling, for an impossibly long time. Ten seconds. Thirty. A minute. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire I had built, and the small, desperate, rabbit-fast breaths of the child hiding by it.
Thorne was visibly shaking. His entire body was vibrating, his teeth chattering so hard I could hear them from the doorway. He knew, at that moment, just how catastrophically he had miscalculated.
Finally, Zander Voronoff rose.
He stood up in one smooth, silent, powerful motion.
He did not look at Kaelen. He did not look at me.
He turned, very, very slowly, to face the Head Butler.
His face... his face was the same. It was the same mask of cold, carved, beautiful ice. But his eyes...
His eyes were no longer in the void. They were not empty. They were burning. They were two pits of black, freezing, super-concentrated fury. It was the scariest thing I had ever seen.
He pointed, not at the gruel, but at the Head Butler.
"Thorne," he said.
"MY LORD!" Thorne shrieked, and he fell. He dropped to his knees, his hands clasped together, his face a mask of pure, abject terror. "My Lord, please! I... I did not know! The kitchens! It was the Head Cook! She... she hates the child, she calls him a monster! I... I am... I am busy, my lord! The estate... it is so large... I cannot be expected to... to..."
He was babbling. He was collapsing.
"I thought... I thought..." Thorne choked, tears and snot now running freely down his face. "We... we were not expecting you, my lord! We... we thought we had... time!"
He had said it. He had admitted it.
He had admitted that this... this abuse... was the standard, and that the only "crime" was being caught.
Zander's face did not change. His fury was so cold, so absolute, it was beyond expression.
[System Alert: New Objective!] [Objective: 'Testify'.] [Survive the Duke... 50% Complete.]
The Duke's cold, burning gaze finally, finally, left the weeping butler and landed on me.
I flinched, my back hitting the doorframe.
He looked at me, this tall, terrifying god of ice. He looked at my soot-stained face, my tattered shawl, my bare, blue feet.
Then, his gaze flicked to the small, crackling fire in the hearth. And then, to the half-eaten loaf of bread in Kaelen's trembling hands.
He looked back at me.
"You," he said, his voice flat. "You did this."
He didn't clarify whether "this" referred to the fire, the stolen food, or the entire scene.
I swallowed, my throat dry as dust. I couldn't move, so I just... nodded—one, tiny, jerky nod.
"He was... cold, Your Grace," I whispered, my voice a pathetic croak.
The Duke's eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
"And the bread?" his voice was a low, deadly purr. "Did the Head Cook give you this?"
Here it was. The moment. The test.
[Objective: 'Testify'.]
I could lie. I could say yes, she gave it to me. It would save me from the "theft" charge, but it would implicate no one. Or... I could tell the truth—the 0% gamble, all over again.
I lifted my chin. "No, Your Grace."
Thorne, on the floor, let out a strangled sob. He must have thought I was insane, sealing my own fate.
"I stole it," I said, my voice shaking, but clear. "The Head Cook... she would not give me anything. She called him... 'the little monster.' She... she threw me out."
I looked the Duke dead in the eye.
"So I stole it," I finished. "And I broke into the wood closet. And I D-did lit the fire."
I had just confessed to three crimes before the supreme ruler of this territory.
I was either the bravest person in the world or the stupidest.
[... ... ...] [... ... ...] [System... 'Willpower' (Elara)... +5 (Permanent)]
Zander Voronoff stared at me. He just... stared. His face was unreadable. He was assessing me. He was recalculating, just as the System did.
He was silent for so long that I thought my heart would stop.
He turned his head, not his body, just his head, to look at the weeping, pathetic lump on the floor.
"Thorne," he said.
"Y-y-yes, My Lord...!"
"Get up. Stop... crying. It is... disgusting."
Thorne scrambled to his feet, his limbs shaking, wiping his face on his expensive sleeve.
"You," the Duke said, his voice like a guillotine blade dropping, "will go to the main hall."
"Y-yes, My Lord!"
"You will ring the bell for a full-staff summons. Every servant in this household. From the Head Cook to the stable boys. Everyone."
"Yes, Your Grace! At once, Your Grace!"
"You will tell them I have arrived. And that I am... displeased."
Thorne didn't even say "yes" again. He just... fled. He ran out of the room, his footsteps a frantic, sloppy slap-slap-slap down the stone hallway, a man running for his life.
And then... he was gone.
And the heavy, iron-banded door... swung shut, closing with a soft, final, ominous thud.
Leaving me... and the Duke... alone.
Alone, in a tiny, cold, stone room, with a terrified, magical child and a single, crackling fire.
My heart, which I thought had stopped, suddenly hammered against my ribs like a war drum.
[SYSTEM ALERT! SYSTEM ALERT!] [Scenario Update: 'Full-Staff Summons' - Initiated!] [New Scenario: 'Alone with the Male Lead' - INITIATED!] [WARNING! Proximity to 'Zander Voronoff' is... DANGEROUS!]
Zander Voronoff turned, his entire, towering form, to face me.
He was still by the spoiled gruel. I was still by the door. The entire 15-foot space of the room was between us.
It felt like it was two inches.
"So," he said, his voice a low, terrifying, conversational purr. "You are Elara von Steiner."
He took one slow step toward me.
"The thief. The arsonist."
He took another step.
"And... the Governess."
He stopped, now only five feet away. He was a mountain. I had to crane my neck to look up at his face.
"Tell me, Governess Elara," he said, his black, obsidian eyes piercing mine.
"What, exactly... am I supposed to do with you?"
(End of Chapter 6)
(Author's Note)
Thorne running to ring that bell was the most exercise he's had in twenty years. 😂
But the fun part is over. Now it's just Elara, the scary Duke, and a very awkward silence. He's asking her to define her own punishment (or reward?). It's a verbal trap if I ever heard one.
Don't forget to Add to Library to see if she talks her way out of this on #TickyTockThursday!
👉 SCENARIO POLL! (Tap the paragraph to vote):
"What, exactly... am I supposed to do with you?" He's waiting for an answer. WHAT DOES ELARA SAY?!
A) The Honest Plea. ("I did what I had to for him.")
B) The Professional Plea. ("Give me a chance to do my job.")
C) The Grovel. ("I'm sorry! Please have mercy!")
D) The Defiant Truth. ("You should thank")
E) Say... nothing. (The "Frozen in Fear" route)