The rain in this part of the city had long since stopped, leaving the city air thick and heavy, scented with wet stone, coal smoke, and the faint rot that clung to every backstreet. Inside the Draven mansion, though, the world was different—polished teak floors, silk hangings that whispered when you passed, and the low, constant perfume of incense and expensive flowers.
In the private washroom adjoining the mistress's chamber, Lorelai dipped her fingers into the wide golden tub. The water steamed gently, just hot enough to flush the skin pink without scalding. Satisfied, she reached for the porcelain jar of rose oil, uncorked it with a soft pop, and let three slow drops fall. They bloomed across the surface like dark blood in water. Then came the petals—crimson and velvet-soft—from the woven basket on the marble stand. She scattered them with care, watching them drift and settle.
She dried her hands on the rough linen apron tied over her plain black frock. The high neck was edged with narrow white lace, already fraying at the corners from too many washings. Four hours she had been awake already, moving through the sleeping house like a shadow, setting fires in grates, polishing silver, making certain no speck of dust dared show itself before the family stirred. If the mansion was not perfect when the first Draven opened an eye, the blame always found its way to the lowest shoulders.
Lorelai stepped quietly into the bedchamber.
The room was vast, draped in ivory and gold. Heavy velvet curtains still held back most of the light, so the space felt like twilight even at eight o'clock. In the center of the enormous bed lay Rosaphine, Miss Rose to the household, skin pale as new porcelain, lips still stained the deep carmine she favored. Her black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Hands folded peacefully over the white silk sheet that covered her to the waist, she breathed slow and even, as though the violence of the night before had never touched her.
Lorelai approached the bedside on slippered feet. She leaned in to murmur the usual soft greeting..."Good morning, Miss Rose" when the hem of her skirt caught the half-open drawer of the night table. The fabric tugged; she froze.
Inside the drawer, nestling among silk handkerchiefs and a cut-glass perfume bottle, lay a small revolver. Nickel finish, pearl grips. Clean. Loaded.
Lorelai's breath hitched. Her gaze snapped to the sleeping woman. For one long heartbeat the room was perfectly still—only the faint tick of the mantel clock and the distant clatter of a servant's tray somewhere downstairs.
Then she exhaled, slow and controlled. With the tip of one finger she eased the drawer shut until the latch clicked home. Only then did she straighten and speak again, voice gentle as ever.
"Miss Rose, please. It's time to wake."
Rose's lashes fluttered. Those famous eyes long, almost tilted at the corners—opened in an instant, sharp and clear, as though she had never truly been asleep at all. They fixed on Lorelai.
The maid immediately dropped her gaze and stepped back half a pace, hands clasped before her.
"It's eight already," Lorelai said, lips pursing just enough to show the strain she tried to hide.
Rose made a small sound, half sigh, half irritation, and pushed herself up on one elbow. The sheet slipped lower. She tossed the covers aside with an impatient flick of her wrist and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
Lorelai dropped to one knee at once, reaching for the embroidered silk slippers. She lifted one, then the other, sliding them onto Rose's bare feet with practiced care.
Rose stood without a word of thanks. When Lorelai rose to follow, a careless push of Rose's shoulder sent the maid stumbling back a step. Lorelai caught herself against the bedpost, straightened her apron, and fell into step behind as though nothing had happened.
"Miss," she said quietly as they crossed toward the washroom doors, "Master has asked to see you this morning. He was most particular. Shall I send word when you're ready?"
Rose lifted one languid hand, a silent command to undress her. Lorelai moved at once to the ribbons at the back of the white nightgown, loosening them with deft fingers. The silk whispered down Rose's arms and pooled at her feet. Naked now except for the faint scent of last night's perfume, Rose stepped past her without a glance and sank into the steaming water.
Petals swirled around her shoulders, brushing the black ink on her collarbone. She leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting the heat soak into her skin.
"Tell Papa I'm not seeing anyone today," she said, voice low and flat. "I'm tired."
Lorelai's teeth pressed together behind closed lips. Tired. The word landed like a slap. If she returned with that message, the old man would have her scrubbing floors until her hands bled or worse. But she was only the maid. Refusal was not a word she was allowed.
She hesitated, lips parting as though to speak, then closed them again. Without another word, she gathered the discarded nightgown, folded it over her arm, and slipped out of the washroom.
Lorelai slipped out of the washroom just as the fresh wave of maids swept in, four of them, arms laden with tissue-wrapped parcels of silk and satin.
She dropped the nightgown into the laundry chute at the end of the corridor and then hurried toward the kitchens. The back stairs smelled of damp stone and yesterday's garlic. By the time she reached the lower level, the air changed: hot oil, rising dough, the sharp tang of chilies frying in woks. The kitchens were alive this morning, louder than usual, but not the frantic, blood-tinged panic that came after a bad night. No one was scrubbing knives with shaking hands or whispering about whose body had been dragged out the service gate at dawn. This was the sound of victory.
Lorelai paused at the long wooden table where the day's baking cooled on racks. A basket of coconut cookies sat unguarded, golden, still warm, the edges crisp. She leaned in, plucked one, and bit down quickly before anyone could notice. The sweetness burst against her tongue, chasing away the sour taste of the morning. She scanned the counters for something else to slip into her apron pocket, maybe a couple of those almond cakes, small enough to hide. A girl had to eat when the family wasn't looking.
Voices drifted from the stoves.
"…fresh produce just came in. Crates and crates of it. Master's throwing a banquet tonight, mark my words."
"Banquet? In the middle of the month? Something big must have gone down."
Lorelai chewed more slowly, listening.
She wiped crumbs from her lips and drifted toward the range where Mariana stood, spatula in hand, flipping eggs in a cast-iron pan big enough to feed twenty. Mariana was broad-shouldered, late thirties, with the kind of calm that made you think she'd seen worse than whatever the Draven family could throw at her and still come out smiling. One of the few who didn't look at Lorelai like she was something to be stepped over.
"Mariana," Lorelai said, voice low. "Eggs ready yet?"
Mariana glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. "Not quite. Give me a minute. We've been run off our feet since first light, rations delivery came early, threw everything behind."
Lorelai slid onto a stool at the counter, elbows on the wood. "Rations in the middle of the month? That's new."
Mariana's eyes sparkled. "You haven't heard? Master's throwing a banquet tonight. Bonuses for the staff, too. We won the south territory back from the Varkiss. Took it clean."
Lorelai coughed on the last crumb of cookie. "Hah. Must've been something massive to make the old miser crack open his purse for the likes of us."
Mariana's hand shot out fast, clamping over Lorelai's mouth. Her palm smelled of onion and oil.
"Death wish?" she hissed, eyes darting toward the doorway. "Walls have ears in this house."
Lorelai peeled the hand away, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come now. You think the great master of Draven would waste a bullet on a useless girl like me for a little truth?"
"Doesn't need a bullet," Mariana muttered, turning back to the eggs. "Could be a knife in the dark. Or a quiet word to the wrong person. You know how it works."
Lorelai rubbed her arms, suddenly cold despite the heat rolling off the stoves. "Fine, fine. Stop scaring me." She leaned closer. "But the Varkiss won't just swallow this, will they? They'll come for blood. Our blood. We're all walking targets now."
Mariana scoffed, sliding a perfect sunny-side-up onto a warmed plate. The yolk trembled but held. "You really don't know what happened last night, do you?"
Lorelai went still.
"Miss Rose," Mariana said, voice dropping to a conspirator's whisper, "put three bullets into the Varkis heir herself. Dropped him in an alley like a dog. Word is he's not expected to see sunrise if he hasn't already gone."
The revolver flashed behind Lorelai's eyes again: nickel gleam, pearl grips, waiting in the drawer like a coiled snake.
"Miss Rose?" she echoed, voice thin.
"Who else?" Mariana chuckled, low and fond, the way a mother might speak of a clever child. "Ever since the young master took ill, she's been the one holding the reins. Quiet about it, but sharp. I never would've guessed she could handle a gun like that."
Lorelai stared at the plate of eggs, steam curling up between them. Her stomach twisted, not from hunger anymore.
Mariana slid the plate toward her. "Here. Take it up before it cools. And keep your mouth shut about what you hear down here, eh? Some things aren't for repeating."
Lorelai nodded once, numb. She lifted the tray of eggs, a small pot of tea, a single slice of toast, and turned toward the stairs.