HIM
I move on instinct, jumping to my feet and pushing Laura further into the corner, out of sight. Before she can protest, I call out:
"Mrs. Hobbs."
I swagger out of the shadows, pail in hand. I watch her face literally change shades—almost purple in her displeasure.
I'm sure I look like the picture of guilt, stained hands and face, straw clinging to my loosened uniform. I give her an easy smile, dipping my head.
"My apologies, I seem to have dozed off in the hay."
A small scuff sounds behind me, and I watch Hobbs' eyes start to drift to the corner. I force a comically loud yawn to distract her, stretching out my arms.
Her eye twitches and I tamp down the laugh that tries to force its way out. Her jaw is clenched, eyes full of fire. I'm surprised there isn't steam coming out of her nose.
I wince internally. I've really done it this time.
—
Two hours in and my hands are already cramping.
Hobbs' punishment for me skipping out on afternoon chores is to make me polish silver. All the silver.
Despite Elliot and I having done most of it not long ago, she insisted it was dirty and decided tonight was a great time for me to give it a thorough going-over. She even pulled out the dishes reserved for special occasions.
I have a mountain left, and the rest of the staff are already in bed. I huff, wincing as I shake out my sore fingers. I'm grabbing another large tray when I hear soft tapping.
A smile sneaks its way onto my face as I turn and see Limonskiy peeking around the corner. She smiles ruefully back at me.
"Hello, prisoner." Crossing the room, she sits on the clear bit of table, her legs dangling in the air.
I scoff, looking warily at my work station. It may look like I'm sad about my menial punishment from where she's sitting, but really I just need to look somewhere that isn't her.
Today she's wearing a more substantial nightdress and shawl, but it still isn't her uniform. Her hair is braided again, and she fiddles with the end, humming thoughtfully.
"I could have covered for you, you know." She says it in a mock-scolding manner.
"Eh, I know." I shrug. "I deserved it, though, and you probably would've gotten punished anyway. Hobbs is in a mood."
She sighs, nodding.
"Still, you didn't need to fall on your sword for me."
I huff and brace my hands on the table, turning to look at her.
"Do you want me to apologize for sparing you from a punishment?" My eyebrows are raised in mock-disbelief, and she looks away from me. Her frown is more pouty than usual, and I swear her ears tinge pink.
"That's not what I meant."
Yes. Definitely pouty.
I hum in agreement and turn back to my work.
"I just meant…" She looks at me, eyes searching mine. A sigh huffs out of her, and she frowns again—defeated. "You make it difficult to remain angry with you," she grumbles.
I grin. A feeling like giddiness sweeps through me. Suddenly the polishing doesn't seem bad at all.
"Because of my boundless charm?" I say, smirking at her.
Her face goes comically flat.
"I take it back." She hops off the table and goes to stomp out of the room, but I catch her.
I was so desperate to stop her, to make sure she wasn't really mad again, that my brain abandoned my body. Which is how I end up with my hand on her waist, standing far too close to be casual.
She blinks up at me, eyes wide. I feel her surprise mirrored on my own features.
I should pull my hand back and step away. I should laugh it off.
But the gentle curve of her waist under my hand feels criminal. A tingling sensation builds up in me, making me feel almost drunk.
This isn't the first time she's made me feel like this. That time I saw her cry. When we danced. Every time it gets stronger.
I can't help but stare at the point of contact between us in wonder.
You're probably making her uncomfortable.
Swallowing, I look to see her reaction.
My heart hammers even harder because—unless I'm crazy—she doesn't look uncomfortable.
Her lips are slightly parted, cheeks stained a soft shade of pink.
I want to pull her closer.
"Thank you for that night."
Her abrupt interruption has me pulling my hand back.
Night? What night?
I scramble, trying to regain the wits she just scattered.
"With the valet."
Realization dawns on me as I scold myself internally. Of course. She was thinking of the night we danced. About completely normal, proper things.
"You don't need to thank me." My voice is rough, and heat singes my ears.
"Well, I'm only sorry you had to get involved." This brings me up short.
"Why are you apologizing? It's not your fault." I can't get my voice to soften, my confusion and anger mixing. I have to stop myself from swearing at the memory. She only blinks at me, as though she doesn't understand me.
"What he did has nothing to do with you. Even if you did lead him on—which you didn't—doesn't give him the right to expect anything. Hell, you could have invited him to your room and you'd still have the right to throw his sorry ass out. Not saying that you would do that. Well—not saying that that is wrong if you did it either…" I trail off because, as I've been talking, her eyes have become wider and glassier.
My voice was still rough, and I swore. Dammit. I try to backtrack, I take a step towards her and hover my hands over her arms, face soft.
"I just meant that it's not your fault, and you shouldn't apologize." I desperately look into her eyes. She blinks at me rapidly, something akin to shock crossing her face.
I watch as colour slowly creeps into her cheeks until she's a rather bright shade of red. Confusion and worry grip me.
"Are you alright, you're rather flushed—"
"I'm tired!" She squeaks, cutting me off, before moving as fast as I've ever seen, leaving me standing alone in the room. I blink, hands hovering in the air.
Now I've gone and done it.