The least movement is of importance to all nature. The entire ocean is affected by a pebble.
— Blaise Pascal
———
The search of the first room yielded nothing, as expected. The second room produced similar results. Grundy made appropriate noises of concern and disappointment, his performance polished enough to fool anyone who wasn't looking for the tells.
But I was looking, and I saw the way his eyes kept drifting toward the end of the corridor, where Lyra's room waited. The slight tremor in his hands when he thought no one was watching. The way he kept checking the position of the sun through the narrow windows, as if timing were somehow important.
Getting nervous, aren't you? Starting to wonder if your plan is too simple, too obvious? Good. Nervous criminals make mistakes.
We were halfway through the third search when I noticed movement near the administrative wing. A young kitchen boy—couldn't have been more than fourteen—emerged carrying a small stack of leather-bound ledgers. He moved with the careful gait of someone carrying something important, his eyes fixed on his destination.
The boy was heading toward the courtyard, where a small stone incinerator stood ready to burn refuse and worn-out materials. The ledgers in his arms looked old but not damaged, their leather covers worn smooth by handling rather than aged by neglect.
Well, well. What have we here? Spring cleaning, Grundy?
I glanced around the group, noting that everyone's attention was focused on the current search. Thomas stood with the other servants, but his eyes kept flicking toward the administrative wing, as if he were tracking the same movement I'd noticed.
Perfect. My ambitious footman is already thinking like an investigator.
I waited until the boy was halfway across the courtyard before making my move. Stepping away from the main group, I wandered toward where Mira stood with several other servants, my movements casual and aimless.
"Mira," I called out, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry to the nearby servants without drawing attention from the nobles. "That's strange."
The maid turned toward me, her expression cautious but polite. "Young Master?"
I pointed toward the kitchen boy, who was now feeding the ledgers into the incinerator one by one. "Why would anyone burn account ledgers? I thought Father said financial records must be kept for seven years. Is Steward Grundy making a mistake?"
The question came out in my usual tone of confused incompetence, as if I were genuinely puzzled by something beyond my understanding. But I made sure my voice carried just far enough for Thomas to hear.
Mira followed my gaze, her brow furrowing as she watched the boy work. "Those do look like ledgers," she agreed, her voice uncertain. "But I'm sure the steward knows what he's doing."
Oh, sweet summer child. Your faith in authority figures is almost touching.
But Thomas had heard, and I saw his entire body go rigid as he processed what I'd said. His head snapped toward the courtyard, watching the kitchen boy feed another ledger into the flames. The footman's face went through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, and then a kind of cold fury that spoke to years of resentment finally finding a target.
There we go. Now you're not just wondering about drinking habits. Now you're wondering about embezzlement, fraud, and exactly how deep this particular rabbit hole goes.
Thomas took a step toward the courtyard, his movement sharp and purposeful. Several of the other servants noticed the change in his demeanor, following his gaze toward the incinerator where evidence of financial crimes was literally going up in smoke.
"Thomas?" Martha's voice carried a note of concern.
The footman's jaw worked silently for a moment, his eyes fixed on the burning ledgers. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of quiet authority that came from absolute certainty.
"I need to check something out," he said.
While Thomas was checking that out, Grundy led us down the narrow corridor toward the servants' quarters . His keys jangled against his belt, each metallic note marking another second closer to Lyra's doom. The steward's shoulders had straightened, his earlier nervousness replaced by the confidence of someone executing a well-rehearsed plan.
Look at him. Already imagining how Lord Blackwood will praise his 'diligence' in uncovering the theft.
Behind us, the procession of nobles followed like vultures drawn to carrion.
The servants pressed themselves against the walls as we passed, their faces masks of careful neutrality. But I caught the glances they exchanged.
They know. Maybe not the details, maybe not the full scope, but they know something stinks about this whole affair.
We stopped before a door near the end of the corridor. Grundy made a show of consulting his ring of keys, though I noticed his fingers went directly to the correct one without hesitation.
"Lyra Ashford's quarters," he announced, his voice carrying just the right note of regretful duty. "She's been with us for... what? Three months now?"
"Four," father corrected.
"Of course. Four months. Still quite new to the household."
The door opened with a soft creak, revealing a room that could charitably be called spartan. A narrow bed with a thin mattress, a small wooden chest, a washbasin, and a single window that looked out onto the kitchen courtyard. Everything a servant was allowed to own, and nothing more.
Lyra stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in a simple braid, her hands clasped before her.
"Miss Ashford," Lord Blackwood's voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "We need to search your quarters. You understand this is merely procedure."
"Of course, my lord."
Grundy entered first, his eyes already scanning the room with the focused intensity of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for. He made a show of checking the wooden chest, lifting out her few possessions with exaggerated care—a spare dress, a small sewing kit, a worn prayer book.
"Nothing here," he announced, though his performance was far from over.
Leo stepped into the room, his presence filling the cramped space. "The truth has a way of revealing itself," he declared, his voice ringing with self-righteous conviction. "No matter how cleverly hidden."
Grundy moved to the washbasin, then the small window, his movements becoming more theatrical with each empty search. The other nobles watched from the doorway, their faces reflecting various degrees of interest and impatience.
Finally, the steward approached the bed. He knelt beside it, his hands moving along the mattress with the careful motions of someone conducting a thorough search. His fingers probed the edges, the corners, working their way toward the center.
"Wait," Grundy's voice carried a note of surprise that would have been convincing to anyone who hadn't seen him plant the evidence hours earlier. "There's something here."
His hand slipped beneath the mattress, and when it emerged, he held Lady Blackwood's emerald necklace. The gems caught the afternoon light, throwing green fire across the shabby walls of the servant's room.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lyra's face went white, her eyes widening as she stared at the necklace in Grundy's hand. "I... I've never seen that before. I don't know how—"
"How indeed," Lord Blackwood's voice had gone cold as winter stone. "Guard!"
The soldiers who had accompanied our search moved forward, their hands already reaching for Lyra's arms. She didn't resist, didn't run. She simply stood there, her world crumbling around her as the trap snapped shut.
"My lord, please," her voice cracked, the calm composure finally breaking. "I didn't steal anything. I would never—"
"The evidence speaks for itself," Leo interrupted. "Miss Ashford, you stand accused of theft from a noble house. The penalty for such a crime is—"
"HE'S THE THIEF!"
The shout came from behind us, cutting through Leo's pronouncement like a blade through silk. Thomas burst into the room, his face flushed with exertion. In his hands, he clutched what remained of several leather-bound ledgers, their edges blackened by fire.
"Who dares interrupt—"
"Marcus Grundy is the thief!" The footman's voice carried the kind of authority that came from absolute conviction. "He's been embezzling from the household accounts for months!"
Grundy's face went ashen. "That's... that's ridiculous. This man is clearly trying to deflect attention from—"
"These are the account ledgers for the past six months," Thomas continued, holding up the partially burned books. "I found them in the incinerator, along with evidence of forged entries and falsified records. He's been skimming from the household budget and doctoring the books to cover his tracks."
Lord Blackwood's face darkened like a thundercloud, his eyes fixed on Grundy with the kind of cold fury that preceded executions. Father stepped forward, his politician's instincts recognizing a scandal in the making. Leo looked confused, his prepared speech about justice and consequences suddenly irrelevant.
But I wasn't watching the drama unfold. I had positioned myself against the doorframe, examining my fingernails with the kind of bored disinterest that suggested I found the entire affair beneath my notice.
After all, what did the third son of a declining house care about servant politics and financial irregularities?
The argument continued to rage around me. Grundy was denying everything, his voice rising to a near shriek as he tried to maintain his innocence. Thomas was laying out his evidence like someone who had spent years watching corruption from the sidelines. Lord Blackwood was demanding explanations.
And through it all, Lyra stood frozen in the center of the storm. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, darting from Grundy's ashen face to the half-burnt ledgers in Thomas's hands.
She looked like a woman who had been prepared for the gallows, only to watch the executioner be arrested instead.