For a brief second, the maid's face seemed to flicker, as if the image were unstable. Beneath the polite smile, there was emptiness. It was not the emptiness of a calm servant who knew her place. It was hollow, like a mask with nothing behind it. The eyes did not move with warmth. They only reflected light. The garden around them felt thinner, as if the roses and the sky were painted on fragile glass.
Sara felt a chill move down her spine, yet she did not step back. Instead, she slowly reached forward and took the cup of tea from the tray. The porcelain felt warm in her hands. The heat seeped into her fingers and traveled up her arm. The scent rising from the cup was soft and sweet, almost inviting. She held it near her lips but did not drink at once. A strange feeling settled in her chest. It felt as though the tea was more than tea. It felt like a key. Like the turning of a page in a book that had already been written.
