On the evening of the third day, Ella left her completed report outside the study and went to bed.
Not because she was done—she was never done, that wasn't the shape of how she worked—but because she understood instinctively that the next move was his. Twenty-three pages. Thirty-one entries documented, each with its corresponding proposal. Two of those entries she had marked differently: a small notation in red, off to the margin, that said what she had not yet said aloud.
She slept soundly, which surprised her slightly.
In the morning Fischer told her the earl wished to see her.
He was standing when she entered, which was new. He had his back to the window, and the pale winter light made him look drawn, the shadows under his eyes deeper than the day she'd arrived. But his posture was the same as always—that particular uprightness, that sense of something held under controlled compression—and his gaze, when it found her, was focused in a way that the previous evening's fire-watching figure had not been.
He was himself again. Whatever himself meant.
"Page eleven," he said, without preamble. "The stable rota. You propose cutting the night watch from two men to one, offset by a new accountability ledger." He paused. "You spoke to William about this."
"He agreed. With an adjustment to the day wage."
"Which nets annually—"
"Twenty-one pounds."
He turned a page. She waited.
"Page seventeen. The candles." He stopped. She could see that he had read this carefully—the paper had the quality of something handled. "You suggest oil lamps for the service corridors with candles reserved for formal rooms. Your reasoning is social: that certain guests would notice the change."
"They would," she said. "The symbolism of candles in a house like this is not purely aesthetic. Removing them entirely would cost you less in pounds and more in reputation."
A pause. "You've thought about who visits here."
"I read three years of guest records."
He set the report down. She had the feeling he was recalibrating—not her assessment of him, but something else, something internal, a gear shifting slightly in its socket.
"Thirty-one," he said.
"I told you seventeen," she said. "Seventeen had solutions ready. The other fourteen need more information before I can propose anything responsible."
"And these." He opened to the last two pages—her red-margined entries. He laid one finger on the first. "These aren't careless."
"No."
"Someone made these."
"Yes."
He looked at her. The quality of the look was the same as the one that had arrested her that first day in the study—the look that meant she had said something that required recalibration—but it was slightly different now. The suspicion in it was less directed toward her. She noted the distinction.
"Leave them," he said. "Don't repair them. I want to watch them."
"I assumed you would," she said. "I haven't touched them."
He stood very still. Outside the window, the first snow of the season had begun to fall—thin and tentative, not yet sure of itself, the flakes dissolving before they reached the ground.
"You're hired," he said.
"I know," she said. "I need to discuss terms."
For the first time since she had entered his household, something moved across his face that was not severity or calculation. She wouldn't call it amusement—it was too controlled for that. But it was adjacent to amusement, a kind of recognition, the look of someone who has been surprised in a direction they didn't expect.
"Sit down," he said. "Let's discuss terms."