Chapter 3: An Unscheduled Visit In The Hallway
The linen basket cut sharply against my hip as I turned the corner into the narrow service corridor behind the East Wing. The air back here smelled of damp plaster, old wool, and the faint, bitter tang of brass polish that never quite left the walls. My left hand, freshly wrapped in a makeshift layer of gauze beneath a spare black glove, throbbed in a steady, heavy rhythm with every heartbeat. I kept my weight shifted to the right, balancing the oversized wicker hamper on my hip just as I had practiced during my first week on the floor.
The dining room had been cleared an hour ago, the silver polished and locked away, the candles extinguished by the junior scullery staff. I had thought the night's humiliations were finished. I had thought I could slip back to the tiny subterranean locker room, change out of the stiff black dress with its pinching white collar, and tend to the purple, swelling flesh of my fingers in private.
A shadow detached itself from the heavy mahogany molding beside the third service door.
I stopped short, the wicker basket scraping against the faded wallpaper. The bearded man in the black suit stood squarely in the center of the narrow passage, blocking my path forward. He didn't move. His hands were tucked casually into his trouser pockets, yet his posture was rigid, watchful, entirely unrelaxed. The warm amber sconces overhead cast deep shadows across his sharp jawline and the dark, heavy line of his beard.
"You're favoring that side again," he said. His voice was low, pitched just above a murmur, carrying clearly in the confined brick-and-plaster hallway.
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes fixed a fraction of an inch below his chin, exactly as the floor manager had drilled into us during training. "Good evening, sir. I was just taking the linens down to the laundry chute."
"That isn't a laundry chute," he replied, tilting his head slightly toward the door behind him. "And that wasn't a closet door you ran into earlier tonight."
The silence in the corridor stretched, heavy and suffocating. My pulse hammered against my throat, fluttering against the crisp white cotton of my collar. He hadn't just noticed the clumsy way I carried the tray; he had watched me across the dining room, listened to my stuttered excuse, and tracked my movements well after the plates were cleared.
"I don't understand, sir," I murmured, my voice betraying a faint tremor that I hated myself for showing.
"Don't you?" He took one slow step forward, closing the distance between us until the scent of expensive sandalwood and rain-chilled wool reached me. "The staff doesn't use the East Wing corridor after ten o'clock. Not since the maintenance shutter was jammed three months ago. Yet you came out of that sector carrying a heavy silver tray like you were trying to shield your left side from the room."
I forced my shoulders down, loosening my grip on the wicker rim just enough to keep my fingers from digging into the fresh bruise beneath the glove. "The service routes are sometimes crowded, sir. I took a turn down the wrong hallway."
"A wrong turn," he repeated, the skepticism in his tone as sharp as a blade. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The quiet authority he carried filled the narrow space, making the walls feel as though they were closing inward. "People don't break bones running into linen closets. And they certainly don't look the way you looked when you dropped that glove."
"My hand is fine," I said, meeting his dark eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away. It was a weak defense, transparent and thin, but it was all I had left to hide behind. If I admitted what really happened behind the locked service panel in the East Wing—if I told him about the rusted latch, the unlit stairwell, and the negligence management had ignored for months—the fallout wouldn't just cost me my job. It would dismantle every fragile safety net keeping my mother's medical bills paid.
The bearded man studied my face, his expression unreadable, searching for the crack in my composure. For a terrifying second, I thought he might reach out and grab my gloved wrist, forcing the truth into the open right there under the flickering wall sconce.
Instead, he stopped. He let out a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze lingering on the tense line of my jaw before dropping to the heavy basket in my arms.
May you like
"Keep walking down to the laundry, then," he said quietly, stepping back just enough to let me pass. "But if you're going to lie to cover for a building that's falling apart, try to sound a little more convincing next time. The board doesn't like surprises, and neither do I."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel, his leather shoes clicking evenly against the floorboards as he walked back toward the grand staircase, leaving me alone in the dim corridor with my throbbing hand and a warning that echoed long after his footsteps faded.
