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The ball was over.
Which was a beautiful thing to say and a miserable thing to survive…
Eva's knees had forgotten how to work. Her fingers were blistered. Her eyes burned from too little sleep and too many candlelit hallways. Every joint in her body felt like it had made a secret pact to revolt the moment she got horizontal.
Too bad there was no bed in sight. Just stairs. Trays. Barked orders. And enough nobles still lingering like mildew that she couldn't risk slowing down without being stepped on. The great exodus had begun at dawn, with creaking carriages lining the manor's gravel paths and nobles bickering over who packed the wrong cufflinks. The courtyard sounded like an argument made entirely of horse hooves and shouting.
Eva hauled a basket of crumpled linens through the side hall, barely dodging a valet dragging a velvet trunk.
"I swear," muttered the maid beside her— a wiry girl with an iron spine and a smirk that never quite faded, "if I have to scrape one more blood stain out of brocade, I'm going to take a bite out of a vampire and see how they like it."
Eva wheezed a laugh.
"My knees forgot how to exist around two hours ago. I think I'm held together by sweat and spite at this point."
"That's the Blackthorn way." the maid snorted. "You see Lord Kellan leave? Had to be carried into the carriage. Couldn't walk. I think his corset tried to assassinate him."
"Please tell me someone saw Lady Elithra crying behind the fountain last night."
"Oh, everyone saw. She claims it was the moonlight. I say it was her cousin rejecting her marriage offer."
"Tragic," Eva deadpanned. "Someone write a poem."
They both laughed—low and tired and a little hysterical.
But beneath it, Eva felt the thread of something else. Something coiled tight under her ribs.
Because no one had said anything. No one mentioned the dead man in the garden. Or the fact that the Duke had left the ballroom early. Or that Eva, unremarkable servant girl number 342, had been seen near his chambers, near him—and hadn't been thrown out or executed yet.
That silence?
It scared her more than anything
....
By midday, Eva had cleaned five guest rooms, two staircases, and one unfortunate hallway where someone had spilled what looked suspiciously like animal blood. She didn't ask. Just scrubbed it out of the stone while a minor noble's hatbox bounced down the stairs beside her.
Time stopped meaning anything after the sun hit its peak. The manor was a churn of farewells and loading coaches, and Eva moved like a ghost through it—silent, unnoticed, barely alive.
She caught snippets of chatter as she worked.
"I heard House Darven left in a fury—"
"—wasn't even a full engagement—"
"—the Duke didn't say goodbye to anyone—"
Eva kept her head down.
She cleaned. She carried. She swept until her arms ached, polished until her fingers went numb. Her body ran on memory alone—left, right, lift, twist, bow, nod. Again. Again.
By the time dusk fell, the manor had quieted to a hush.
The nobles were gone. The halls had stopped echoing with silk and perfume. All that remained were the ghosts of their presence— marks on the floor, crushed petals in the corners, laughter still clinging to the drapes like old smoke.
And the servants.
Still cleaning. Still breathing. Still pretending they hadn't just survived a week of madness.
Eva dragged her bucket down the west wing one last time, depositing it in the supply room with a thunk. The ache in her feet had reached philosophical levels. Her knees buzzed. Her back rebelled. And her brain was mostly shut.
She trudged to her cot in the servant quarters. Shed her uniform like peeling off armor. Collapsed onto the thin mattress in a heap of linen and sighs.
And for a moment—just one blessed moment—it was quiet.
The ball was over.