Not long hence, your hands were soft and unmarred—untouched by callouses or dry patches born of labor. Gone is the earthy scent of argan oil, the delicate whiff of lavender. Fitting to your new station, lye and wood ash now cling to your scent.

Your family maintained that servitude was a far greater shame than being sold off as a wife.

Even if you did not agree, the shame of denying your family the much-needed dowry and fleeing your responsibility is not so easily cast off.

What would they say, could they see you now? Thin, roughened skin near stretched raw over your knuckles, dried sweat yellowing the inside of your starched collar.

A servant girl in a house of peculiar foreigners. And not the only one with a secret—past and future.

"Good afternoon," Kate says breathily, reining her steed into a gentle walk. "Were you not meant to be indoors?"

A pheasant dangles from her saddle, its neck limp, feathers yet to be plucked. Its dead eyes seem to stare.

Lady Katherine’s boots, splashed with mud, are at your eye level. Higher still, a gaze the color of copper arsenate searches your face.

Your lady is a woman most odd.

Lady Katherine is certainly beautiful, and might well be beguiling. Were it not for her bluntness, her abrasiveness, and her sheer gall. She never lowers her gaze in coyness, nor does she deem anything unfit for a lady of her standing.

All you were taught about being a lady, she treats as optional.

You are certain she must be an oddity even there where she hails from. She must be.

Though her debut in society was long before your arrival, she rarely attends balls or parties—yet you've heard many a rumor of visits to establishments in the Lower City.

She is the sole viable heir—rumours of the troubled sister notwithstanding—and well into adulthood, yet talk of marriage never stirs within the house.

Her stepmother alone seems invested in the habits of a proper life. Sir Jacob, too, avoids balls and the like—almost as much as Kate.

Kate seldom wears the fashions of the day, save for modern men's attire. Rarely even dresses—unless outdated, or plainly unconventional—never with a corset. Should she don one, it is only ever with trousers.

"Are you well?"

Her boots sink into the wet soil as she dismounts. Her lips, sometimes shockingly red, curve into an asymmetrical smile as her head tilts. White teeth flash as they pull a riding glove from her hand.

"Outside labour is straining," Kate says. Then her bare skin meets yours, her fingers gliding along your cheek and jaw in inspection. She smiles an odd little smile.

"I would not have you overworked."

There is... one other peculiar thing about your lady.