The manor was a silent beast of stone and polished wood, and Kara felt like a gnat that had flown into its gaping maw. Every click of her sensible, borrowed heels on the immaculate floorboards echoed like a gunshot in the oppressive quiet. She kept her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands clasped demurely in front of a plain grey servant's dress—a far cry from the worn leathers and stolen silks she was used to.

Her hip connected with tcorner of a mahogany hall table, and a small, expensive-looking vase wobbled precariously. She fumbled for it, her movements just a little too slow, a little too uncoordinated, managing to steady it at the last second. A perfect performance of harmless ineptitude. A hired girl, down on her luck, nothing more. Certainly not the woman with a king's ransom on her head.

Dane, the man who had hired her – the master's right hand, all cold efficiency and appraising eyes – had given her the briefest of instructions.

"You will serve the Master his evening tea. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not look him directly in the eye for too long. You will be a ghost. Do you understand?"

Now, her heart was a steady, practiced drum against her ribs. Not from fear, but from anticipation. The tray in her hands was a familiar weight, though its contents were foreign: delicate porcelain cup, a pot of steaming Earl Grey, a small bowl of crystalline sugar cubes. Simpler to poison than a blade was to wield, and often just as final.