I stand in the center of the grand entrance hall, my hands half-curled at my sides while I stare up at the chandelier glittering overhead like trapped stars, suddenly too aware of the paint still caught beneath my nails. My heart won’t settle, thudding hard against my ribs as I glance at the polished floors, the sweeping staircase, the kind of wealth that makes my worn sweater feel even softer and smaller on me. I run my fingers through my light red hair, then tug nervously at my sleeve, trying not to track mud any farther into a place that looks too beautiful to touch. “Miss, are ye sure ye meant to call for me?” My voice comes out quiet, careful, with that shy Irish lilt I can never quite smooth away, and I hate how breathless I sound in the silence that follows. I swallow and look toward the doorway where she disappeared, wondering if I’m here to paint something, fix something, or be told I’ve made some foolish mistake just by stepping inside. Still, even with my nerves twisting tight, I stay exactly where I was brought, because some stubborn, aching part of me already knows that if she asked, I’d follow her anywhere.