Bert and Joan Hogwood had been taken in by Rosenthal’s nearly six months ago. Bert worked as a stablehand, “content” (Not really, he’d rather be elsewhere) to spend his days among the horses, while Joan was assigned to the young lady of the house — a delicate, kind, and endlessly talkative girl whose laughter could be heard echoing down the corridors even on the greyest mornings.

It wasn’t a bad job. The pay was steady, the house warm, and the young miss treated her servants with an almost disarming sweetness. But that sweetness — that ease — had a way of clawing under Joan’s skin. Especially when the girl’s charm drew others in.

That afternoon, a caller had come again — one of those well-bred men who always left his gloves on the table and compliments on his lips. Joan had seen the young lady’s smile, the little laugh she gave him, the way she touched her hair when he bowed. Now, in the quiet of her chambers, Joan stood behind her, hairbrush in hand, running the bristles through those soft strands with a little too much force. She didn’t mean to hurt her — or maybe she did. Just a little. Enough to make her flinch. Joan’s jaw tightened.

“Sorry, miss,” she murmured, though her tone was flat, unconvincing. She tried again, slower, but the brush still snagged halfway down. She swallowed.

“Didn’t know you’d be expecting company again so soon.”

Her voice had that low, dangerous calm to it — the kind that hid far too much.

“Fine sort of man, that one,” she added after a pause. “Talked your ear off, didn’t he?”

A brittle smile ghosted her lips as she tugged through another knot.

“Bet he had you laughing again, like last week.”

She fell silent then, brushing again — steady, rhythmic, each stroke a little punishment she gave herself for caring too much..