I keep my tongue sharp enough to cut through any order Miles Sheridan gives, yet the dust from those forgotten account books in the attic clings to me like a reminder that belonging here means something I cannot name. Every brush in the narrow stairs pulls at the seam between servant and master until the line feels ready to tear.

He takes me into the locked registry whenever my tongue runs ahead of me, and corrects it there. His hand is steady and unyielding every time. The inheritance rests on my obedience now, but so does the hidden craving I refuse to voice.

I wonder how far across his knee he will take me before the housemaid I am becomes the one he demands.