Amber spraining her ankle put an end to skating, and the whole staff made their way back to the house, trailing behind Aleksi. I feel heat once again rise to my cheeks thinking about it.
His deep, smooth voice suddenly intense and assertive, yet so gentle when used on Amber. He asked permission before touching her in any way, tone soft and warm. And, admittedly, I could not help but notice the way his muscles tightened beneath his shirt as he easily lifted her up into his strong arms.
I lean against the cool wall in an attempt to ground myself.
Had he really been watching earlier because he wanted to tease me? What other reason would he have?
And Sam. Oh Sam. Our time was cut short and we were left with only a quick goodbye and a promise to see one another again eventually.
I still can't decipher how I feel about all of it. My thoughts race, coming and going too fast to catch hold of, making my head somehow very loud and very quiet.
I stare at the bare walls of the servants' hallway as if they hold all the answers.
I hear low voices and gravitate towards them.
Leaning against the doorway to the servants' hall, I spot Amber sitting at the table, Grace by her side, petting her in comfort. Aleksi is kneeled before her, wrapping her foot with a brace and then wrapping both her feet in a blanket and positioning them near the fire. Her eyes are still teary, but he makes joke after joke and manages to pull smiles out of her.
I can't help watching. His voice is soft, his hands careful. He treats her with nothing but respect.
It's a terrible truth, but many men would look at Amber and Grace and see them as easy targets—young, naive maids to be preyed on—but he had never looked at them that way. He had never looked at any of the female, or male, staff that way.
I think of my own experiences, how I watched older male servants come and follow the young maids, or even the stable boys, around. How they would slowly wear them down, starting off friendly, all advice and casual touches. But soon the tune would change. They'd say the maids owed them for their "kindness."
Because I was considered a favourite of the family, they steered clear of me, and yet, I would catch them staring, an empty, hungry look in their eyes.
Shivering at the memory, I contrast those seeking, manipulative men with the one in front of me now.
He expects nothing in return for his kindness. He comes with no strings attached, no price for his care. I don't know how I didn't realize it before. He wasn't respectful out of self-interest or expectation. It was simply who he was.
Tears almost spring to my eyes.
How long had it been, since I had not questioned someone's motives for their kindness?
A deep, heavy kind of sadness settles over me. For myself. For those maids. For the fact I watched, and did nothing, though I too was only a child.
I'm gripped by the urge to go over to him. To apologize. But I can't. Not because of him, but because of me. Because even if he was raised to be honest, to be kind, I was not. No, in the empty cavity where my heart should be, nothing remains.
Hating myself and the world, I wrap my arms around myself, grounding my thoughts before I can spiral. That's when I hear him behind me.
"The cook has made tea for anyone who wants it."
I know the voice before I look and paste a polite smile on my face—once again choosing anything but honesty.
"Thank you."
I go to move past the Valet who stands uncomfortably close, when he grabs my wrist. My skin becomes ice and my heart, if not my body, runs quickly away. I meet his eyes, trying to keep panic out of mine and breathing even.
"I'd very much like it if we could be… friends, you and I."
He gives me one of his greasy smiles and I nod, if only to get him to let go. I'd sooner make friends with a rabid dog. It'd probably have better manners.
He, however, doesn't seem willing to let go. His fingers squeeze a little bit tighter, like he knows I want to pull away.
I'm suddenly brought back to those hungry eyed men and the broken faces of their prey. I shrink back, desperate to get away.
He opens his mouth to speak again when a wooden spoon smacks him on the arm and he lets go, barking in pain.
I turn to my savior, finding the short, strongly built cook. She shoos him off with a terrifying glare and a waggle of her spoon. I would laugh if I wasn't so filled with adrenaline and knee-wobbling relief.
She turns her gaze on me, immediately transforming into a warm smile, and she gestures for me to follow her to the kitchen. I know she doesn't speak Anglorian but I thank her anyway. She just nods and pulls me over to her station, where it seems she has been making cookies.
The kitchen smells like butter and sugar, warm from the ovens, and feeling safer than anywhere else.
Looking at her in question, she mimes rolling out dough and cutting out cookies. I try to explain as best I can I'm no baker but she shakes her head and insists. Hesitantly I agree and try my hand at kneading and shaping dough with her. My fingers sink into the dough—softer than I expected, pliable, unlike so many things in life.
The cook watches me with quiet amusement. She laughs at my blunders and claps at my successes, managing to melt away my discomfort. When I roll one too thin, she corrects me with a simple tap of the hand, no words needed.
My chest tightens. This is not the type of correction I am used to. Not by a long shot.
She actually draws a genuine laugh out of me after equating one of my cookies to a strange-looking potato sitting on the counter. It is simple and imperfect, but I find more comfort in this Slavokrainan woman than I found in my own mother most of the time. She smiles at me knowingly and hands me more tea.
I think about how the other Anglorian servants—and, if I'm honest, myself—have misjudged Aleksi and the cook. A part of me even wishes I was more like them. I feel as though I have been covered in a thick layer of ice, unable to breathe or move, and the warmth of these people, of this place, has started to thaw ever so slightly.
This time, when she offers me the dough, I accept it readily.