But something new catches my attention.
The silver band on her ring finger.
I’ve never noticed a ring on her finger before. Plain, silver, not even white gold, just… silver. Not a jewel or a diamond in sight.
Undeniably a wedding band.
No engagement ring to pair with it.
Not everyone gets an engagement ring, though. Usually that’s the aristos—and the krums, but it’s a tradition they unwittingly inherited from us.
Wedding bands are usually sufficient for the rest of the Videralli.
And I’m absolutely positive I haven’t seen that ring before.
My hands still on the two cards I’ve just scrawled out, one for Eric, the pointless quest I committed myself to, and the other for Dray, the villain of my life.
I ask, blunt, and the question comes out like an accusation, “You’re married?”
Abigail lifts her startled gaze from the ribbon. Her lashes flutter, one blink, two.
Guess she’s confused because I literally have never asked her about her life. Now that I think on that, I don’t even know her last name.
I should, right?
I should know some things about her, this handmaid of mine, a dresser who has worked with me for… a decade?
Wow.
Time flies.
And I didn’t even know she was married.
Abigail lowers the ribbon and scissors to the rug. Her smile is small, but tight. Her nod comes curt before she’s pushing two boxes some inches closer to me.
I wrapped them already, but now they must be carded and ribboned—and she deflects my question with the reminder of them.
One hand taps gently on the box at my right knee. “This is the watch.” Then her other hand taps on the second box, the identically wrapped parcel at my left knee. “And this is the cologne.”
She moves for the freshly cut and curled ribbons, then drapes them over the boxes.
I blink at her, then press, “Are you married?”
Her gaze lifts to mine, unwilling, almost ashamed. “Yes, Miss Olivia.”
She hands me the cards.
Another attempt to shut this conversation down.
I snatch the cards, then scribble the names on them, one for Dray, one for Eric, before stuffing them into the envelopes. “Since when?”
Her face tightens.
Abigail reaches for the ribbons on the boxes and ties them herself, like she needs to rush this now, get it done and get out of here.
Her reluctance is curious—and it hooks me.
I don’t let it go. “How long have you been married?” I ask, firm like my stare, and I scribble the names on the envelopes.
