Fine. I dwelled.
Guilt, self-incrimination, and Jemina were my closest friends. I lifted my chin and focused on the good. I was grateful to be near Lionel. My boy was fed, clean, and happily thumb-sucking.
The beautiful burgundy tapestry looked resplendent beneath my slipper. It only needed a beating to remove the dirt left by Markham’s servants. I listened to my heels bopping against the thick rug. I hit my hands with the rhythm and tapped to the beat of conga drums.
I reached the stairs, my fingers slipping on the fresh polish of the rail. It was slick and ready for sliding.
I paused.
No one was coming.
The duke had all his men outside with his drills.
Feeling freer than I had in a long time, I held my thumbs up, just so, to figure out where I’d land if I hiked up my skirt, climbed upon the sleek wood, and swooshed down like at Papa’s big house. Nothing like flying with the sultry sea air cooling my face.
For four years in Hamlin, I’d thought of doing this, but the house was never this quiet. If someone caught me, how would I seem dignified to the servants? I’d heard their whispers—Jordan’s Demeraran wife, so unusual, so exotic, so sullen, so tragic.
That wasn’t me.
I once was funny, a little headstrong, and I had a lot of heart. I wanted to be me again. As a servant who could be terminated for much bigger things, what was one slide down the stairs?
My palm anchoring to the rail, I wondered if my fingers retained the memory of how to hold on and keep my balance to fly. What did the rebel in me have to lose?
A knee bent; a leg went up.
I heard a noise, a creak from above, and slammed my foot on the tread. What was it? The attic? I held my breath.
No more sounds overhead. No more movement.
Everything became quiet, like before.
But now, I was wary and weighed down in caution.
“You should do it, you know,” Jemina said. She stood at the lower second level, leaning on the acorn-carved post, the baluster of the rail. Her arms were stacked with linens that she tossed as she leaned on the newel post. “No one who’d tattle is in the house, no one but us.”
Did that mean she hadn’t heard the noises in the attic?
Jemina’s impish smile grew as she brushed a curl from her eyes. Her voice is loud, louder than before. “I’m not going to say anything. I won’t even remember, on purpose.”
No one was in the house. No one would tell.
Picking up my light gray skirt, I backed up to the rail again. I was tempted by the thrill—the rushing air as I slid, the pounding of my heart telling me I was alive.
The creaking sounded again.
Reminded of my place, I released my skirt. The jaconet muslin flounced to my ankles. The way the air fled the twilled fabric—it judged me, too, saying,Not now, no.
“The stairs to the third level are far too steep. It would be unwise,” I said in a proper tone with crisp English syllables, then descended the treads.
Standing next to Jemina, I leaned over the rail and looked down at the empty hall. The encampment had gone. The slightly warmer weather let them do more outside. The soldiers seemed to enjoy actual beds to tents. The cannon, however, remained.
“The marble gods should be happy that the soldiers have left the hall.”
“What?” Jemina kicked at a pile of dirty sheets. “What gods?”
I pointed to the statues below. Colin said they were three Roman soldiers with spears and bucklers, but I knew their true identities. “There are Agassou and his helpers.”
Jemina looked over the rail, then back at me. With her freckles and red hair, the girl could have had Irish or Spanish roots, so she may not know what I meant.
