Page 128 of Queen of Nothing

It’s not like I can be locked up in my bedchamber for the rest of my life. They need a plan that extends beyond the immediate.

Abigail clips my hair to my head, then her hands leave me.

I listen to the soft thuds of her footsteps around the bathroom, until she returns to my side with a silk dressing gown.

I clammer out of the tub and water splashes all over the tiles. Maybe I’m too tired, my limbs too clumsy and heavy, or I’ve lost layers of my mask over the years.

Abigail takes care of everything.

She dries my hair as I sit on the bench, she lotions my body, then massages a very light retinol lotion into my face.

I’m primped and dry by the time I’m pulling on the strappy top and comfortable shorts that hug my backside a bit more than they should.

Abigail kneels on the tiles as she fits on my socks.

I look down at her. “Why are you still here?”

Abigail lifts a crimson frown to me. “Pardon, Miss Olivia?”

“You’re my dresser. But you are still here. Have you been here all these years waiting for me to come home?”

Her smile is tight, it’s proper. “No, Miss Olivia. I am assigned to Mistress Craven, now.”

My face falls.

My insides sink.

Fucking Asta.

I’m whirled back to Bluestone, Asta digging through her trunk, searching for her ski gear, complaining about her dresser. A dresser who, after the engagement with Dray ended, decided to not do her job so well.

A climber servant.

They aren’t uncommon. They latch onto the status of their employers.

And, now, Asta has taken my dresser.

Abigail got herself a nice promotion.

I scoff and shake my head.

Rats climbing up the ladder of Elcott.

I almost say something—maybe say exactly that, but then a thud echoes through the bedchamber.

A thud that sounds so distant that, if the exhaust fans were on, neither Abigail nor I would have heard it.

But we both do.

She glances up at me with that faint furrowed brow of hers, then looks over her shoulder at the door.

Then, the thud comes again.

“Someone’s at the door,” I tell her, and my tone isn’t very kind.

Abigail dips her head, then pushes up from the floor.

I leave the bathroom in a mess of water puddles and wisps of steam and discarded clothes, and I follow her to the ensuite door.