The Second in Line

The manor had a way of swallowing footsteps. Carpets drank the sound, high ceilings turned whispers into echoes, and Cecilia often felt she was walking through a cathedral built for some god she did not know the name of.

For now, she would just consider that name to be Olrin Caine.

I am relieved to finally have you interacting with the center of the story, Cecilia, but you may have more fun if you are additionally more proactive in this narrative.

Or perhaps the name should be DMV instead—less oppressive, more annoying, uncertain of which was worse for the time being.

“Your directions, as always, are so enlightening,” Cecilia groused. This afternoon she carried a silver tray along the west corridor, balancing a decanter of sherry for the master’s study. “Thank you so much for your invaluable contributions.”

I am only advising you that wasting time chattering with members of the background is not the ideal.

It took everything in her—and the fear of toppling a trayful of top-shelf alcohol—not to roll her eyes to the back of her head. “I would much prefer you whimsy up a pair of arms to help keep this tray balanced, DMV.”

Dmitri.

“Excuse me?”

Your given name, I fear, may have connotations I am unaware of. As such, I would prefer you address me by an actual name that I fully understand the background of. I was even kind enough take inspiration from your quirky nickname.

“Dmitri,” Cecilia repeated. She raised and lowered her eyebrows, mimicking a shrug. “That sounds fine to me. We can make that your real name, if you don’t already have one.”

Are you admitting you did not give me a real name? DMV-Dmitri’s tone implied more of an accusation than a question.

“Oh, come on, please,” Cecilia bickered, “Are you going to whine about everything I do? Because I would rather you keep waxing poetic by yourself if you’re going to come after me about—”

The heavy doors of the drawing room suddenly swung open, and out stormed a man she had not seen before. He nearly collided with her, causing the both of them to quickly squawk and right themselves. Cecilia halted immediately, not only to keep the silver and crystal in her hands from going flying, but also to gawk at his face with wide eyes behind her skewed eyeglasses.

His face! He had a face! That must have meant that he was not a guest, at least not one like the rest she had come across thus far.

Admittedly, though, her excitement and confusion both waned as she inspected him more closely. From his regal clothing, layers of fine silk and velvet tied together with elaborate embroidery and precious ermine-fur trim, he had to be especially wealthy. He must have been particularly prominent, too, from both his displays of wealth and, well, facial features.

Though it was unsettling how much it reminded her of—

“Excuse me,” he snapped, voice testy and vein already throbbing in his forehead. “Do you not have anything to say?”

Cecilia’s face dropped. In those dark, narrowed eyes and auburn hair, though lighter and more neatly kempt, his resemblance to the lord was undeniable. His cheekbones with fuller than the other, remnants of baby fat displaying the age difference between the two—but where the master’s expression carried the weight of possession and authority serenely, this man’s face was sour and ornery, currently twisted in dissatisfaction.

She quickly lowered her head and curtsied, murmuring an apology in hopes of moving past this unintended slight.

He did not accept it.

“Do you know how much that glass is worth?” His voice was cold, clipped, and cutting. His gaze raked across her, not in curiosity but in judgment, almost in disgust. “Of course you don’t,” he spat, not waiting for a response. “None of you do. You march around this place with your trays and your mop water, handling things you could never afford to look at, let alone be entrusted to touch.”

Cecilia tightened her grip on the tray, keeping her eyes down. “Forgive me, sir. I will be more careful.”

“Forgive you?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “What a request, and so bold of you to assume you could do so. You think forgiveness should fall to you so easily? That because you duck your head and stammer so pathetically, I should overlook such clumsiness?” He stood tall, doing his best to embody to rule and intimidation over her.

She remained still, keeping her expression still and unaffected, even as her knuckles drained of blood under the strength of her grip, nails threatening the silver’s integrity.

“You’re one of his new maids, aren’t you?” His lip curled on the word his. “He plucks you from obscurity, dresses you in black and white, and suddenly you believe yourself part of his world, of my world. But you are not. You—” He pointed a finger dangerously close to her chest. “—are a decoration at best, and with the trouble you are already stirring with your betters, you can’t even seem to do that right.”

Cecilia felt a pulse of anger rise in her chest, though she suppressed it. Imagining stomping her fury—and this snot-nosed younger lord—under her Mary-Janed foot did little to quell such emotion, but she clung to it. Her lips pressed into a thin, immobile line, for if they were not sealed shut, she would no doubt share her own interpretive observations about him, too.

The man leaned close enough that she caught the scent of brandy on his breath. “Let me be clear,” he said, condescendingly slow. “You may play to him with your timid eyes and bowed posture, but I am not so easily placated. You are another piece in his endless game. Do not mistake yourself for more.”

With that, he huffed and gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if shooing away a dog. Then, without another glance, he strode away down the hall, boots striking the floor in sharp rebuke.

Cecilia kept her mouth shut until the footfalls disappeared entirely, then she released a deep, frustrated breath, as a dragon does vengeful fire. Her hands trembled, and with another intake of breath, she reared her arms back and shot the serving tray at the far wall. The sharp crack of metal meeting wood, glass and crystal falling hazardously to the carpeted floor, was nearly as loud as her own furious scream.

“This is bullshit!” she yelled, pulling her cap off her head, black hair escaping in flaying strands around her face. She threw it to the ground, finally able to give something the rightful stomping it deserved. “Screw this! This—this—this stupid, ridiculous story! I am out of here!”

Cecilia turned on her heel, hands curled into fists just waiting for an excuse at her sides, and marched down the hallway from whence she came.