Aveline’s first morning at the Estonia estate began before dawn. A sharp knock at the door jolted her from uneasy dreams—fleeting images of smoke and fire that dissolved the moment she opened her eyes.

“Up, up!” Clara’s voice was annoyingly cheerful for such an early hour. “It’s half-past five. We’ve got thirty minutes to wash up and get to the servants’ hall.”

Groaning, Aveline pushed herself up from the thin mattress. Her body ached from yesterday’s long journey, and the unfamiliar bed hadn’t helped. Beside her, Rosie was already dressed and pinning her hair up with practiced efficiency.

“First-day nerves?” Rosie asked gently, noticing Aveline’s pale face.

“Something like that,” Aveline admitted, swinging her legs out of bed.

The washroom down the hall was crowded with other maids, all hurrying through their morning ablutions. Aveline washed her face in cold water from the communal basin, trying to banish the lingering fragments of her dreams. She changed into her uniform, fumbling slightly with the buttons and ties until Clara impatiently helped her.

“You’ll get faster,” Clara assured her. “Come on, we can’t be late.”

Breakfast in the servants’ hall was a rushed affair—porridge, bread, and weak tea consumed in less than twenty minutes. Mrs. Hedrig appeared promptly at six o’clock, her sharp eyes scanning the assembled staff as she read out the day’s assignments from a leather-bound ledger.

“Clara, Rosie—main drawing rooms, second floor. Lily and Margaret—guest chambers, third floor. Helen—continue with the laundry backlog…”

Aveline’s name came near the end of the list.

“Aveline—you’re to report to Mr. Romanof after breakfast. He’ll assess your capabilities and assign appropriate duties.”

A few sympathetic glances came her way from the other maids. Apparently being personally assessed by the head butler was not considered an enviable position.

After breakfast, Aveline made her way through the servants’ corridors toward the butler’s office, located on the first floor of the servants’ wing. The door was open, and she could see Romanof seated at a neat desk, reviewing documents with his characteristic precision.

She knocked softly on the doorframe.

“Come in, Miss Aveline,” he said without looking up. “Close the door behind you, please.”

The office was small but impeccably organized. Shelves lined with ledgers covered one wall, while a large chart showing the estate’s floor plan occupied another. Everything had its place, from the precisely arranged quills on the desk to the mantel clock that ticked with metronomic regularity.

Romanof finished whatever he was writing, then set down his pen and fixed Aveline with an assessing gaze.

“So,” he began, “Baron Elfon speaks well of you, though he admits your experience is limited primarily to restaurant work. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. I worked as a dishwasher and general helper at a restaurant in Perta Village.”

“I see. And before that?”

The question was casual, but Aveline felt her throat tighten. “I… helped my mother gather herbs. She was skilled in identifying medicinal plants.”

“A useful skill,” Romanof noted. “Can you read and write?”

“Yes, sir. My mother taught me.”

“Good. Literacy is valuable in a household of this size.” He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “Now, let me be clear about the expectations here. The Estonia household maintains certain standards. Punctuality, discretion, and attention to detail are paramount. His Grace values his privacy above all else, and staff are expected to be efficient while remaining unobtrusive.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you?” Romanof’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Many new servants struggle with that balance. They either make noise and draw attention, or they’re so nervous they can’t perform their duties adequately.”

Aveline met his gaze steadily. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Something shifted in Romanof’s expression—not quite approval, but perhaps a degree less skepticism.

“For today, you’ll accompany Alice. She’s one of our most experienced housemaids and works primarily on the first floor of the main house. Observe carefully, ask questions when appropriate, and under no circumstances are you to enter His Grace’s private study. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Alice should be in the morning room now, beginning the daily cleaning. You’ll find it—” He paused as footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by a knock.

“Enter,” Romanof called.

Baron Elfon stepped into the office, looking somewhat harried. “Romanof, my apologies for the interruption. His Grace is requesting tea in his study. Could you—”

“Of course.” Romanof rose smoothly. “I’ll prepare it myself.”

“Actually,” Baron Elfon glanced at Aveline, then back to Romanof, “perhaps this would be an appropriate time for the new maid to learn the proper way to serve His Grace? Under supervision, of course.”

Aveline’s stomach dropped.

Romanof hesitated, his fingers drumming once against the desk—the only sign of uncertainty she’d seen from him. “It’s rather soon for her first day…”

“But better to establish proper protocols from the beginning, wouldn’t you say? His Grace is in a… relatively stable mood this morning.”

‘Relatively stable?’ What did that mean?

Romanof sighed. “Very well. Miss Aveline, come with me to the kitchens. Pay close attention to everything I do.”

****

The main kitchen was a cavernous space dominated by a massive cast-iron stove, long preparation tables, and shelves upon shelves of dishes, pots, and ingredients. Several people worked busily—Mrs. Patterson the cook directing operations, kitchen maids chopping vegetables, and scullery workers washing dishes from breakfast.

“Mr. Romanof!” Mrs. Patterson greeted warmly. She was a plump woman with flour perpetually dusting her apron and kind, crinkled eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Tea service for His Grace, please. The usual preparation.”

“Right away.” Mrs. Patterson immediately set aside what she’d been doing and moved to a special shelf where fine tea tins were kept. “Black tea, yes? And shall I prepare some of those biscuits he sometimes takes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

As Mrs. Patterson worked, Romanof turned to Aveline, his voice low and instructive.

“His Grace takes tea at specific times each day—morning, afternoon, and evening. The morning tea must be strong, precisely steeped for four minutes, no more, no less. The water must be just off the boil, around 90 degrees. The teacup and saucer must be from the Meissen set, never any other. Everything on the tray must be perfectly arranged and spotlessly clean. Do you understand?”

Aveline nodded, trying to memorize every detail.

Mrs. Patterson prepared the tray with practiced efficiency. A delicate porcelain teapot, matching cup and saucer with a pattern of blue flowers, a small plate of butter biscuits, a tiny silver spoon, and a linen napkin folded just so. The entire arrangement was a work of art.

“Perfect, as always,” Romanof said. “Now, Miss Aveline, you will carry this tray. Walk slowly and steadily—no rushing, but no dawdling either. Keep your eyes forward, not on the tray. Trust your hands to hold it level.”

“Yes, sir.” Aveline’s voice came out smaller than she’d intended.

Romanof lifted the tray and carefully transferred it to her waiting hands. It was heavier than she’d expected, the weight distributed in a way that required careful balance.

“Follow me,” Romanof said, leading the way out of the kitchen.

They traversed the servants’ corridors, then passed through a concealed door that led into the main house. The change was immediate and dramatic. Where the servants’ areas were functional and plain, the main house was opulent.

The walls were covered in silk wallpaper or wood paneling. Oil paintings in gilded frames hung at intervals. The floors were polished marble on the first level, with thick carpet runners to muffle footsteps. Crystal chandeliers hung from soaring ceilings, their prisms casting rainbow fragments across every surface.

Aveline tried not to gawk as Romanof led her through the grand foyer, past a sweeping double staircase, and down a wide hallway lined with doors. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air.

“His Grace’s study is on the first floor, east wing,” Romanof explained quietly. “It was formerly the late Grand Duke’s, and His Grace has claimed it as his own since returning. Remember—enter only when summoned, speak only when spoken to, and complete your task as quickly and quietly as possible. His Grace does not appreciate lingering.”

They stopped before an imposing door of dark mahogany, its surface carved with intricate designs. Romanof knocked twice, sharply.

“Enter.”

The voice from within was deep, cold, and utterly devoid of inflection. It raised the hairs on the back of Aveline’s neck.

Romanof opened the door and stepped inside, motioning for Aveline to follow.

The study was magnificent and overwhelming. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with papers, maps, and correspondence. Behind the desk hung a large family portrait in an ornate gilded frame—three figures captured in a moment of happiness that now seemed impossibly distant. Tall windows on the far wall overlooked the estate’s gardens, their heavy curtains partially drawn to filter the morning light.

And behind that desk, seated in a high-backed leather chair, was Grand Duke Casimir Draven Estonia.

Aveline’s first thought was that he looked carved from ice. His face was classically handsome—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, aristocratic nose—but utterly devoid of warmth. His eyes, that striking sapphire blue she’d heard whispered about, were cold as winter frost as they flicked up from the document he’d been reading.

He was dressed impeccably in a black suit with silver buttons, his dark hair perfectly styled. The morning light caught on the medals pinned to his chest—decorations earned through years of warfare.

Everything about him radiated controlled power and barely restrained danger. This was a man who had killed, who had commanded armies, who had survived things that would break lesser men.

Romanof bowed deeply. “Your Grace, your morning tea.”

The Grand Duke’s eyes shifted to Aveline, and she felt the full weight of his gaze. Those blue eyes swept over her in a single, assessing glance—taking in her uniform, her face, her trembling hands on the tray—before dismissing her as utterly inconsequential.

He said nothing, simply returned his attention to the document before him.

Romanof gestured for Aveline to approach. She did so carefully, acutely aware of every step, every breath. The study smelled of leather, paper, and something else—a faint smokiness that seemed to cling to everything.

There was a small table beside the desk, clearly meant for such purposes. Aveline set the tray down as gently as possible, but the tiny clink of porcelain against wood sounded deafening in the quiet room.

“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Romanof asked.

“No. Leave.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command, delivered without looking up from his reading.

Romanof bowed again, and Aveline quickly mimicked the gesture before retreating toward the door. She had almost reached it when the Grand Duke’s voice stopped her cold.

“You’re new.”

It wasn’t a question. Aveline froze, unsure if she was expected to respond.

When the silence stretched too long, she managed, “Y-yes, Your Grace. I arrived yesterday.”

“Hmm.”

That was all. Just a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything or nothing. Then he waved his hand in clear dismissal, never once looking at her.

Aveline fled.

****

Outside the study, she pressed her back against the wall, her heart hammering. Romanof observed her with something that might have been sympathy.

“Well done,” he said quietly. “You didn’t drop the tray or faint. You’re stronger than I thought.”

“He’s…” Aveline struggled to find words. “He’s…”

“Intimidating? Yes. His Grace has that effect on most people.” Romanof began walking, and Aveline hurried to follow. “But you’ll become accustomed to it. The key is to remember that he’s merely a man, despite appearances to the contrary.”

‘Merely a man.’ 

Aveline wasn’t so sure about that. There had been something in those cold blue eyes, something that suggested depths she didn’t want to explore. A darkness that matched the shadows in her own memories.

As they returned to the servants’ wing, Aveline’s mind churned. She thought of the whispers she’d heard—about the young Grand Duke who’d gone mad when his parents burned alive, who’d bitten anyone who came near him, who’d emerged from grief wearing a mask of perfect composure while his eyes remained dead.

She thought of her own village, consumed by fire. Of her mother, whose face she could no longer clearly remember. Of the secrets that lay buried in the ashes of her past.

“Miss Aveline?” Romanof’s voice pulled her from her dark thoughts. “Are you quite alright? You’ve gone very pale.”

“Yes, sir. I’m fine. Just… first-day nerves, like Rosie said.”

“Hmm. Well, let’s get you to Alice so you can begin learning your actual duties. And try to put His Grace out of your mind. You likely won’t interact with him again for some time, if ever.”

‘If only that were reassuring,’ Aveline thought.

But she nodded, straightened her shoulders, and followed Romanof deeper into the house—into this new life that felt both like an escape and a trap.

Behind them, through the window of his study, the Grand Duke continued to read his documents, his tea growing cold and untouched on the tray.

And if his eyes occasionally drifted to that family portrait on the wall—to the smiling faces of the dead—no one was there to see it.