The next morning, I dressed with purpose.Not to seduce. Not to survive.To strategize.That meant boots. A utilitarian braid. And precisely zero silk gowns designed to kill you by hemline.
I stormed into the kitchen like a noblewoman possessed.
"Good morning, my loyal future rebellion."
The staff froze.
Knives stilled mid-chop. A pot clattered. A boy with a loaf of bread recoiled like I'd cursed his bloodline.
Beatrice approached like a soldier sent into a minefield."Lady Amelia… this is the scullery. You don't normally—"
"I do now, Beatrice. We're defying patterns. Redefining destinies. And is that cinnamon I smell?"
A cook blinked. "…Yes?"
"Perfect. Add it to my peace offerings."I twirled theatrically. "Everyone, I'm not here to dismiss you. I'm here to comprehend you."
Someone coughed. Someone else muttered, "Is she drunk?"
I grinned. "No! Just perilously self-aware. Let's be honest—this castle isn't exactly warm and fuzzy. People get poisoned. Secrets whisper through the stonework. There's a tower we're not allowed in."
"That's the master's study," Beatrice whispered.
"Exactly," I whispered back. "Suspicious."
The head cook—built like a man who once fought soup and won—cleared his throat."Lady Amelia… are you asking us to spy on Lord Ronan?"
"What? No! Of course not. Never. Absolutely not."Beat."I'm just saying, if something happens to me, it would be wildly inconvenient for all of us, yes?"
Silence. Heavy and awkward.
"I order the special tea," I added helpfully. "And I tip."
A few hesitant nods. Guilty, uncertain, but nods all the same.
"I just want to be sure we're all on the same page here," I said brightly. "You know. Operation: Keep Amelia Alive. Very simple mission statement."
Then, the bread boy spoke."Is… is this about the last Lady of Dreadmoor?"
We all froze.
I blinked. "There was a last lady?"
The cook nodded grimly. "Lady Verena. Died under mysterious circumstances."
Beatrice murmured, "In the conservatory."
"With the candlestick?" I asked.
"No," the cook said solemnly. "It fell on her."
"Oh."
A beat.
Beatrice leaned in. "Some say it wasn't an accident."
I raised an eyebrow. "So Ronan just… misplaces wives? Is that his thing?"
The cook shrugged. "Not a hobby. But… it's happened twice."
I sipped my tea. "New rule. No candlesticks."
Nervous chuckles broke out.
I gestured at the lot of them. "This is going so well. You'll remember this moment fondly when I'm accused of treason and need a place to hide. I like the pantry. Very intimate."
Beatrice stepped forward, exhaling carefully. "Lady Amelia, with respect—this isn't how noblewomen act."
"I'm not a noblewoman," I whispered. "I'm a survivor."
She studied me.
"And possibly unhinged," I admitted. "But in a charming way."