“Please introduce yourself.”
Mireya drew a slow breath. She bowed politely.
“My name is Mireya Baroned,” she said softly but clearly. “I’ve come to pay my respects, Madam Huan.”
Madam Huan looked Mireya up and down. Her gaze was neither sharp nor condescending. It was the gaze of a woman accustomed to judging people not by their clothes, but by the way they stood and lowered their heads.
“Baroned?” Madam Huan repeated softly, as though tasting the name on her tongue. “That’s a family name I rarely hear.”
Mireya immediately bowed again. “We’re only commoners, Madam.”
Madam Huan gave a small nod without further comment. “Very well. Since it’s already late, you’ll rest first. All your training and preparations will begin tomorrow morning.”
Mireya nodded obediently. A female servant then led her through the corridors of the residence. Mireya’s footsteps were slow and nearly soundless.
The servant stopped in front of a door. “This is your room, Miss.”
Mireya turned and said softly, “My name is Mireya.” Being addressed by a title that felt far too lofty for her made her uncomfortable.
The servant smiled warmly. “I’m Gwen. It’s nice to meet you, Mireya.”
Gwen opened the door and gestured for her to enter. “You can use anything in this room,” she explained.
Mireya swallowed and stared at the room, which far surpassed her idea of a ‘place for a servant to stay.’ “Thank you for showing me here, Gwen.”
“You’re welcome,” Gwen replied gently before leaving her alone.
The door closed slowly, leaving Mireya standing frozen in the middle of the room—a place far too beautiful for a girl who had known nothing but the harshness of the earth and the chill of the forest since her father’s death.
Mireya looked around the room. In the center stood a spacious bed with a soft mattress covered in clean sheets. A fairly large wooden wardrobe stood in one corner beside a vanity fitted with a clear mirror. There was also a table to the right of the bed, and on it sat a pitcher filled with clean drinking water.
Mireya stared at the pitcher. At the place where she had worked before, she had to patiently wait until mealtime just to take a sip of plain water. But here, clean water had been specially placed in her room, as though welcoming her without conditions.
Meanwhile, at Duke Leonard Eisenwald’s private residence.
Ethan stood straight, his posture respectful.
“Miss Mireya has arrived at the Servants Hall, Your Grace,” he reported calmly and courteously.
Leonard nodded slowly. He picked up a cigarette, held it between two fingers, and lit it. Thin smoke curled upward, veiling the depth in his eyes.
“Make sure she doesn’t make the slightest mistake when she meets Grandma,” he said coldly.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“She must also stay somewhere suitable. And be given proper clothing.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
Leonard took a slow drag from his cigarette, then allowed Ethan to leave the room.
Leonard leaned back. Introducing Mireya to his grandmother had not been a coincidence. It had been deliberate.
He wanted to confirm one thing. Did Madam Elizabeth still remember the little girl who had once knelt in the rain many years ago, or had that girl never been considered worthy of remembrance from the very beginning? Not important enough to be seen. Not valuable enough to be pitied. And perhaps… more than worthy of being hated.
“The game has only just begun, Mireya. And I’ll make sure a murderer’s daughter like you remains within my reach.”
Mireya woke before dawn had even arrived. Years of habit at the grape plantation made it impossible for her to sleep any longer, even though the bed in this Servants Hall was far softer than her old sleeping mat.
Mireya sat upright on the edge of the bed, lost in thought amid the silence of the unfamiliar room, anxiously waiting to see what would happen to her in this house.
Ready or not, she would inevitably meet Madam Elizabeth.
“Forget everything,” Mireya murmured. “Eleanor is dead, you a—
A soft knock at the door shattered her reverie. Mireya hurried to open it.
Greta stood there with a warm smile that slightly calmed the storm in Mireya’s heart. A neatly folded, fragrant stack of fabric was draped over her arm.
“Good morning, Mireya,” Greta greeted her warmly.
“Good morning, Greta.”
“This is your uniform.” Greta handed the stack of clothing to Mireya. “In this residence, you must change clothes at least three times a day. Make sure there isn’t even a single wrinkle. His Grace, Madam Elizabeth, and the Lady have no patience for servants who look untidy.”