Page 7 of The Demon's Little Girl
The last of the evening cleaning finishes just past the tenth hour, when most of the estate has settled into quiet routines. I help Akira stack the final dishes in the scullery before hanging up my apron, muscles pleasantly tired from a full day's work. The others drift toward their quarters with quiet goodnights and plans for tomorrow's tasks.
But as I pass the main corridor, light spills from beneath the study door in a familiar golden rectangle across the stone floor.
He's still working.
My steps slow without conscious thought, even as the rational part of my mind insists I should head straight to my room. Rovak keeps late hours when he's deep in contract negotiations or planning seasonal trades, sometimes working until well past midnight with nothing but kafek and stubborn determination to sustain him.
I should leave him be. Should respect the boundary between master and servant that he's so careful to maintain.
Instead, I find myself turning toward the kitchens.
Akira looks up from banking the overglow in the main cooking hearth, her weathered hands still nimble despite the latehour. She takes in my direction, the thoughtful expression on my face, and something that might be amusement flickers in her dark eyes.
"Tea?" she asks simply.
Heat creeps up my neck. "He's still working. Thought he might want something warm."
"Mmm." Akira reaches for the tin of meadowmint leaves without further comment, but I catch the knowing look she gives me as she measures them into the infuser. "Mind you steep it properly. Nothing worse than weak tea after a long day."
She doesn't ask why I'm brewing enough for two cups instead of just preparing something he can take on his own. Doesn't comment on the way I carefully arrange everything on the good tray with two matching cups and the small pot of honey he prefers.
Just gives me that look that says she sees exactly what I'm doing, even if I'm not entirely sure myself.
"Sleep well, Akira," I murmur as I lift the tray.
"You too, child." The words carry layers of meaning I'm not ready to examine too closely.
The corridors feel different at this hour, shadows deeper and sounds more intimate. My footsteps echo softly against the stone as I make my way toward the study, the tray steady in my hands despite the strange flutter in my stomach that seems to intensify with every step.
It's ridiculous. I bring him tea regularly, have done so countless times over the six years I've worked here. There's nothing unusual about checking on his needs when he's working late.
Except for the way my pulse quickens as I near his door. Except for the careful attention I paid to my appearance before leaving the kitchen, smoothing my hair and adjusting my sleevecuffs like I'm preparing for something more significant than serving refreshments.
Except for the anticipation that builds behind my ribs at the thought of having his attention focused entirely on me, even for a few minutes.
"Planning to actually knock, or just stand there contemplating the door hinges?"
I spin toward the voice, nearly sloshing tea over the tray's edge. Avenor leans against the wall a few paces away, arms crossed and that familiar smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His gray skin seems to absorb the torchlight, making his navy eyes appear almost luminous in the dim corridor.
"You're very quiet for someone wearing boots," I accuse, settling the tray more securely in my grip.
"Occupational requirement." He pushes away from the wall with that fluid grace all demons seem to possess, moving closer with predatory smoothness. "Interesting hour for tea service."
"He's working late. Thought he might be thirsty."
"I'm sure that's exactly what you thought." The words carry gentle mockery, but his expression remains fond rather than cruel. "Two cups, I notice."
I resist the urge to look down at the tray. "In case he wants me to join him. For..." I search for a plausible reason that doesn't sound like wishful thinking. "For discussion about tomorrow's tasks."
"Right. Tasks." Avenor's grin widens, revealing the slightly pointed canines that mark his mixed heritage. "At this hour. Very dedicated of you."
Heat flares in my cheeks. "Don't you have guard duties to attend to instead of lurking in corridors making observations about tea trays?"
"Currently on break. And someone has to keep an eye on the staff wandering around with refreshments for the master." Hesteps aside with exaggerated courtesy, gesturing toward Rovak's door. "Don't let me keep you from your... task discussion."
I roll my eyes at him, but can't quite suppress the smile tugging at my lips. For all his teasing, Avenor has never made me feel judged or foolish for the careful attention I pay to Rovak's comfort. If anything, he seems almost protective of whatever this undefined thing between us might be.
"Good night, Avenor."
