Page 47 of Twisted Kings

She looks like she's chewing on her tongue to keep from saying before shaking her head.

"It's not for knowing, that's all. Can you make your peace with that?" She asks me, and then bustles off, basket in her hands, leaving me behind to wonder.

Maddie never talks about her mother. Ever. And after the way the duke reacted when I asked him, I don't want to bring it up with her. I know the duchess isn't dead.

A dead duchess is big news. The monarchy and nobility system keep the press hopping, filling up pages of newspapers and magazines, and online sites like Twitter and TikTok with gossip. If she was dead it'd have been first page news. The whole of Los Angeles would have had to go into mourning, since she was, is, our duchess and all. But not a peep of it, anywhere. In fact, theduke has been so public-averse the last few years that I think we all got used to having it that way. Not like the Duke of New York. He spends his days drinking and chasing women up and down 5th Avenue.

"Get out of the way," a kitchen maid tells me and I jerk forward and to the side to stop from being run over. She rushes by me with a tray full of baked hand pies, the berry-and-butter scent rich as it trails behind her.

"Want one?" A smooth voice asks me, and I glance to my left, at the curved cased doorway that leads from the kitchen into a main hallway of the bottom floor. The voice's owner is one of the footmen, Wilder if I remember right. He looks a lot like the other two footmen in that they all have dark hair and brown eyes, a matching set. I secretly think it's on purpose so they look good together in uniform, but the thought that the duke cares about something so trivial is an unlikely one.

"No, they just smell good," I give him a brief smile. I haven't had much to do with the other servants other than Mrs. Harris and the cook, at least so far. I'm busy with Madeline and when I'm not, they're overwhelmed with their own duties.

Taking care of a house this big even though the family itself isn't all that gigantic, means everyone needs every minute of time during the day. Plus modern labor laws are a lot more restrictive. Now a person can only work four hours on before needing a break, and no more than ten hours of work in the day itself. At least two days off consecutively every two weeks, and a minimum of two days off each week itself, even if they're split up.

It's not like the early 1900s when everyone got a half day off once a month, or worked sixteen hours straight. There's something tobe said for worker protections, even if our great-grandparents nearly had to revolt against the monarchy in order to get it.

Even with those safe-guards, it's weird to see Wilder, leaning against the casement of the archway, watching the kitchen girls race back and forth like he hasn't gotten anything to do right now.

I go to walk past him, and see how Mrs. Harris is doing with Madeline, but Wilder reaches out. His fingers close around my upper arm. My eyes widen and he pulls me in , shoulder to shoulder with him, each of us facing the opposite direction.

"Jethro's my cousin," he says, voice-pitched low. "And I heard you tossing him over the side with Mrs. Harris and Mr. Matthews." His tone is angry, ice-cold, and the fingers of it drag down my spine. "If he gets thrown out because of you—"

I jerk out of his grip, just as Mrs. Briar, the cook, yells out at us.

"Wilder, stop flirting!" I turn, and she's looking up from her stove, pot boiling away with steam billowing out.

My lips part to explain, but Wilder steps away from the doorway with a grunt and moves past me, slamming his shoulder into mine as he goes. He hits so hard that I see white for a moment, the air sucking out of my lungs as the pain travels from my shoulder through my collarbone and into my neck.

I stand in shock, and by the time my vision clears, he's gone.

"What was that all about?" Mrs. Briar asks, walking up to me, her finger-tips stained purple from all the berries she's been handling during the day's making of jam and pies. I glance at her and shake my head.

"I don't know," I lie, "I think he was trying—"

"Well I know what he was trying. He's made both of my girls cry in the last month." She's angry, rubbing her hands over the front of her apron like she'd like to get her fingers around his neck. "Any more of that and I'll have him up before Mr. Matthews." I swallow down the words I want to say. It's not worth making a fight about it, especially if Wilder is pissed that I just got his cousin in trouble. And never mind that Jethro should've known better. According to Wilder, that doesn't matter.

Mrs. Briar puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

"I just don't need to be making enemies in this house," I reply and she gives me a knowing look.

"Above stairs or below stairs?" She asks, like she has full understanding that I'm not just talking about Wilder. My cheeks stain with warmth, and I realize she's right. I'm not just worried about Wilder, or Jethro. This job and this life are so much more complicated than I could have ever bargained for.

"All of it," I say, before giving her a brief, meaningless smile. It's not like I can tell her what I witnessed in the huntsman's cabin.

The very thought would shake this house from roof to rough-in.

And if it got out beyond the walls of the estate…

People would die. Benedict would, certainly, as the ring-leader. That thought makes my throat hurt and I don't know why.

"You're looking very concerned these days," Mrs. Briar says, and I'm surprised she hasn't been called away yet to some sort of pastry emergency. I kind of wish she would be, given how closely she's treading to discovering I have more to worry about than getting Madeline to her lessons on time.

"Still settling in," I reply quickly and then glance around the kitchen. "Is your jam supposed to be boiling over like that?" I ask. Her eyes widen and she turns without another question to me, crying out as she runs toward the stove. The opportunity isn't going to present itself to me again and I bolt out of the room, as she curses and swears at the kitchen staff for not noticing the pot.

I'm halfway up the stairs, stopping on the landing to catch my breath, when I hear him.

---