"That would be the second-longest river in Europe, sir," he said stiffly. "Flows through ten countries, including Austria and Hungary."
Carmine's mouth parted just slightly, then curved into a grin.
"I knew you were clever."
Ambrose inhaled sharply. But Carmine was already scooting closer, resting his chin in his hand.
He looked so earnest, so painfully young. Like he genuinely believed Ambrose might be the smartest man in the whole house.
He shouldn't.
He really, truly shouldn't.
"Show me."
God help him.
. . .
They worked like that for nearly an hour. Carmine poring over the maps, pencil tapping restlessly against his teeth. Ambrose standing at a careful distance, offering quiet corrections when the boy got something wrong.
The boy was spoiled, yes, but not lazy.
Not stupid.
Just... distracted.
Restless.
. . .
He didn't even notice how late it was until Carmine yawned. His head dropping forward against the open book.
He cleared his throat sharply.
Carmine startled upright, blinking sleepily.
"You should return to your room, sir."
Carmine stretched, rubbing at his eyes like a cat.
He didn't protest, just gathered his papers and stood.
But as he passed Ambrose on the way to the door, he paused.
Then, without looking back… "Thank you."
It was soft.
He bowed deeply, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Goodnight, young master."
. . .
By noon, the whole estate was stifling.
The sun hung high, pouring its heat over the rooftops and pressing down on every inch of the gardens. The air inside the house was thick. Clinging to skin, curling the edges of parchment, sinking into the drapes. Even the polished floors felt warm beneath Ambrose's boots.
It was the kind of heat that made tempers short.
The maids snapped at each other in whispers behind the kitchen doors. Hans kicked at loose stones in the courtyard. Mr. Fleming paced the hallways with a wet handkerchief at his neck, barking orders as if the sheer sound of his own voice might cool him down.
Everyone was waiting.
The master's return.
Ambrose hated how the whole house trembled for that man's presence. Even before he set foot on the threshold.
He should have been grateful for the distraction. Work was always easier when the others were too busy fretting to notice him. But the restless heat gnawed at the edges of his mind. Dragging him back to places he'd buried deep.
Memories flickering behind his eyelids.
Levon Ashford.
Ambrose's breath caught, just for a second, before he forced it down.
Not yet.
Not here.
By midday, the whole house had been divided in two.
Half the servants were ordered to clean themselves up. Washed, pressed, ready to line the hallway like little dolls on display. The other half were kept working. Heads down, hands dirty.
Ambrose already knew which half he belonged to.
The invisible half.
He welcomed it, in truth. There was nothing more nauseating than the thought of standing still, waiting to bow when that man walked through the door.
The air outside was shimmering by the time the first wheels crunched over gravel.
Ambrose stood at the farthest corner of the courtyard when the lion returned.
He didn't need to see Levon Ashford to know he was there.
The man's presence poisoned the air.
It rolled ahead of him like smoke. Coiling into the walls, wrapping around every neck in the household. Even the horses seemed uneasy in their harnesses, snorting and stamping as the carriage pulled to a stop.
Ambrose's eyes flicked up, just once, through the haze of heat.
And there he was.
Levon Ashford stepped down from the carriage like a man descending from some higher place. He was older now, streaks of iron cutting through his dark hair, but still broad-shouldered, still towering, with the same sharp jaw and burning coal eyes. His traveling coat hung heavy on his frame, boots caked with dust.
For a brief, violent moment, Ambrose could smell the blood again. Thick and metallic at the back of his throat.
Focus.
Don't look.
"Ambrose?"
Hans's voice jolted him.
Ambrose blinked, heart hammering against his ribs.
"You're expected to help bring the loads after this."
"Sure."
The word tasted bitter.
His feet dragged heavier as he followed the line of servants toward the carriage.
Levon barely spared the staff a glance as he passed. His gaze swept through them like they were furniture. Lingering only on the servants he'd chosen to line up, the ones in clean uniforms and neat little rows.
But Ambrose caught the flicker of his eyes moving over the rest of them too.
The unseen half.
The half not worth acknowledging.
Good.
Let him overlook me.
Let him believe I'm nothing.
Ambrose's heart was thudding hard in his chest as he hefted another trunk onto his shoulder. The weight was welcome. It kept his hands busy, kept him from doing something reckless.
Like plunging a knife straight into the old bastard's throat.
. . .
Morning light filtered through the servants' quarters as Ambrose adjusted his uniform, smoothing out the crisp fabric with practiced precision. The quiet hum of the household waking up was familiar. Comforting, even.
But today, a new energy buzzed through the air.
As he stepped into the main hall, he caught sight of unfamiliar faces among the staff. Older recruits, no doubt, their presence a permanent fix in the estate's rhythm. They clustered together in small groups, chatting easily, already settling in faster than he ever had.
"You're a bit different, huh?" one of the younger footmen remarked offhandedly, glancing in Ambrose's direction.
Hans, ever the one to insert himself into a conversation, chuckled. "Thought the same when I first met him. Stuck-up type, isn't he?"
A round of light laughter followed, though it lacked any real malice
"Barely a day's rest and back to work," one grumbled, rolling a stiff shoulder.
"Better than sleeping out in the stables like last time."
"At least there's hot water here."
The rhythm of their chatter was steady, almost musical. Complaints softened by wry smiles and the occasional bark of laughter.
Even Hans, who never passed up the chance to poke at others, leaned into the warmth of it, his voice dropping low to trade jabs about the estate in the east. Its drafty servants' quarters, the endless dust from the renovations, the old steward with his sour temper.
Ambrose listened without turning his head, hands stilling over the cufflinks he had been fastening. None of it was useful. Nothing about Lord Ashford or the guests.
"With Lord Ashford at home, I doubt young Master Carmine will be troubling you today," Rose, the maid, commented idly, adjusting the folds of her apron.
Ambrose stilled. But before he could press for more, Mr. Fleming's sharp tone called for order.
"Enough standing about. There's work to be done."
Duty awaited. And so, without another word, Ambrose stepped forward, leaving the idle chatter behind.
By the time Ambrose found himself sorting through the master's luggage, the familiar rhythm of work had settled into his bones. Steady, mechanical, a shield against the noise in his head.
The room was heavy with the scent of leather and perfume, gilded edges catching the morning light. Levon Ashford's possessions laid out in neat rows. An entire life packed into trunks of fine wool suits, hand-stitched gloves, jeweled cufflinks, and boxes of imported cigars.
Ambrose's hands moved without thought, folding and smoothing layers of silk while his mind tugged at the edges of unease.
The old bastard wasn't here. Not yet.
But he would be.
Ambrose's fingers curled tighter around the linen in his hands, folding it one more time than necessary. His heart thudded a little too loud beneath his waistcoat.
He hadn't seen Levon Ashford in more than a decade. Not since the man's shadow had loomed over his childhood, unwelcome and unkind. He couldn't be sure if the bastard would recognize him now... but blood was a tricky thing.
Some features had a way of clinging through the years. His mother's mouth, his father's eyes.
He couldn't afford to crack. Not now. Not when he was this close.
"...You're good."
Ambrose blinked, pulse snapping back into place as Ron's voice broke the silence.
The senior butler barely glanced up from the jewelry cases he was cataloging, thick fingers sorting through gold and silver like it was nothing more than kitchenware.
"I heard you're new to this?"
Ambrose's throat tightened.
"I have experience working for rich families before," he answered smoothly, keeping his head down as he fastened the leather straps on a garment bag. Ambiguous. Forgettable.
"Oh, yeah?" Ron's voice carried the kind of idle curiosity that could turn dangerous if entertained too long. "Which family?"
Ambrose had been ready for this. He had rehearsed the lie long before he'd ever stepped foot on Ashford grounds.
"Merchant Hills. From the east."
There was a brief pause. Just long enough for Ambrose's stomach to coil tight.
Then…
"Merchant Hills... The one that had his estate on fire?!"
Ambrose's heart squeezed, but his face remained perfectly neutral.
He kept his head down, carefully tucking a velvet cravat into place.
"I was on errand outside," he murmured, voice low and distant. "I was lucky."
The lie settled heavy on his tongue. Close enough to the truth to taste bitter.
Ron whistled under his breath, finally sparing him a glance. Really looking this time.
"Must've been fate then."
Ambrose didn't answer. He only nodded, letting the silence stretch as Ron filled it with secondhand gossip. The Merchant Hills family's rise and fall, the way the fire had gutted the estate overnight, leaving little behind but ashes and rumors.
Ambrose listened.
It was easier to listen.
Easier to let someone else's voice crowd out the sound of his own heart ticking behind his ribs.
His hands stayed busy, fingers gliding over silks and polished leather. Always moving, always working. Anything to avoid stillness.
. . .
By the time Ambrose retired to his room, the weight of the day had settled deep in his bones. Heavier than it should have been for such menial tasks. The small window above his narrow cot let in the moonlight, casting pale silver across the cracked walls and the simple wooden desk tucked into the corner.
He bolted the door out of habit.
Only then did he allow himself to unravel, just a little.
The gloves came off first, one finger at a time. Beneath the cotton, his hands were still marked by old burns and faint scars. The kind that no amount of time or care could smooth away.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reached into the lining of his waistcoat, pulling out the small velvet pouch tucked close to his heart.
The brooch slipped into his palm. A delicate thing, its emerald gem dulled and chipped along the edges. Not even her favorite.
Just the only piece he'd been able to steal back from the wreckage.
Ambrose turned it between his fingers, the cool metal warming slowly against his skin.
Would she recognize him now?
He was taller. Leaner. His hair trimmed to crisp obedience. His voice tempered to a low, polite drawl that never cracked, never trembled. He wore a stranger's name like a second skin. So snug it almost felt like his own.
But underneath...
Underneath, there was still the boy who had clung to his mother's skirts.
Ambrose's thumb traced the worn edges of the brooch, letting the silence press in tight around him.
If the time will come…
No.
When.
When the time comes.
He clenched the brooch until the sharp prongs dug into his palm. Until the familiar ache grounded him back in his own skin.
He would endure. He would wait.
He would smile and bow and scrape until the perfect moment presented itself. Until Levon Ashford's own blood stained the very carpets Ambrose laid out.
But tonight...
Tonight there was only the moonlight and the weight of what had been lost.
.
.
.