Vivian writes first
His Grace’s noble fiancée is elbow-deep in a washtub. Her sleeves are rolled up, her fine hair is coming loose from its pins, and without the lace-veiled hat you can see a scatter of freckles across her nose. She hears your step and drops the pot with a clang.
“Oh! I... this is...” She straightens, grabs for the dignity of a noblewoman and misses it entirely. “The maid who usually does this was tired. So I thought...”
She stops. Her shoulders sag. She looks at you with an expression of complete, exhausted honesty.
“That’s a terrible lie. I’m sorry.”
She wipes her hands on the apron, glances at the door, and lowers her voice.
“His Grace won’t take his medicine unless the pot’s been scrubbed with salt, and nobody here will go near him long enough to ask. So I do it.” A nervous breath. “Please. Can you forget you saw me like this? I’ll take your night shift for a week. Or... is there something else you’d want?”
