Briar sat soundlessly as Mrs. Woods scrubbed her skin raw in an effort to eradicate the dirt and grime that she had accumulated upon her person from her night's romp through the woods. She had been shepherded from the stables directly to the servant's bath house. Mrs. Woods had filled a basin with lukewarm water and sat her down into it, going to work at scouring away the muck from her evening's adventures. She sat in silence, staring straight ahead as the woman worked. There was no privacy here. Other female servants came and went as she washed, offering only tentative smiles and inquisitive glances in her direction. Briar had to resist the urge to cover herself every time someone unfamiliar entered the room. She was unaccustomed to being put on display in such a vulnerable state but she had known that the commoners bathed in front of each other all the time, as was the customary experience of someone who could not afford a private bath in their own home as she had in the palace. Nor did they have servants who would manage the water's temperature or encounter her with a silk robe when she emerged.

Mrs. Woods chattered as she worked. She educated Briar about her bunk mate, a girl named Elsie, and how the two of them would be sharing a modest room with two beds and not much more. She spoke about her duties, that she would be assigned a room or two in the house to keep clean, that she would help cook every meal and service the lord's sister and her guests during their morning ladies' tea. She concluded her diminutive speech with a firm reminder that Briar would be required to make herself fully available to the noble household, be at their beck and call night and day, and, above all else, never to question a command from the lord of the estate. There was nothing sinister in the way that Mrs. Woods gave such instructions, nothing to indicate that her time here would be anything short of pleasant, but still she felt as if a proverbial door was closing on her soul, locking her true identity behind that impenetrable barrier. She could not be Princess Briar Aldrich here in this country estate ruled by a lord with unknown loyalties. For the preservation of her own life and the line of succession, she would become someone else if only for a time. She had already concocted the story. She simply needed a name.

Briar said nothing in response to Mrs. Woods' discourse. She only sat quietly, considering the situation she now found herself in and focusing on the arduous task of keeping her hands from shaking as she had since the moment that she had chanced upon the lord and his men in the woods. Perhaps she should have been shaking. Perhaps she should have been a sniveling, trembling mess for them. That was how a typical common girl would have reacted if the story she had told had been true. That sort of display would have undoubtedly had a marked effect on the rapidity with which she would have been able to gain their confidence. But somehow, whether due to some sort of inner strength that she had unknowingly drawn upon in this time of great turmoil or perhaps as a consequence of her training, she hadn't found it quite possible to show weakness in front of those men.

She regarded the water that she was sitting in and found it red with the blood that had caked her skin. She had stabbed a man, she remembered, had taken the knife from a dead soldier's body and slit a boy's throat. The event felt as though it had taken place years ago, as if the knowledge of that action had settled itself already into some cold, forgotten portion of her soul, as if she had somehow already decided not to dwell upon it. You did what you had to. That was what Lord Huntington had said when he had understood what she had to do. But was he right? She could have potentially avoided the bloodshed. She may have been able to dodge both him and the short man. She could have gotten away without killing him. Or perhaps she wouldn't have. The harsh certainty of her new reality was that she would encounter situations in which she would have to choose between her own life and the life of another, between her country and her morality. It was a choice that only soldiers and sovereigns were faced with. Even now, as certain as she was that she had made the right choice and done what was necessary for her survival, she felt ill thinking of it. She clutched her knees tighter to her chest and shivered. She tried to close her eyes but only saw his face.

"I know the water is cold, dear," Mrs. Woods said then, mistaking her shivers for a chill. "But we're almost done here. Sit tight."

She did as she was told, pleased with the idea of someone else making the decisions for the time being, her mind still racing with the day's events. She hadn't had a good enough reason to reject Lord Huntington's benevolent invitation to work for him. Based on the story she had told, the girl he knew her as should have been beyond grateful for the position. He already seemed to be suspicious of her. Rejecting such a generous offer would have undeniably tipped him off that something was wrong. Besides, her wagon was overturned somewhere in the woods and men were searching for her among the trees. She needed to get away and knew they would never come looking for her in the servant's quarters of a country lord's estate. She would simply have to remember her story and do her best to act the part of the common maid for as long as it took for someone trustworthy to come looking for her.

"You're all clean," Mrs. Woods spoke suddenly. "Up."

Briar obeyed, standing in her spot in the basin. The water dripped off of her as she stood, waiting for Mrs. Woods to fetch a towel. When she finally returned, Briar wrapped the threadbare article around her and stepped from the bath. She did not realize until she began to dry herself that Mrs. Woods intended to help with that as well. She had brought a second towel with her and was scrubbing her as roughly as she had in the bath. When her body was dry enough, Mrs. Woods finally left her to tend to her hair and dress in peace, instructing her to join the rest of them in the kitchens when she had finished. She thanked the kind old woman and waited for her to disappear beyond the wooden door before she allowed herself even the most minor relaxation.

She walked to the mirror that was set into the wall on the side of the room opposite the door to examine herself. The night's exploits had clearly taken a toll. Even with all of the dirt sloughed off, she still had scratches all over from running through the brambles and dark circles under her eyes from a night spent in terror. With a sigh, she began to brush her hair, combing through the tangles and then setting it into an elegant but simple knot on the top of her head, silently thankful that she had always had a preference for doing her own hair rather than allowing her servants to look after it as was customary. After her hair was prepared, she crossed the room to the dress that Mrs. Woods had left for her. It looked to be made entirely of burlap. As she pulled it on, she wondered if there ever existed a more scratchy and uncomfortable material.

When she had donned the garb of the servants, she opened the door and left the women's bathing chamber. Following the hum of harried voices and the clanging of pots, she located the kitchen easily enough. It was a very busy room indeed. Men and women alike rushed past her, hurrying toward their various duties. In the commotion, no one seemed to notice the new servant girl who had established herself uneasily in the doorway, unsure of what to do or where she was needed.

"Lord Huntington has requested a late dinner," one of the young men was communicating to Mrs. Woods. She thanked him for relaying the message and then caught sight of Briar standing half in the hallway.

"There you are, dear!" she shouted jovially. "Come in! Come in!"

Some of the servants stopped in the midst of their chores and observed the fuss that Mrs. Woods was making. Briar stepped into the kitchen as instructed and Mrs. Woods came bounding over to her.

"Attention everyone!" she said in her sing song voice and the kitchen fell quiet in anticipation of her announcement. "I would like to introduce the estate's latest addition to its service, Miss- oh dear, what was your name?"

"Brenna," she blurted, remembering specifically the name of a young servant she had known in the palace. And it was close enough to her own to account for nearly any slip up.

"Brenna," Mrs. Woods repeated with a smile. "What a lovely name and welcome, dear, to the service of his lordship, Sterling Huntington the third."

She smiled and thanked Mrs. Woods for the introduction. Everyone had already returned to work. Clearly, their attention span for anything outside of their daily duties was short lived at best. She didn't mind. The less attention they paid her, the better. She was only here to blend in and bide her time until her coronation.

Mrs. Woods patted her on the arm and walked away, back to the counter in front of the stone hearth. She had something there, something beige and sticky. She reached into a bag of flour and sprinkled some on top, then began to pound it and roll it out. Dough then. She handed Briar a knife and a pile of fresh vegetables.

"These need to be chopped for the stew," she said and then returned to her work on the dough.

Briar simply stood there, dumbstruck. She had never chopped vegetables before. She had seen it done, of course, in the kitchens at home but they had always worked so fast and made it look so easy. She knew there were very specific ways of doing it but she didn't know them. So she reached out and grabbed a carrot, running her knife along it longways and cutting one long strip.

"What are you doing?" Mrs. Woods exclaimed, looking over to see her work. "Not like that! Like this!"

She grabbed the carrot and the knife and began cutting small chunks of it from the end up. After a moment she handed it back to Briar. Briar went back to work, doing exactly as Mrs. Woods had done though admittedly much slower. After the first two carrots, she heard Mrs. Woods sigh in impatient exasperation.

"Just let me do this," she told her. "Go get another bag of flour, will you?"

Mrs. Woods took the knife and carrot from her again and gestured off in the direction of the pantry. So Briar went off in search of flour. She found it quickly enough, nestled between a sack of sugar and something she didn't recognize in a strange, murky jar. She seized the bag and left the pantry. On her way back to Mrs. Woods, a girl who was busy cutting meat, nicked herself on the blade of her knife and cursed loudly. Briar was so busy observing her that she failed to notice the small boy who had run out in front of her. As they collided, she dropped her precious bag of flour which exploded upon impact with the ground, coating she and the boy in thick, white powder and causing her to cough violently. When the dust had cleared, she saw Mrs. Woods standing before her, arms crossed and lips pursed.

"That's it," she said. "You are relieved from kitchen duty, Brenna. You will spend the rest of your day on your cleaning. Elsie will show you to your assigned rooms."

A girl who had been dutifully mopping up the flour immediately set her broom to the side and approached Briar. She smiled kindly, her brown eyes alight with affability. She grasped Briar by the hand and steered her off, out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bunk rooms. They entered the last one on the right and Elsie went to the closet, pulling out a new dress for Briar to change into and gathering her clothes in a very dusty pile as she changed out of them.

"I'm Elsie by the way," she said as Briar pulled the dress over her head.

"Brenna," she answered. Elsie reached forward and brushed what flour she could out of her hair with her hand.

"It looks as though we're to be bunk mates," she said, still smiling.

"Are you quite certain you want the girl who detonated a bag of flour on her very first day as your roommate?"

She smiled.

"It will be entertaining, if nothing else."

Briar chuckled.

"I should warn you, I can't chop vegetables either," Briar joked and the two of them shared a good laugh at her ineptitude. It felt good to laugh. She hadn't laughed since before her uncle had fallen ill. That was weeks ago. She smiled at the plain, common girl before her with her Auburn hair and brown eyes and wondered what it might be like to have a friend.

After a moment, Elsie was leading her out of their room and back through the hallway to the stairs that led up to the main floors. They went quietly, Elsie pressing a finger to her lips to remind Briar that they were servants and were expected to remain as invisible as possible. Briar nodded in understanding and on they walked, through the empty halls of the first floor and to the stairs to the second. As they ascended the stairs and still found no one occupying the halls, Briar felt secure enough to whisper a question to Elsie.

"What are my rooms?" She asked.

"The parlor, Lady Cora's bedroom, and the Lord's study."

Briar nodded and followed Elsie to the first door on the right. It was a bedroom, assumedly Lady Cora's, whoever that was. It was pretty enough but not her style. The bright pink flora adorning the walls were a bit too much for her taste. Elsie crossed to the landing which looked down upon an elaborately decorated sitting area. She mouthed the word parlor. Briar nodded to show that she understood that less than subtle hint. Then Elsie turned and walked further down the second floor hallway. At the last door on the left she paused, waited a moment, and knocked. No one answered. So she pushed open the door and in they went.

It was a beautiful room. The sunlight streamed in through the open windows, the breeze gently blowing the curtains around them. A large desk stood in front of them with a chair behind and two in front. Every single wall was made entirely of dark, wooden bookshelves and title upon title was haphazardly stacked within them. She was reminded of her uncles' study and felt a pang of sadness.

"What's that room over there?" She asked, more for the excuse of looking away from the study than anything. Elsie followed her gaze to the door directly across the hall from the study.

"Oh that's the lord's own chambers," she answered.

"Who cleans them?"

"No one."

She turned to face the girl. "No one?"

"He's a very private man, Lord Huntington," Elsie told her. "He prefers us not to go in there." Then she moved closer, glanced around to make sure they were alone, and lowered her voice even more. "I heard that there was an issue with one of the previous maids. Apparently, she was infatuated with him and she went snooping through his things and ended up hiding in his closet until he came to bed and then jumped out at him."

Briar snorted. It was the single most preposterous thing she had ever heard. Elsie smiled and headed for the door.

"I've got to get back to the kitchens. You should start with the dusting. The lord hates dust. Makes him sneeze."

Briar chuckled again as Elsie left the room, leaving her to her work. She watched her go, realizing with some surprise that she already seemed to like the girl. Though that could entirely be due to the fact that she had not grown up around any other girls her age and therefore had not had the experience of conversing with someone in quite so similar a stage of life as her. She had spent her days with soldiers and old men, warriors and scribes. She had never truly had a friend who told jokes or made her laugh. It was a nice change. But she reminded herself not to get used to it. If all went as she hoped, this was only temporary.

She pulled a rag from the bucket of cleaning supplies she found hidden in a closet and set to work at dusting Lord Huntington's hundreds of books. Dusting was a mindless job, it was easy to let your mind wander. She found herself thinking of Alfred. She wondered if he had heard about the misfortune that had befallen her wagon. She wouldn't have made it to Baliene for another two days but surely someone would have found the wagon by now and reported it. He would undoubtedly be on the lookout for any news concerning a mysterious overturned wagon. She thought about how she might get a letter to him, her fingers hovering over the spine of a brilliantly covered edition of Upon the Wings of Spring.

"If you find something that interests you, you're free to borrow it."

She jumped and turned to see Lord Huntington standing in the doorway behind her, leaning lazily on the doorframe. She put a hand to her chest to still her fluttering heart.

"Excuse me," she said. "I didn't mean to stare. It's a gorgeous edition. The color is brilliant and the lettering is distinctive. I haven't seen one of these in quite some time. Third edition, I believe?"

His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"You're precisely right," he told her. "You truly are a librarian's daughter. Please, though, do take any volume that piques your interest. I imagine common maid work is relatively boring for an educated girl like yourself. And besides, I hardly have time for reading much these days anyway. At least, not as much as I'd like to."

"You enjoy reading?"

"Of course. One of my favorite pastimes. Helps the days pass."

"When you're an old man such as myself, you'd wish they'd gone slower," an older man spoke from behind the lord. His age was shown in the white of his hair and the wrinkles of his face. But his smile was welcoming, and his eyes were kind.

"Edwin, you've met Miss... I'm terribly sorry. I don't think I ever caught your name," Lord Huntington said.

"It's Brenna, my Lord," she answered graciously, lowering herself into a slight curtsey as she did. "And it's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Edwin."

"And you, dear girl," he responded and then turned to Lord Huntington. "My lord, it appears we have a visitor. A Mr. Warren Morgan, it would seem."

"Ah thank you, Edwin," Lord Huntington said and then he turned to face her one final time. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Brenna. Please, do take me up on my offer."

He gestured at the bookshelf once more and then took his leave, Edwin following close at his heels. She smiled to herself and snatched Upon the Wings of Spring from its place on the shelf.