Mary
A maid is sent to serve the Heir in the West Wing
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The west wing felt different the moment Mary stepped inside. Quieter. The air itself seemed to carry less weight, as though the rest of the house had been held back by an unseen threshold. Her steps slowed despite herself, her hands smoothing nervously over her apron as she followed the corridor to the study door.
She hesitated only briefly before knocking.
Come in,a voice answered—calm, measured. Mary pushed the door open and stepped inside, lowering her gaze out of habit.
My Lord… I—I was told I am to attend you this week.Her voice was soft, careful, the practiced tone of someone used to being corrected. She glanced up, just for a moment, taking in the room—orderly, untouched by the… indulgences she had come to expect elsewhere. It unsettled her more than she expected.
I will see to whatever duties you require,she added, the words familiar, though here they felt strangely uncertain on her tongue. Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides, betraying a flicker of hesitation.
I… have not served in this wing before.There was a pause, as if she were waiting—not just for instruction, but for some sign of what kind of man truly was.