The servant quarters were a rabbit warren of corridors and small rooms set in the northern wing of the mansion. This part of the house got little natural light. I made my way past our busy kitchen. Its heat swirled out through the open door in buffeting walls, bringing with it rich smells of cooking meat, herbs, and spices. The clatter of cutlery on porcelain, the clanking of cups on wood, and boisterous conversation came from the Servants Hall where we all gathered to eat in shifts—the meals cooked and served by whoever was on rotation that evening.

I headed toward the domestic servants' sleeping quarters. We were separated into male and female domains, with family rooms down a further twist of hallways. The Deniauds' soldiers resided in barracks in the back courtyard of the property, no doubt where Mr. Whiskers was billeted for the duration of his stay.

This evening the servant quarters were even more crowded and noisy than usual, as we were lodging the other servants from the Houses who were staying overnight with the Deniauds.

I squeezed past fellow colleagues haunting the hallways who were busy laughing and chatting with one another, catching up on the day's gossip or shouting to gain another's attention from one end of the hallway to the other. Older children were being urged into bed, and servants on the evening shift left to attend to their duties.

There was no privacy in this part of the house. It was normal for all of us to share cramped quarters with one another. Being alone was a strange concept to me. Though I did escape when I could, seeking open space and the solitude and silence in the forest that encompassed the Deniaud estate.

Besides the Servants Hall, there was a common room for us to read or watch television or hang out in, and there was a small garden set aside for us where we could sit outside and soak up the rays of the sun. It was within this garden where I grew and tended white roses that rambled along the cracked brick walls—a space saver in the tiny area set aside for us—and in the height of summer their blooms sweetly perfumed the air.

But if I could rule a House I'd change all of it.

Starting with the name—servant. Staff sounded so much better and more inclusive as if high-ranking families and those of us that served their needs were part of the same team.

I'd have bigger bedrooms for my staff, especially for families, with their own patio closed off from everyone else, just like mortal apartments did. I'd also design a spacious commons garden that was open to everyone. Even the family of the House we served could come and join us. A large lawn where we could play cricket or a game of football, picnic on blankets under the wide-spread boughs of oaks, and with enough room for children to ride their bikes. Anyone who wanted to would have free reign to add to my garden.

I loved to garden. I loved getting my fingers dirty with freshly-turned earth, nurturing a seed into a sapling, then into a tree or shrub or burst of flowers. As much as time allowed, I'd potter about in the gardens with Oswin, and he and I would talk—daydream really—about all the things we'd change.

Though the world of Houses was progressive, it was also a world steeped in tradition. Even if we servants were considered families from nobody ranks, each one of us came from family lines just as long and old as the higher-ranking families that served the Horned Gods. We servants too had our own hierarchy system, families who considered themselves higher than one another. Often, I thought the world of servants was stricter than the world of Houses.

On occasion, there were arranged marriages, just as the Upper and Lower Houses had. Yet, while those higher-ranking members turned a blind eye to affairs and the sexual freedom of the younger generation, in my world there was absolutely no sex before marriage. Gods forbid if any servant girl got pregnant outside of wedlock. We lived in modern times, yet we were forced into marriage to hide the shame of an illegitimate baby. And it didn't bode well for any servant to be caught having an affair with those we served.

Down the hallway, I caught the bobbing of a blond head above those in front of me. Oswin shouldered his way through the masses. "Tabitha!" he huffed, "the flowers!" His curls bounced forward as he staggered to a halt in front of me. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his skin sallow and sickly looking. Quite frankly he looked awful. He was already in his pajamas, with a tartan dressing robe wrapped around his body, the pockets of the robe bulging with tissues.

I waved a hand as if it were nothing. I didn't want him to feel guilty and berate himself. "Don't worry, I caught it in time and fixed it before anyone noticed."

Oswin slumped against the hallway wall. "Thank gods." He dug into a pocket, fished out a fresh tissue, and wiped his runny nose. His voice was rough and stuffy with his cold. "I'm sorry. I got caught up with the curtains and forgot all about it."

Even though exhaustion ran rife throughout my body, I lifted a shoulder, smiling brightly. "Easy to do. There was a lot to get done today."

"Yeah, there was." He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair before dropping it to his side. "Even more tomorrow."

I patted his upper arm. "Go to bed, sleep, get well." I was about to move past and head to my own bedroom when I stilled, my brow furrowing in thought. I wondered...I wondered if Oswin might know who that servant was, the one I'd had the displeasure of meeting in the living room—Mr. Whiskers. Gods, he was just so above helping cut flowers and stuff them into vases. Ridiculous.

Oswin sensed something on my mind. He cocked his head, shifting more toward me, bracing a bulky shoulder against the wall. He was almost as tall as Mr. Whiskers and almost as broad. "What is it?"

I was just about to ask him about the stranger when I changed my mind. He wasn't even worth my time. Uptight indeed.

"Ah, nothing, it's alright," I replied.

It somewhat irked me that the dark-eyed glowering stranger, whom I was pretty sure was a Hunter, made Tomas look like a boy. Tomas with his floppy blond hair, sandy complexion, and big, beautiful eyes. And the edgy look he gave himself by frosting the tips of his locks made him look, now in reflection, like he was trying a little too hard.

But still, Tomas was interested in me. Me!

And he was going to be at the dance tomorrow night.

I let myself imagine what it might feel like if Tomas asked me to dance and held me close, my body pressed to his, his hands on my waist...and maybe afterward Tomas would steal me away to some quiet little nook where no one could see us, and he'd kiss me.

Without realizing it, my fingertips had wandered to my mouth, and I was gently patting my tingling lips, deep in thought. Yes. A kiss. Lots of kissing. Our first one or a second one, I still wasn't sure what last week's counted as, had been incredibly brief, but his soft lips indeed had touched mine, that much I knew. But I wanted a French kiss, just so I knew what everyone else did—how it felt for a guy to kiss you, with his tongue and everything!

"Tabitha?"

I blinked, coming too. Oswin had pushed off the wall and was squinting at me, a little perplexed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, fine," I said a little rushed, feeling embarrassed heat creep up my throat. I took hold of his large forearm and guided him back toward the male dorms, edging us both around the milling servants. "Off to bed with you. Tomorrow's a big night and you don't want to miss the dance."

"I'll be alright tomorrow," he said, then sneezed, pressing his tissue to his nose just in time. "Hopefully." Though Lower House Simonis melded science and magic for healing and pain relief, a cure for the common cold still eluded us.

I gave his arm one last squeeze before letting him go. "Goodnight, Oswin."

"Night, Tabitha," he replied with a little wave as he turned into the hallway where the male bedrooms were situated. Just as I pushed into motion, I heard my name being called out behind me. I turned to find Beckah weaving around the other servants with a hardcover book cradled in her arms.

She caught up, her rosy cheeks flushed even redder with her race to catch me. Beckah was a few years younger, but one thing she had up on me was she'd been kissed, a few times now, by several different boys. Something I was in awe of, and a smidgeon jealous of too. We had to be careful if a romance bloomed within our world. Most of the time the relationships—like Beckah's had been—were brief, or we quickly fell in love or lust and married young. Often the shine of young love was tarnished with the growing awareness of incompatibility between the young married couple, and as time wore on it simply became a partnership between husband and wife. I didn't want either of those things. I wanted a forever. But right now I just wanted a kiss. Just one.

Beckah leaned closer, shot a furtive look over her shoulder, and passed me the book. She lowered her voice, just in case someone was listening in. "You are going to love this one."

I swept my hand over the smooth dust cover—Little Women—but inside would be a romance novel, and I wondered, with building excitement, which one she was loaning to me.

The smaller paperbacks were ones Beckah surreptitiously passed to me in a paper bag like we were doing some kind of dodgy back-alley deal. The newer, hardcover books, we hid behind innocent dust covers. For the past six months, it seemed like I'd been reading Anne of Green Gables non-stop, I feared the day my aunt would ask me to read aloud a paragraph.

"Jackie Collins," Beckah whispered. "Her latest."

Hugging the book to my chest, I sucked in a surprised breath and almost stamped my foot in excitement. "Jackie Collins?" I whispered back.

She nodded. "I dog-eared all the"—she pointedly coughed—"bits."

I flashed a grin and hugged the book tighter. "Thank you." Beckah and I, as well as a few of the other girls, sneakily passed romance books around like they were crack cocaine. Jackie Collins was my particular addiction and my new best friend. When she brought the heat, she brought the heat. Reading her books was the closest I'd come to actual S.E.X. without actually doing it; just touching her latest book had my core clenching in exhilaration. I turned the book on its side and glanced at all those glorious leaves that Beckah had turned over. Hellsgate, there were a lot of dog-eared pages. I just had to sneak it past my aunt without her discovering it.

Beckah wagged her eyebrows. "Enjoy." And walked off with a little wink.

My shoes squeaked on the floor as I twisted around, heading along the hallway of the female domain, where those of us who were unwed resided. Halfway down, I pushed open the door to the small bedroom I shared with my aunt and stepped inside. We could have had two single beds, like everyone else, but I'd curated a bunk bed. This gave us more space in the room.

A bright, cozy rug in clashing colors sat beneath Aunt Ellena's rocking chair, where she knitted and crocheted. I'd fixed several bookshelves into the wall above a compact two-seater couch, and a desk we both shared and sometimes ate at was situated near the window.

Aunt Ellena, brushing her long golden locks with a hairbrush, drifted in from the bathroom that we shared with the next room's occupants. Her long nightgown wrapped around her legs as she made her way to the bed. Anxiety worried at my stomach to see how pale and tired she looked. I knew she was in pain from the way she slowly worked the hairbrush through her hair, and how her hand with its swollen knuckles gingerly cradled the handle.

She spied the book held at my side. "What do you have there?"

"Little Women," I said, wiggling the book before I tossed it onto my bed. I had a little night light clipped onto the bedhead so I could read while my aunt slept. Later I'd sink into Jackie Collins after finishing the latest book Beckah had given me a few days ago.

I kicked my heels off, half-bending over to knead the balls of my feet and stretch my toes. So good...so, so, so good.

"Oh, no more Anne of Green Gables?" Aunt Ellena teased, with a brilliant smile that deepened the color of her irises to evergreen spruce. "You love that book. Always have your nose in it." The bedsprings squeaked as she sat down, the mattress sinking beneath her weight.

Yes, well, I hadn't actually read it in years. Like this new one that Beckah had given me, Anne of Green Gables had hidden several other heated romance books beneath its dust cover. Every so often it worried me that Aunt Ellena would start asking questions about my apparent obsession with rereading children's classics.

I pulled her bedding aside for her. "Hop in, and let me take care of you."

Guilt shone in her gaze, and I knew she would try to refuse like she always did. She loathed asking for my help. "I'm fine—"

"No, you're not," I said, pinching the hairbrush from her and placing it on the chest of drawers beside the bed. "You're in pain. Let me help you."