I brought the spoon down with a thunderous smack against the coffee table. "Enough!" I roared. Right now I was precariously close to splitting the spoon in half with the force I was using because I was furious!

But the room was loud with panic, the servants arguing, arms flying as they squabbled with one another about what to do next and how to do it; accusations hurled at one another—why it was the other person's fault the room was still in shambles; the string of voices overlapping one another—like they hadn't even heard me, let alone realized I was in the room.

I thumped the polished surface of the table with a series of quick strikes. Anger blistered beneath my skin. If my favorite wooden spoon broke, all hells was going to unleash.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

"Stop. With. The. Freaking. Out!"

Seven servants froze and their voices stopped dead, mid-sentence.

The only sound in the room came from the tv and the music channel someone had set it to while they worked.

I hissed in exasperation, straightened, and slapped my spoon against my thigh. Seven servants, and between them all they couldn't decorate the room as required.

I was a Between Maid, an old-fashioned term for my position. I was better paid than past holders, and my role and rank was higher than the junior housemaid. I served under the Chef, the Butler, and the Head Housekeeper, my duties split between the three of them whenever they had need of me. Most of the time I enjoyed the variety and fast-paced nature of my role, except for dealing with Mr. Volkov, the Head Housekeeper. My stomach twisted into a knot as I took in the chaos of the room. I had a feeling Mr. Volkov had set me up for failure by choosing the team to help me decorate the room—with a further stipulation that we couldn't turn our attention to the project until we'd performed our usual duties for the day.

Besides a laundry maid, I'd been appointed two scatter-brained junior housemaids—the Purcell sisters—who I'd constantly caught frozen in motion gossiping or bickering; Oswin as well—a gardener who was more comfortable outside deadheading flowers; two young stable boys who had brought with them much-needed enthusiasm for the task at hand as well as the smell of hay and manure; and the steel-eyed Hilda, a cadet training to join the Deniauds' division of soldiers, who had an ironic aversion to orders.

They slowly and quietly gathered into a tight knot, readjusting their uniforms, formal for this royal visit—crisp black jackets, waistcoats, and neatly-pressed trousers or skirts. Sometime during the afternoon the boys had taken off their jackets and rolled up their shirt sleeves, and now they were brusquely unrolling them, rebuttoning the cuffs, while the girls smoothed away invisible wrinkles on their skirts. No one could look me in the eye apart from the laundry maid, who stared at me like a startled deer with big brown eyes.

Puffing out a breath, I pushed from my forehead the fly-away strands of hair that had come loose from my bun before rubbing the back of my neck. My palm slid along hot and slightly sweaty skin.

"Sorry, Tabitha," Oswin apologized, his mouth curling downward. His work-scuffed fingers twitched nervously at his sides.

As Lower House Deniaud had guests staying for the weekend—heirs to Upper and Lower Houses—Marissa, the Deniauds' only daughter, would be entertaining here, in one of the smaller, casually adorned living rooms on the ground floor which had the perfect view overlooking the estate's back lawns where the Servants' Dance was going to take place tomorrow night.

The French doors were wide open and the pungent scent of lavender growing around the patio was carried inside on a brisk breeze, along with a scattering of curled dead leaves. I could see that an iron brazier had been brought into the patio, settled upon its rough paving stones, to warm against the chilly autumnal evening, but as yet there wasn't any kindling or logs to set alight.

I glanced around the room, raising an eyebrow at its terrible state.

Mrs. Deniaud had wanted the first informal gathering to be formal. She had changed her mind, no less than five times, as to how she wanted the room to look, finally settling on a more intimate setting—a touch of winter with silver accents and greenery. Lots of greenery. My small team had done the easiest jobs first—exchanged the gold and brass candelabras for silver, and changed the bold, geometric rug on the dove-gray marble floor for a softer pattern in swirls of snow-white and pastel blues. The pink cushions were gone as well as the comfy modern couches, and instead, my team had brought in a collection of opulent French period pieces.

But it was the other details they'd fumbled on. Right now the delicate strings of crystal fairy lights that had been fixed to the chandelier had come undone from the ceiling edges and draped like a twisted fishing net that needed mending. They hadn't taken down all the fuchsia-striped curtains, exchanging them for the antique silver brocade, and there weren't any flowers to be seen at all.

Where are the flowers?

Why aren't there any flowers?

I shifted my feet, slowly turning around as my gaze swept the room, noting the stone pedestals and the Venetian smoky-glass vases sitting atop, all of them empty. I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers tightening around the handle of my spoon. My nostrils pinched. Irritation scratched at my insides. It was the easiest thing to do—cut some flowers and shove them into a vase!

My gaze whipped to my best friend, Oswin, my body jerking around, following my line of sight.

Oswin shifted his bulky frame uncomfortably from foot to foot as my narrowed eyes found his. My friend was a gardener for gods' sake. I'd left him in charge of gathering flowers and foliage for the oversized vases Marissa had wanted.

And. They. Were. Empty!

I walked in front of the servants like I was a Captain of the Guard, my spine ramrod straight, wooden spoon tucked beneath a bent arm. My sensible shoes clipped along the marble floor.

"What"—in all Nine Hells—"happened here? Or should I say—hasn't happened?" I hissed, pivoting on my heel and rounding on them.

They erupted again, straight into bickering and defending themselves as to what had happened, and why they had lost time fixing the room up for Mrs. Deniaud. There was an insistent ringing noise behind the chaos of panicked voices.

Amongst the cacophony of excuses, I made out that several fairy lights were broken and needed replacing; Oswin had been too busy to collect the flowers because he'd helped the others take down the garish curtains; and the two younger girls had lost time hunting through the attic for the Swarovski ornaments Mrs. Deniaud wanted to be hung on the tiny leaves of the boxwood plants shaped into spheres.

Their excuses were hurting my ears.

I punched the air with my spoon. "Someone answer the''—godsdamned—"telephone!"

The laundry maid startled and jumped at my bellow, her doe eyes showing most of the whites, and scuttled off.

The others fell into silence again.

I'd been dragged out of the room so often to run errands, I still hadn't found time to change into formal attire. When I had come back to check on my team's progress, this was what I'd walked into—the entire room in disarray. We were nowhere near to having it finished.

I blew out a long breath, mostly to bide time while I calmed down...and failed. We were freaking screwed!

"Do you know what I think?" I said, pushing my shoulders back.

They were silent, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, even the boys, a few of the girls' cheeks pinking with guilt. Madonna faded away and Bon Jovi's Blaze of Glory guitar riff with its western twang made me feel like a gunslinger facing off a quick-draw opponent.

"Everyone's been too focused on the upcoming dance...with not enough attention paid to Marissa's weekend." I held each of their anxious gazes for a moment before sliding to the next. "You all were too busy gossiping about tomorrow night."

No doubt flirting with the servants as they arrived with the Houses.

"Who's going to be attending? Who you'll hope to meet? What dress you'll be wearing? How you'll do your hair, and what makeup would go with it." I tsked them like the old maid I hoped I wasn't, but deep down knew I was already growing into.

Ugh, I knew what they called me behind my back—the Uptight Spinster. I wasn't even that old. I had only just turned twenty-one. It stung to hear them muffle the moniker beneath a cough or hand pressed to the mouth as I walked out of a room, but for the life of me, right now I couldn't actually disagree.

"We are not going to lose it," I told them. "Sure, today has completely unraveled and gone spectacularly wrong, and now there are a few more guests arriving than the Deniauds anticipated. But we will forge on and fix this," I said sweeping my arm wide, indicating the messy room.

Unfortunately, my team stared back at me with defeat already shining in their gazes.

"Tabitha," someone said with a low and raspy voice, just before they clapped their hand down on my shoulder.

I swung around to find Joann had entered the room and was standing beside me. A smile played on her thin, crease-edged lips and the dark tawny skin around her eyes wrinkled deeper. She gave my shoulder a soothing rub.

Joann was a lady's maid, and in her late fifties. I liked her immensely—not just for the fact she liked to smoke a cigarillo at the end of the day and poke fun at Mr. Volkov. There was a deceptive plainness to her face, but the sharp intelligence in her hickory-brown eyes gave her a striking air.

"Joann." I smiled gratefully. "Thank goodness you're here."

She gave a thoughtful hum as she glanced about the room, drifting her sight over my team, already gone back to work on their various revamping projects. "It's still in quite a state."

My mouth flattened in misery, agreeing with her.

"Don't panic," she replied, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance. "We've got two hours to get this room in shape for Mrs. Deniaud."

I winced. "It'll be cutting it fine."

She gave me a sideways wink. "Two hours is plenty of time." Her hand fell away as she took a couple of steps back. "Just give me five minutes for a quick break. I've spent the last four hours settling the guests into their bedrooms and fluffing with the Wychthorn Princess's hair to show off her tiara properly."

My mouth went dry and guilt stabbed every nerve in my body at the reminder of Laurena Wychthorn and what I was going to steal from her tomorrow night.

Joann carried on speaking while digging around in the pocket of her skirt. "I'll be back to help shortly. I'll keep an eye on the Purcell sisters and make sure they're kept on task." She fished out a cigarillo, wagging her eyebrows mischievously. She walked off, obviously on her way to have a sneaky smoke, and disappeared through the French doors and out onto the patio.

There was no time to fritter away worrying about the state of the room. We had to finish the changes Mrs. Deniaud wanted to be made fast because I didn't want to face the Head Housekeeper's dour face and be the one to tell him I'd failed.

I rounded the coffee table. My feet, clad in ugly black shoes with the most comfortable soles, carried me across the soft rug and back to hard marble as I made my way quickly toward the cardboard boxes sitting next to a velvet chaise. I tucked my spoon under my belt and smoothed my skirt over my knees as I lowered myself to the ground and knelt. For a moment, everything I'd been doing—rushing from one job to another—caught up with me, and weariness tugged at my limbs. But there was too much to do. I couldn't give in to the desire to go to sleep, or at the very least prop my feet up.

Oswin sidled up and squatted down beside me, his bulky thighs braced wide. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his runny nose. His voice croaked, unusually low and roughened with a cold. "Sorry. I was too busy helping with the curtains."

His height was the culprit, I guessed. Even I took advantage of his tall, broad figure, asking him to get things too high for me to reach. My tone was much softer when I responded with a small smile. "We need those flowers. Mrs. Deniaud wanted them everywhere."

He nodded, his curly blonde hair bouncing as he swung his head toward the ladders set up by the arched windows. "First let me help get those curtains replaced." He pulled a face, bugging his eyes. "Don't know what was wrong with the ones already hanging."

I lifted a shoulder—me either.

Canting my upper body forward, I reached for the box of expensive decorations, opened up its cardboard flaps, and dug inside. My fingertips brushed against delicate, sharp-edged crystals, but as I pulled out a snowflake, my stomach fell with despair. "These aren't the Swarovski ornaments." The Purcell sisters had fetched the wrong box. "This is the collection of Waterfords."

Oswin's nose scrunched. "Aren't they much the same?"

"Mrs. Deniaud will notice."

She demanded the utmost perfection when it came to hosting the Upper Ranks.

Though this was an informal gathering for Marissa and a few of her friends to observe the Servants' Dance, we all knew this was just an excuse for her parents to sift through possible House alliances, and in particular, they had their eye on Byron Wychthorn. Byron was heir to the most powerful House amongst us, Great House Wychthorn, and was single, very much single, as the elder Deniauds kept reminding their daughter.

The Deniauds were a Lower House and one of a few Houses that cleaned all the dirty money we earned through our empire. Marissa's elder brother Sébastien worked with his father, often in the nearby city of Ascendria, investing in shell companies or legitimate businesses, shifting money around in a flurry of transactions until the source of it became untraceable.

Despite resenting the fact she was just chattel—her union through marriage to Byron would be a way to possibly advance their House from Lower to Upper House—Marissa was excited for this weekend because she was hoping to spend time with someone else over the weekend.

I had much the same thought too.

Not that I had any time for a boyfriend, but that didn't stop me, in what little downtime I had, from reading romantic books and daydreaming about holding hands with someone else. And kisses, lots of kisses. Except what all those books did of late was make me miserable to be reading about something which I was missing out on. The sad, pathetic truth was: I had only ever been kissed once before and I still wasn't sure if the messy encounter even qualified as a kiss; my role as a Between Maid and looking after my aunt at night kept me too busy for romance; and besides all that, my uptight reputation put any eligible men off.

However, tomorrow night was the Servants' Dance.

Two evenings a year—spring and autumn—all the servants gathered from all Houses to meet at a dance that was set aside just for us. Pretty much a singles night for those of us at the marrying age. Boys would be there... Men...

Men...

Heat swirled in my chest, and my heart fluttered in anticipation. I swear the palms of my hands grew sweaty at the thought of being asked to dance by a guy.

And there was one guy who'd be attending the dance I was eager to see again. A guy with floppy blond hair frosted at the tips, boyish good looks, and plump lips I wanted to taste again. Tomas, the guy who may or may not have kissed me last week on the night of my birthday. A hopeful thrill swept through me, sparking an electrifying tingle across my mouth at the memory of how his lips had pressed to mine and then...

"Tabitha!" Oswin snapped his fingers in front of my face and I jerked back in surprise. He pursed his lips and ran a considering gaze all over my face. "It's a guy isn't it?"

I patted my cheeks instantly heating with mortification. Was I that obvious?

"That's why you've been so spaced out this past week," he accused.

"Ugh, no," I lied.

His eyes flared wide with shock. "Please don't tell me it's Tomas."

I quickly shot back, "It's not Tomas."

Yes, it was Tomas.

Oswin immediately relaxed. His hand went to the knot on his tie, stretching his throat against the constriction around his neck. "Thank fu—"

Oh, hells no!

I whipped out my wooden spoon, leveled it at Oswin, and glared. My mood darkened like streaks of sunlight cut off by dark churning clouds. I only allowed one curse to be uttered—hells, and that was it. Swearing was vulgar and all the staff knew my dislike for it. Some had even received a smack over the hand for it. Oswin dropped his meaty paw from his throat, but I saw him rub his large palm over the knuckles of the other. I squinted an eye at him, cocking an eyebrow. He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbed, and his eyes grew wider.

I personally allowed myself a pass on hellsgate and godsdamn, as well as a few others that were just a teensy bit colorful, but none of them slipped from my mouth, ever. And I never, ever, used the fouler curse words.

A sudden noise cracked through the room, startling both of us.

Shooting to my feet, my fingers tightened around the handle of my spoon.

The laundry maid had slammed the telephone's handset down. The violent sound had everyone swinging her way. She let loose a high-pitched scream, her fingers fisted and held up. "That was the Butler. Marissa and her mother are going to show the guests here in one hour's time!"

Ah, godsdammit!

Early.

Then pure panic took hold of me.

Holy, holy hellsgate, we are in so much trouble!

I rattled off a series of orders to my team, punctuated with a spoon jab. "Shut the doors to this room and"—for-freaks-sake— "get on with it!" I practically shrieked.

A pressing thought grabbed hold of me—the Swarovski Crystals. I needed to go find the right box now.

I bolted out of the room, the laundry maid hurrying behind me to close it. But, typical of her, she failed, and the door remained slightly open. Before shutting it myself, I took a moment of respite to lean against the wall. Bowing my head, I rubbed the heel of my palm back and forth over my forehead, my shoulders lifting and falling with my sigh.

It was only late afternoon yet I was shattered. I'd woken at the crack of dawn and lurched from one mild disaster to another, putting out fires all over the place, and tonight...well, tonight I wouldn't be getting much sleep either, no doubt on call to serve the needs of the Deniauds' guests...and Aunt Ellena.

After dragging in a deep breath, I pushed off the wall, spinning around. I reached for the brass-plated door handle. As my fingers curled around the cool metal I caught a whisper-yell coming from inside the room—Uptight Spinster strikes again!—and raucous laughter followed at my expense.

Embarrassment flushed my cheeks as I shut the door quietly. Making my way down the hallway I rubbed my chest above my heart, where the words had stung the most. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter, that their opinion of me didn't hurt.

But I was lying to myself.

It hurt.

And it made every bright color in the hallway seem duller.