A dim light shone on the dusty stone floor from the naked light bulbs that crackled and fizzed overhead and cast the corners of the room in inky black shadows. A thick quilting of spider webs was spun between bottles of wine and along the metal wine racks. It was cool in this tomb of stone, but not freezing. I had my woolen jacket back on, and though it wasn't necessary to wear my aunt's knitted scarf and hat, I did. The feel of the soft wool with the barest trace of my aunt's scent comforted me in my miserable state.

As soon as I said my last piece to Varen, I'd hastily cleared the dirty dishes and carried them back to the kitchen. I'd snatched up everything I needed for my next assignment—one I blatantly made up—and informed Mei that I was doing a stock-take in the wine cellar and wasn't to be disturbed for the remainder of the day.

I rapped my pen unconsciously against my clipboard—tap, tap, tap—with the chart stating how many wine bottles and which vintage should still be down here. The wine crate I'd tipped on its side to sit on was hard and my butt had gone numb hours ago, yet I couldn't move from this spot.

Like the worst kind of coward, I'd hidden beneath the Deniauds' mansion in the wine cellar the entire day because I was terrified to face Mr. Volkov. With every hour that passed, so freaking slowly, anxiety wound me tighter and tighter.

I glanced toward the rickety staircase that led to the cellar's doorway, pulling in a breath of stale air. Surely by now the Head Housekeeper would have been informed of the state of the drawing room and come to the right conclusion—I'd been responsible for the destruction.

This time the debt was so far out of the realm of paying back, I didn't know what to do. I could sell my car, my darling little Honda Civic—a daring Habanero red and economical to run—which I'd purchased last year with my entire savings. If I sold the car, I'd be able to put forward a tiny chunk, more goodwill than anything, toward the debt I owed. But as for the rest of it...I despaired as to how to get my hands on that sort of money.

A sudden noise—rackety and loud—erupted behind me. I leaped to my feet. The clipboard clattered on the ground and my pen stuck stone and rolled through a carpet of dust. I spun around my heart in my throat.

Oh my gods...

Mr. Volkov had come for me.

An enormous figure cloaked by shadows clattered down the rickety staircase, the wooden steps creaking beneath their weight.

To my utter relief, Oswin huffed into view. He'd obviously run all the way here and his broad cheeks were puffed out and sparkling red with sweat. "I've been looking for you everywhere," he gasped. Oswin was still dressed in one of his dirty work overalls, his knees wobbled beneath him and he slumped against a rough wall trying to catch his breath. "Varen Crowther..." he wheezed.

I went ramrod straight, my heart fluttering in my chest like a frantic butterfly trying to escape a delicate net.

Oh my freaking gods—have I killed him?

Maybe I really had stolen the wrong vial from the locked chest within the infirmary. I'd carefully gone through the curses and vials of deadly infections, but I had been in a rush. Maybe I had snatched the Bubonic Plague.

"He went fucking..." Oswin cringed and whispered, "sorry," before continuing. "Crazy. Like crazy-crazy. Lost his godsdamned-mind-loco-crazy!"

My entire body clenched tight in terror.

Varen was on his way here to throttle the hells out of me for what I'd done!

Oswin pushed off the wall, his work boots scraping against stone and scuffing up plumes of dust as he paced back and forth. "He destroyed one of the drawing rooms, you know, the one we turned into an early winter for the Deniauds."

Guilt burned the back of my throat. I kneaded trembling fingers around the base of my neck already feeling Varen's hands squeezing the life out of me. It wasn't Varen who'd destroyed the drawing room, it had been me, and very soon I was going to have to work up the courage to confess to Mr. Volkov if I survived Varen's wrath.

Oswin carried on speaking, the words rushing from him. "I was pushing a wheelbarrow on my way to the rose gardens..." He sliced a dirt-stained hand through the air. "...when a television set whizzed right in front of my face. Like so close that it could have hit me. And it smashed into pieces when it hit the stone pathway." He stopped pacing to whirl around and face me, his blue eyes round with astonishment. "Varen Crowther had hurled it right through the French doors!"

I blinked. Varen?

Oswin waved his arms manically around. "He trashed the room like he was one of those mega rockstars having a meltdown in a hotel suite—he even set the curtains on fire!"

He blew out a puff of air, dragging a hand through his bouncy curls. "Mrs. Deniaud had a fit because he'd snatched all the oil paintings off the wall and destroyed them. Originals, Tabitha. Millions of dollars worth of art ruined. He must have punched holes in their canvases with his godsdamned fists and feet—Mona Lisa has half her face missing. The stone pedestals are dust. All the Venetian vases are smashed. And there are actual holes right through the walls from the ornaments he threw at them." He spanned his big hands apart to show me how big. "Actual holes in the wood and plaster."

"Why would he do that?" As soon as the words whispered from my throat I knew why—me.

Oswin threw up both of his hands, astounded. "He just casually strolled through the French doors smoking one of his cigars mumbling something about seeing a rat." He shook his head in disbelief. "And Mr. Volkov has all the staff turning the house upside down looking for rats."

"We don't have rats."

"Try telling that to Varen Crowther."

The question croaked from me. "When did this happen?"

"During the soccer match this morning."

My heart gave a little lurch and then wanted to cry.

Varen had further destroyed the room and all the remaining antiques and paintings to hide what I'd done while I was in the kitchen plotting my last strike against him. He'd effectively hidden what I'd broken from Mr. Volkov, and now no one would ever know the truth.

And what did I do?

I'd spiked his soup with the Stomach Flu and now he was in a tiny girl's bedroom with its miniature toilet specifically designed for young children.

"Did you know Mei Purcell saved him from choking to death?"

"I was there," I replied weakly. It was also one of the hardest moments of my life trying not to burst into laughter at the sight of small and slight Mei pounding his back and then attempting the Heimlich maneuver on a giant of a man.

I suddenly frowned, cocking my head. "You came to find me to tell me about Varen Crowther?"

"No. Yes. Well, he was one of a few things I wanted to talk to you about. The most dramatic event of the day, events—I guess." Oswin braced his hands on his hips and scowled down at me. "So are you going to tell me what you and Tomas," he spat Tomas's name out, "were talking about this morning?"

I brushed my hands up and down my outer thighs. There was no way around this but to pull it off fast like a bandaid. "Tomas isn't the father of Dolcie's baby."

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "He's lying—"

"I believe him."

And because it was me, and because I held his stare with conviction, Oswin believed me. Understanding slowly crawled across his features and his bushy blond eyebrows inched together. "If Tomas isn't the father, then who is?"

I rolled my lips into my mouth, wondering how to answer. "I don't know," I slowly replied, worrying about how he was going to react. I carried on speaking softly, "I expect it isn't someone she can name as the father."

Shock erupted in Oswin's eyes, swiftly followed by hurt. He hid from me by dropping his gaze to his dirty boots, uncomfortably shifting his weight from foot to foot. He cleared his throat, and quietly asked, "Someone married?"

"I think so."

There was a long drawn-out moment of silence between us as he processed the information. I realized he'd slid his hand into his overalls pocket and was rotating something bulky between his fingers.

"Would it matter to you who the father ends up being?"

He sighed heavily, then shook his head still unable to look at me.

We stood in the quiet of the wine cellar until finally, he looked up with a watery smile. Straightening his posture, tension entered his tall figure. "I wanted to talk to you...because I'm really nervous."

He pulled a small black box with a bow neatly tied on top from his pocket and presented it to me.

I knew instantly what it was and for whom.

It didn't look like it was a box from a jeweler, the bow was a touch wonky as if he'd tied it himself. I imagined inside was a ring, one of his family's. Maybe a ring passed from his grandmother to his mother and now to him. He held the box in both hands, his thumbs resting on top while he tapped his fingers beneath the bottom. "Frankly, I feel like I'm going to throw up."

Things were moving too fast for my liking. My mind speared along all sorts of dark thoughts centered on Dolcie.

What if Dolcie keeps seeing this man while she's married to Oswin?

Dolcie could very well hurt my friend with this marriage of convenience. How would it make Oswin feel if Dolcie's heart was with someone else? What if he had to endure this empty one-sided relationship for years...hells, forever? It wasn't fair. Misery and Dolcie's selfish ill-treatment would eat at him and my lovely good-natured friend would turn bitter and hollow. Anger stirred and began to crackle to life. It was slightly irrational, Dolcie hadn't even said yes to his marriage proposal and I didn't know her full story, but right now, I wanted to kick her butt for dragging Oswin into her mess.

I guess my irritation was clearly scrawled across my expression because Oswin's broad features grew sharper. My friend knew me far too well. "Tabitha..." he said in warning.

Oh hells...

Part of me really wanted to swat him around the head with my wooden spoon, if I had one on me, and yell—Are you crazy? What the hells do you think you're doing?! The other part wanted to sit him down and calmly tell him some home truths.

"Do you want Peppy-Supportive-Tabitha or..." I swept a hand dramatically through the air. "...Truthsayer-Tabitha?"

Most of me wanted him to say Truthsayer-Tabitha, but I understood his choice when he replied, "I need the first. Right now I couldn't handle Truthsayer-Tabitha, she can be a bit mean and abrasive."

Fair enough. That meant I had to fake my enthusiasm.

Faking it wasn't too hard, Oswin was my best friend. I plastered a bright smile on my face. "You'll be fine. Who in their right mind would say no to all of his," I pinched his cheek and squeezed it like he was a child, speaking to him like his proud grandmother. "You're funny and sweet, good-looking and smart, kind-hearted, big-hearted, thoughtful and considerate. Can't cook an omelet to save your life, but she'll have flowers in her home all year round, every single day." I wiggled my eyebrows. "Did I mention how handsome you look in a suit?"

"Okay, okay, okay..." He grinned and batted my hand aside.

Truthfully, I said softly, "She's a lucky girl to have someone like you."

Oswin blushed a deep scarlet.

Oh, Oswin...

I cupped his cheek. A genuine smile blossomed on my face. "You really do love her."

His smile was just as broad as mine. "For the longest time." He dipped his head with purpose. "I'm going to ask her to marry me tonight."

My hand dropped from his cheek. "Tonight?"

"Time's running out for her."

Yes, it was.

My footfall bounced against the roughly-hewn walls when I stepped away and scooped up my bag, shoving the clipboard and pen inside. I guess, thanks to Varen, it was safe to go upstairs and cross paths with Mr. Volkov.

"Sorry Tabitha, I won't be able to help you with our garden tonight."

I waved my hand. "That's okay. Tomorrow perhaps." I shot him a grin. "Then you can tell me all about asking for Dolcie's hand in marriage."

"Hells, I don't even know what to say, how to ask her," he breathed.

I nudged him with an elbow as we made our way up the rickety stairs. "Don't worry, we'll have it sorted before we get home."

While we passed through the dark and dingy hallways and up a flight of stairs to the mansion's ground level, we chatted about tonight's impending proposal and practiced how to ask for Dolcie's hand in marriage. It was a welcome distraction because, in the dark corner of my mind, Varen Crowther lurked. Despair threatened to overwhelm me at the horrid thing I'd done and why.

When we reached the hallway that led to the Servants' Quarter, my aunt was at the other end, hurriedly approaching us both. She was out of her uniform and in casual attire: a pretty pair of dark brown slacks and a light green blouse. Her dark gold hair for once was worn loose and swept over a shoulder.

Oswin and I went our separate ways with a quick, "Good luck," from me.

"There you are," she smiled. "It's late and you must be starving."

I didn't know what it was about my aunt, but whatever I was feeling I could never hold back, especially during the miserable moments. Right now the dam walls I'd built to keep Varen Crowther out, breached and everything came tumbling out. I'd done a terrible thing to him and he'd only been kind in return. I was such a horrible person.

I fell into her arms, opened up as they always were for me. Grief dragged itself through my limbs and I almost collapsed in anguish. I wound my arms around her back and squeezed tight, burying my face into her chest on the verge of bursting into tears.

She hugged me back, running a comforting hand up and down my spine. "What's wrong, Tabitha?" Worry deepened the crease lines across her forehead as she pulled back enough to be able to look at me. She wiped the tears that had leaked from the corner of my eyes with a gentle stroke of her thumbs. "Tabitha?"

A puff of air blew from my lips as I rolled my eyes pulling a self-deprecating face. "Nothing serious. I just had a really rough day at work," I lied.

Her eyes widened. "Well, at least you weren't looking for rats the entire day. Though, it did keep the children entertained by hunting through the house for vermin. That Varen Crowther..." she admonished. "Having a hissy fit over a rat. He'd find himself in time-out if he were my child, 24 years old or not."

Even though I burst into a startled laugh, my throat thickened and pricked with thorny misery.

What I'd said and done to Varen—well, perhaps I could have said what I needed more kindly and not poisoned him with a stomach bug—still needed to have been said. I knew it was for the best. He'd proven to be quite stubborn when he wanted something—in this case me. However, I was fairly certain, this time, I'd put an end to his interest.

For the evening I gave myself permission to mourn and wallow in wretchedness, alone, as I expected the rest of my life to continue in the same vein. Even Tomas didn't want to take me out on a date.

My aunt stepped around so she stood flush with me, an arm banded around my shoulders as she guided me toward the Servants' Quarters. "Come on, let's get some dinner into you and you out of your uniform."

I cleared my throat and sniffed. "I've got some gardening to do tonight."

She kissed my temple. "Okay. But eat first, get out of that uniform, and then go off and get your fingers dirty with earth and lovely green things." Her fingers gently squeezed my upper arm. "It always makes you feel better."

For once I wasn't so sure it would.