Chapter 20 Chapter 20: Ash Falling Over Veyra Ground
The Next Morning
The next morning, the kitchen smelled of steeped chamomile and pressed linen—warm, clean, deceptively calm. I stood at the long marble counter, carefully pouring hot water into Elara’s porcelain teapot, watching the pale steam curl upward like a warning I couldn’t read. Beside me, a stack of fresh white towels tumbled out of the warming drawer, heat clinging to my fingers as I folded them with practiced precision. Every movement had to be perfect—edges aligned, fabric unwrinkled, temperature exact. Mornings after high-society events were always unpredictable. If the night had gone well, Elara glowed. If it hadn’t… the entire estate prayed. And judging by the silence hanging over the mansion like a storm cloud, we were all praying today.
I heard Rosa before I saw her—her voice low but urgent as she leaned across the prep table toward Marcus.
“I’m telling you, she didn’t come out all night,” Rosa whispered, eyes wide as saucers. “Not once. I brought up her lavender milk like always—no answer. The tray was still outside her door this morning.”
Marcus let out a quiet whistle, shaking his head as he polished a silver tray. “Mr. Simon tried to speak with her after dinner,” he murmured. “Knocked three times. No response. He waited outside for almost an hour.” My hands slowed on the towel I was folding. The fabric suddenly felt heavier. Rosa clicked her tongue softly. “And she didn’t eat. Not a single bite. The chef prepared her favorite sea bass. Untouched.”
My stomach twisted. I kept my head down, pretending to focus on aligning the towel corners, but every word landed like a pebble in my chest.
“Madam Carol gave strict orders,” Marcus continued, lowering his voice further. “No one is to disturb Miss Elara unless she calls for him.” Rosa crossed herself dramatically. “Locking herself in like that… that’s never good. Last time she did that, she fired three maids and smashed the east-wing mirror.” My pulse stuttered at the memory. I’d been there that day—the sound of shattering glass still lived in my bones.
“Enough, enough, you two—always talking, talking like old grandmothers,” Chef Lorenzo’s voice cut through the air as he strode in, apron dusted with flour. His accent thickened when he was irritated.
“Kitchen is for cooking, not for gossip newspapers, sì? If Madam hear you, I cannot save your jobs.”
Rosa straightened immediately, muttering, “Sorry, Chef.” Marcus busied himself with the trays again. Lorenzo pointed his wooden spoon at them both. “Work with hands, not mouths. Today we make breakfast for silence, not drama.” He glanced briefly at me then, softer.
“You, Sera—tea ready?”
I nodded quickly. “Yes, Chef. Just finishing.”
But even as the kitchen returned to its forced rhythm—the chopping, the simmering, the clatter of porcelain—my thoughts refused to settle. Locked in her room. No dinner. No response. Elara spiraling behind closed doors was more dangerous than Elara raging in public. When she was loud, you knew where the storm was. When she went quiet… the damage came later. I wrapped the warmed towels in a silver tray cloth, my fingers trembling slightly despite the heat.
Please let her be in a good mood today, I prayed silently, the words repeating with every breath. Please let the anger pass. Please let her forget last night. I didn’t know exactly what had happened at the dinner—but I knew enough. The missing heir. The empty chair. The way she had climbed the staircase afterward without looking at anyone. Pride was oxygen to Elara. Humiliation suffocated her. And suffocated Elara always lashed out at the nearest living thing.
I lifted the tray carefully—the teapot, the cup, the warmed towels arranged like an offering—and steadied my breathing. If she was calm, the morning would pass quietly. If she was furious… I might not leave her room employed. Or worse, unscathed. As I walked toward the staircase, the mansion felt too still, like it was listening. And all I could think—over and over, like a heartbeat I couldn’t silence—was one desperate hope: Please, Elara… just this once… don’t be angry when you see me.
I pushed the door open quietly—out of habit more than permission. I never knocked when entering Elara’s room in the mornings. She had made that clear long ago: “You exist to anticipate, not announce.” The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a pale gray wash of daylight that made the entire suite feel colder than it should have. I stepped inside carefully, balancing the tray in my hands, my eyes automatically scanning for signs of her mood. The first thing I noticed was the bed. It was perfectly made—sheets smooth, pillows aligned, duvet untouched. No creases. No indentations. It looked exactly the way I’d left it the evening before. My chest tightened. She hadn’t slept. Not even for a minute.
I set the tray down on the side table with practiced silence, adjusting the teacup so it faced her usual reach. The room smelled faintly of her perfume—white orchid and something sharper beneath—but it was stale now, unmoved by rest or routine. “Miss Elara?” I called softly, expecting her voice from the dressing room or the bathroom. No answer. The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural. I turned toward the bathroom door, already preparing myself for whatever version of her I might find—crying, raging, or frighteningly calm.
I had just taken a step in that direction when movement beyond the sheer balcony curtains caught my eye. I stilled instantly. The glass doors were slightly ajar, letting in a thin ribbon of cold morning air. Through the gauzy fabric, I saw the outline of her figure—tall, unmoving, carved out of shadow and light. Smoke curled slowly upward beside her like a ghost refusing to leave. My breath caught.
I moved closer, slower now, my pulse beginning to thud in my ears. When I reached the doorway, the sight of her stole the rest of the air from my lungs. Elara stood alone at the balcony railing, still dressed in last night’s dinner gown—deep crimson silk that clung to her like dried blood. Her hair, once styled to perfection, now fell loose down her back in soft disarray. Between her fingers rested a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly as she lifted it to her lips. She exhaled slowly, smoke drifting into the pale morning like a quiet confession.
“Elara…” I said before I could stop myself.
The name slipped out softer than intended—careful, almost reverent. I rarely called her that aloud. It felt like stepping across a line drawn in glass. She didn’t turn immediately. She took another drag instead, eyes fixed on the distant grounds below, as if the gardens held answers she hadn’t found overnight.
“You’re late,” she said finally, her voice hoarse—not loud, not sharp, but scraped thin like it had been used too much or not at all. “The tea should have been here ten minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied quickly, stepping fully onto the balcony now, the cold air kissing my skin. “I was making sure of the chamomile… and the towels to right temperture.”
She hummed faintly, though there was no approval in it. Up close, I could see the truth the dim room had hidden—her eyes were rimmed red, not from tears alone but from sleeplessness. Mascara faintly shadowed beneath them, smudged but not wiped away. She looked… not broken. Elara Veyra did not break. But she looked sharpened by something raw.
“I assume the staff is already talking,” she murmured, flicking ash over the railing without looking at me. “They always do when I give them something interesting to chew on.”
I hesitated only a fraction before answering honestly. “They’re worried about you,” I said. “No one disturbed your door. Madam Carol made sure of it.”
That made her laugh—but it was hollow, brittle. “Worried,” she repeated. “How touching.” She took one last drag, then crushed the cigarette slowly into the crystal ashtray resting on the balcony ledge. When she finally turned to face me, her expression was composed again—but her eyes… her eyes were still burning.
“Tell me, Sera,” she said quietly, stepping past me toward the room, “does the house look different this morning?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “It should. Humiliation has a way of staining walls.”
I followed her inside, heart beating carefully, knowing the storm hadn’t passed.
It had only gone silent.