T W O
Like that, Rebelle was gone.
Faustine had never been so relieved.
She watched her descend into the forest ahead, her stark, white uniform trying, in vain, to blend in with the dark foliage. She remembered watching Rebelle wave back, scared or weary - she hadn’t the slightest clue - and eyed her as she stared back for a brief moment. It must have taken more than anything to leave her infatuation with the butler, to leave her seemingly undying feelings for Mr Emory, behind. It must have been even worse, Faustine deduced, to leave them, her flesh and blood, within the confines of the manor.
If her suspicions were anything to go by, then Faustine would need to play her hardest role to date. One who loved Rebelle more than anything else. Her other siblings rivaled her in that particular field, sincere in their endeavours. She tugged on her bottom lip. So long as she evaded Lyon, her twin brother, and Lydia, her younger sister, Faustine was in the clear.
Her quickened pace was rendered silent against the mauve, Persian rug. The hallway stretched on for miles, reminiscent of an abandoned highway. Candles perched themselves on either side. The very way they glinted added to her anxiety, illuminating each malignant portrait of Mistress Kaye and dimming at the sight of the Kaye couple. Each reminded her that tossing Rebelle to the wolves was for the best. Faustine kept her gaze low, running as fast as her legs could take her. She needed Rebelle on her side, no matter the means.
“Mistress Kaye, ‘tis Faustine!” She was at the entrance to her mistress’ office, balled fists slamming with such urgency that the poor mahogany would likely chip away if she persisted. All part of the show, really.
One side of the double doors swung open, revealing Amon.
As always, Amon Emory was an epitome of class and professionalism, attired in a well-fitting, black suit, save for the undone buttons of his jacket exposing his dark, grey vest. A black tie adorned his neck. Clothes do not make the man, sure, but no other butler could beat him in that field. His arms were folded across his chest, the silver cufflinks on his wrists free to her prying eyes. All that rivaled this poise was his unruly, silver locks. No rubber band, no ponytail; he wore his hair down the length of his back, blowing a few defiant strands away from his face.
Baritone, ominously low, he spoke with the air of one who always had some other task pending. “Do you mind, Faustine? One of us is busy, you know.”
“I’d already be gone if you did your job, peau de zob,” Faustine spat, glaring up at him. Due to his 6’3 frame, her attempt at intimidation posed some strain to her neck.
Amon furrowed his brows, the insult evading him. “It became clear that you refused to be quiet.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Now, what could you possibly want at this hour?”
From behind him, the sounds of shuffled papers resonated. Faustine caught that much. If she intended to speak with her mistress, she needed to focus.
“I must see Mistress Kaye, Mr Emory.” She kept up the act, accompanying each word with a flail of her arms. “‘Tis about Rebelle!” Her tone softened by a few decibels, feigning anguish.
“Rebelle?” He needn’t any additional words to express his concern.
His features softened somewhat, arms going uncrossed. His hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out a watch. “Eight minutes to two.” He tugged on his bottom lip, brows creased. By now, Rebelle should be in bed. He would have known that much; he tucked her in a few hours ago, wondering if her pink cheeks were attributed to an impending fever. If he remembered correctly, she shook her head seven, no- eight times and hid behind her hands. It had taken most of his energy not to badger her any further. Even though he hadn’t the slightest clue what Faustine was referring to, guilt swallowed any remnant of rationality.
“Make it quick, will you.”
“Will do, Sir.” Faustine bowed.
Amon stepped out of the way, gesturing for her to enter. Her cheeks flushed once he did.
At this point, after all that arm-flailing and word-picking, she was hesitating? “Imbécile.” If she stepped foot inside, there would be an addition to how badly she could louse this all up. Minutes of preparation had brought her here, yet a lifetime of torment would follow suit if this plan of hers failed. “Breath, Faustine, breath,” she whispered to herself.
A single candle shed light on the heiress behind the desk, flickering as if close to dying out. With the tension between maid and mistress, that candle would be a lucky bastard. Seated behind the grand, mahogany desk was her, the Mistress Kaye. Her attention remained fixated on the papers before her, never lifting from the scribbles laid atop the desk. Faustine narrowed her eyes, rooted at the entrance. With the exception of the desk across the room, the decor went unnoticed. The lustre of the candle made it hard to sneak a glance at the younger, more austere woman. It bustled here and there but never inched close enough. Her features were not hard to place though. Milk-white hair fell down her back in loose curls and, if Faustine remembered correctly, teased the tops of her waist. Her bangs hid her eyes from viewing, not that seeing them eased her worries. A bloody, crimson hue occupied her glare once she looked up.
“Faustine,” Mistress Kaye growled, “This must be worth more than your bloody life if you’re willing to risk pissin’ me off.”
But Faustine did not hear her. There were more pressing, far more pressing, matters to take care of.
Mischievous as always, Faustine’s nemesis saddled up in front of her. Anxiety, as she deemed him, was a truly horrific incarnation. A black coat was draped around him. After a moment of silence, his lean arms lifted towards her. She narrowed her eyes at him, taking in the way his hat was tilted to the side, its wide brim masking his gaze from her. She assumed he was staring her down, so she did just that; she let him. His hands found her shoulders, the ghastly thing, before one of his long, daunting fingers silenced her. A chill coursed up her spine. She clutched at her bosom.
Amon and Mistress Kaye looked over at each other. The two came to an agreement; there had to be something underneath her fearful daze. The maid remained oblivious, even as the order came to lock the door. A game of predators and prey where they would split this meal between themselves. Such a truce, one built on greed, would be temporary though. The butler complied, approaching Faustine from behind. Mistress Kaye went on to remove one of her gloves, exposing her pale, white hand to the sombre surroundings, and leaned across the desk.
Faustine felt the firm hold against her shoulders lift and the finger to her lips disappear. In an instant, her mistress came into view, abruptly cutting through the image of Anxiety. It pulsated, contracting and quivering before all that remained was Mistress Kaye. She had climbed atop the desk, glaring down. Those eyes remained fixed on her, coaxing the maid while keeping their hidden agenda just that - hidden. Faustine snapped from her stupor, dropping her head.
“D-Do forgi-- ack!”
Mistress Kaye slapped her across the face, then gripped the maid by her chin. Skin-to-skin contact was a rarity for the misanthrope. The sudden jolt was experienced by both of them, mostly Faustine, which led to a scowl to find the more dominant of the two. “Listen here, you wretch. I do not have the time for your dilly-dallying.” She gestured to the stack of papers beneath her. “Anyone with bloody eyes can see that!”
Faustine sputtered something inaudible and stumbled backwards. She fell into a chair and, quite dazed, stared up at the culprit. Amon glanced down at her, blowing a lock of hair from his face. He offered her a grin to which she grimaced.
“Now,” Mistress Kaye cupped the back of Faustine’s head, “Come again.”
“Rebelle.” Faustine hastily moistened her lips. “Rebelle escaped. Wh-When I went downstairs a few moments ago, the door was ajar, my mistress.”
Mistress Kaye exhaled a dry laugh, tossing her head back. The sound was otherworldly, denoting elements of a much higher pitch than that of her speech. Neither Faustine nor Amon could recall a time where she laughed as hard as she did then, or a time where she laughed at all.
A child had gone missing and, here she was, going bonkers because she hadn’t a sliver of self-control in her body. Amon found himself appalled, frowning at her. He could never disagree that Rebelle wasn’t a handful, attempting to have her own way when, in reality, she was taking advantage of her siblings. He almost admired her drive. Now, he wasn’t sure what about her made him want to rescue her, to protect her, to preserve her innocence.
“This is no joke, Mistress Kaye,” Amon stated matter-of-factly, before quoting her verbatim, “Anyone with bloody eyes can see that.”
“And what the hell is that to mean, Amon?” she spat at him, crossing her arms.
“It’s but a quote, my mistress. I tend to quote those I admire.” Amon feigned shock. “Do you not?”
“Any more of that and I’ll have you over my lap, Emory. Like old times.” She made reference to his surname, alluding to the fact that he was, in fact, a mere butler. “Remember?”
Once he pieced things together, Amon scowled.
Somehow, Faustine felt as though she was caught in the crossfire. Their argument was not meant for her masterplan. Deep down, she wanted to mention it, but attributed her deterrent to the future aftermath of this entire ordeal. She dropped her gaze, a tinge of pink shading her cheeks. “I hadn’t meant it as a joke, my mistress.”
“You don’t say...”
Her voice gave it away. From the way it fell a few decibels away from the norm to the manner in which her lips finally released her disapproval, Mistress Kaye gave it all away. Something clawed at her throat, begging to be let out. She tried denying herself that need; she tried to. She stared ahead, no longer making eye-contact with Amon or posing a threat to Faustine. Her gaze was blank, passive even, as she traced the silhouettes against the opposite wall. Her once fiery-red eyes dimmed to the likes of a star, to the likes of a dying ember being stomped out by some all-seeing overlord. Mistress Kaye inhaled a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of her nose at the thought of being weak, at the thought of having more of her work put off, at the thought of Rebelle blabbing about what really goes on inside the manor.
Amon noticed her silence, nearing her. “Mistress Ka--”
“The only solution is to catch the bitch then.” She flicked her tongue across her bottom lip. “Isn’t it?”
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