Page 68 of The Royal Art of Revenge

I take a quick shower to rid myself of the cloying sweat from the panic attack. Once I’m out, I find some plasters in one of the bathroom drawers and use them to cover the worst of the small wounds on my forearm. The rest of the scratches aren’t bleeding, so with a little anti-bacterial cream, they’ll heal fine.

Hopefully.

I apply some makeup that really puts in the effort when it comes to making me look like a respectable member of society, tie up my hair, and quickly get dressed. Methodically, I gather all my equipment into a small suitcase, then make sure to grab my spare camera battery.

I take a deep breath and lug the case behind me. The household staff ignore me as I carry it downstairs. I can barely maintain my balance thanks to my shitty awakening, and once again, the thought of cancelling crosses my mind.

Should I?

Should I just go back to bed and sleep the panic away?

It would be so, so much easier to just do that.

No.

I want to finish out my remaining commitments. I want to see these shoots through and hold onto these memories before the thing I love becomes something too risky for me to do anymore.

I make it to the bottom of the stairs and let out a long breath. The kitchen is blissfully empty except for a housemaid cleaning the windows, and I walk over to the fridge to get my morning matcha. It’s sitting in the door, so I pluck it out, stir it with the glass straw, and take a sip.

Perfect.

Fresh pastries are once again in the basket on the kitchen island, and I forgo my usual choices for an apple turnover. A bit of sugar will do me good.

“Oh, miss!” One of the housemaids scurries into the kitchen with a stack of letters in her hand. “I have your post here.”

I pause. “My post?”

“Yes, miss.” She smiles and holds it out. I reach for the small stack of letters, but she lets go of them before I can grab them. The envelopes all scatter to the floor, earning her a disapproving look from the other maid cleaning the windows.

“Marina! Be careful!”

“Yes, I’m sorry!” The post girl—Marina—instantly drops to her knees to remedy her mistake, then cries out.

“Are you all right?” I ask, putting down both my pastry and drink to bend down in front of her.

“Just a papercut,” she says, smiling weakly as she brings her injured finger to her lips.

“For goodness’ sake, Marina!” the other maid says, throwing down her cloth. “What did I just say?”

“It’s fine,” I say to her, waving her off. “I can pick up my post.”

“Miss, I can’t let—”

“Please, you have things to do.” I smile at her, giving her a firm look that says, ‘drop it,’ and settle on my knees to gather the envelopes. When she returns to her duties, I turn my attention to the mess on the floor.

One is my phone bill, something from the bank, a couple of junk mails, and one nondescript envelope with my name and address on a printed label. My hand hovers over the last one, and Marina clears her throat. I meet her eyes, and she gives an almost imperceptible nod.

I pause.

Did she deliberately drop the post to make sure I saw this?

“I’m so sorry, miss,” Marina says, holding my gaze far more brazenly than a clumsy housemaid usually would. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

I hesitate for only a second. “Actually, my room isn’t scheduled to be cleaned today, but I spilt some juice on my bed this morning. I’d change the sheets myself, but I have to get to a shoot.”

“Of course!”

“Here, let me show you.” I help her to her feet. “Is your finger all right, or do you need a plaster?”