I arrive at Lady Catriona's private sitting room at eight fifty-five. The door is already open. A servant gestures me inside without speaking, then closes the door behind me with a soft click that sounds like a cell locking.
The room is all silk upholstery and polished wood. Catriona sits in a chair by the window, backlit by morning sun that turns her into a silhouette. Deliberately positioned. She wants me squinting, uncertain, at a disadvantage before we even begin.
"Mrs. Farren. Punctual, how refreshing." Her voice is cool, measured. "Sit."
I take the chair across from her, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. She doesn't speak immediately, just studies me with those cold eyes, letting the silence stretch until my skin prickles.
Finally: "I wanted to discuss Isla's progress. Or rather, the lack thereof."
The topic catches me off guard. I was braced for questions about my background, about Thomas Farren, about investigators.
Instead: "My lady, I believe Isla has made significant progress. Her reading comprehension has improved dramatically."
"Her handwriting has deteriorated." Catriona's interruption is surgical, precise. "Substantially. I compared her recent work to samples from three months ago. The difference is marked."
She sets a folder on the table between us, opens it to reveal pages of Isla's work. "Look at this. The letters are uneven, poorly formed. She's developed sloppy habits under your instruction."
"With respect, my lady, I prioritized comprehension over cosmetic presentation. Isla understands the material now."
"I didn't hire you to reinvent educational philosophy." Her voice sharpens. "I hired you to maintain standards. Standards which, apparently, you find negotiable."
My chest tightens. "That wasn't my intention."
"The lessons lack proper structure." She flips to another page. "This history assignment—you had her write a creative narrative from a historical figure's perspective. That's not education, Mrs. Farren. That's entertainment."
"It's a teaching method designed to help students retain…"
"It's inappropriate. Your curriculum choices are questionable at best. Geography lessons in the gardens instead of the schoolroom. Mathematics through cooking measurements. Reading material that borders on frivolous."
Each criticism lands like a blade. "Isla responds to practical application. Her test scores have improved."
"Her scores on tests you designed." Catriona leans back, expression unreadable. "Forgive me if I don't find that particularly convincing."
The injustice chokes me. I've worked harder with Isla than any student I've ever taught. And now this woman is dissecting my work with clinical cruelty.
"My lady, if you're dissatisfied with my methods, I can adjust."
"Can you?"
She tilts her head slightly.
"You see, Mrs. Farren, I've noticed something interesting about certain people. They never quite know their proper place, do they? Always reaching just slightly beyond their station, convinced they know better than those with actual authority and breeding."
My hands are trembling. I press them harder against my thighs. Is she talking about teaching methods? Or something else?
"I've also noticed," she continues, voice dropping into something softer and infinitely more dangerous, "that secrets have a way of surfacing when least expected. A small inconsistency here, a questionable detail there. Things people thought were safely buried suddenly... emerging."
My blood goes cold. What does she know?
"Women with unclear backgrounds should be especially careful about their conduct."
Her eyes pin me in place.
"Especially when they're guests in households far above their natural circumstances. One never knows when an employer might decide to look more closely at the credentials presented. To verify claims made during the interview process."
The threat is wrapped in silk, but it's a threat nonetheless. "My credentials are exactly as the Duchess Farren represented them. I have nothing to hide."
"How fortunate. Though I must say, Mrs. Farren, I find it curious that a woman of your... modest background seems so comfortable inserting herself into situations where she doesn't quite belong. The gardens with my son. Evening conversations in the library. Informal interactions that blur the lines of appropriate employer-servant boundaries."
She knows. Not everything, maybe, but enough. Enough to have noticed the moments Domnall and I thought were hidden.
"I apologize if I've given any impression of impropriety. My only concern has been Isla's education."
"Of course. I'm certain that's your primary focus. Just as I'm certain you understand that your position here is... precarious."
Catriona's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"One misstep—one questionable decision, one moment of forgetting your place, one revealed inconsistency in your carefully constructed narrative—and I won't hesitate to terminate your employment. Immediately. Without reference, without notice, without ceremony."
The dismissal is clear. I stand on shaking legs. "Is there anything else, my lady?"
"That will be all. For now." She turns back to the window. "You may go."
***
Sleep is impossible. Past midnight, I give up, pull a shawl around my shoulders and wander the corridors because lying still makes the panic worse.
The library door is cracked open, firelight spilling into the hallway. I should walk past, But my feet carry me forward anyway.
Domnall sits in a chair facing the fire, still fully dressed though it's well past two in the morning. He stares into the flames with an expression so hollow it makes my chest ache.
I should leave, should turn around before he notices. But something about the exhaustion in every line of his body keeps me frozen.
"Mairead." My name comes out rough, weighted with everything unsaid. He doesn't turn around. "I can feel you standing there."
"I didn't mean to intrude. I couldn't sleep." I grip the doorframe. "I should go."
"Don't." The word stops me. "Please."
The silence stretches. Finally he stands, turns to face me. The firelight catches shadows under his eyes, jaw tight with tension, something desperate in his expression that makes my throat close.
"We haven't spoken since the engagement announcement." His voice is careful, controlled. "Four days. You've been avoiding me."
"I've been giving you space. You have wedding preparations, obligations…"
"I have a question." He takes a step closer. "One question, and I need you to answer honestly."
My heart hammers. "Domnall..."
"That night in Carvenmoor seven years ago." Another step. His eyes search mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away but I can't. "Did it mean anything to you? Or was I just... convenient? A warm body and a kind word at the end of a long shift?"
The question cracks something open inside me. I could tell him the truth—that it meant everything, that I've carried him in my chest for seven years, that I've measured every man against a ghost and found them all wanting.
But truth is dangerous. Truth gives Catriona ammunition. Truth puts my children at risk.
I think of Tavish asking where his father is, of Lachlan demanding to know if he's a knight, of Fenella watching my face for lies…
I think of Catriona's voice: One misstep, and I won't hesitate to terminate your employment.
So I lie, because lying is the only way out for me.
"It was one night seven years ago." My voice sounds hollow. "I barely remember it, honestly. You were kind when you didn't have to be. I was grateful. That's all."
The silence that follows is devastating.
His face drains of color. His jaw works like he's trying to form words that won't come. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone flat, empty. "That's all."
"Yes. That's all." I force myself to hold his gaze. "We should maintain appropriate distance moving forward. You're engaged, I'm employed here as a tutor. Anything beyond that would be..." I can't finish the sentence.
"Inappropriate." He supplies the word, his tone bitter. "Of course. Professional boundaries. I understand."
"But I want you to know that I’m grateful—"
"No need." He turns back to the fire, shoulders rigid. "You're right. Thank you for the clarification. I won't make the mistake of presuming otherwise again."
I should say something, find words that might soften this. But there are no words that can do that without revealing everything, and revealing everything means losing everything.
So I leave. I walk out of the library and down the corridor and up the stairs to my room. I close the door carefully, quietly, like anything louder might shatter me completely.
Then I sink to the floor with my back against the door and break.