Chapter Text
Andy knew she was going to hate living at Dunaway Castle before the carriage wheels ever rolled to a stop in the neatly-paved drive. The cold had set in about a day into the journey and only seeped further into her bones as she traveled north. Andrea Sachs, eldest daughter of the Baron Escritor, was built for sunshine and days on horseback through fields thick with sheep. The Dunaway duchy, the northernmost territory of the kingdom, was all towering old-growth forests under a heavy blanket of dull gray skies that could hardly be called overcast, which brought the chill of winter even in late September.
It did not help that her departure from Escritor was not exactly willing. She slumped into her seat in a posture she knew her father would bristle to see and bundled fox furs around her shoulders. Andy knew she was twenty years old - far older than many young women who went into the service of high-ranking ladies, that they might prepare for running a household and be well-suited to find husbands at court.
When her parents had not sent her into the service of some obnoxious countess or other when she turned sixteen, she rather foolishly thought that perhaps she would be free to pursue marriage on her own schedule and promptly turned her endeavors toward her swordsmanship, riding, and falconry. When she was gifted her own hawk at seventeen from her smiling father and ever-neutral mother, she assumed that the baron and baroness approved of her plans.
So, the last thing she expected was to be called into her father’s study the week after she turned twenty.
“My darling Andy,” the Baron smiled, but there was a thinness to his lips, and he was fidgeting with his quill. “How farest thou this day?”
“Well, my lord father,” she teased, dipping her head in a curtsy that was more mockery of the custom. She dusted her hands on the dark, coarse fabric of her riding habit and grinned at him. Rather than laugh, his shoulders tensed. “Have I cause to fret? You have a rather grim set of your mouth for happy news.”
“Sit,” he gestured at one of the upholstered chairs in the corner where he usually drank with visitors. “Thy mother will be here in but a moment.”
Unease wrapped around her stomach and tightened, and she narrowed her eyes but sat down. “Have I done something in need of correction?” she said warily.
“No, never, my dear,” her father said with a hefty sigh that did nothing to assuage his daughter’s concern. “It is, perhaps, only me what hath done anyone a disservice.”
When her mother entered, Andy nodded again. Their family was a small one, just the baron, baroness, Andy, and her younger brother, and they had never engaged in such formalities as the frivolous nobles at court. Nevertheless, her mother’s mouth tightened in just the same fashion as her father’s, and they exchanged a look Andy could not read. “Would my esteemed noble parents be so kind as to inform their hapless daughter what grim fate awaits her?”
“Thinkest thou only grim events await?” her mother said lightly, coming to rest her hand on the high back of the baron’s chair.
“I am no fool, my lady mother,” Andy retorted, folding her arms over her chest and giving them a fierce glare. “I can see a conspiracy when it is held in daylight. I would have ye explain before I am dead of needless anticipation.”
Her parents exchanged another look, and her father rolled his shoulders back and took on a stern bearing. “We have failed thee in thine education, Andrea,” he said. “It be no fault of thine, and the mantle of responsibility is mine alone - “
“I am as well-educated as any,” Andy interrupted, but the way both of her parents stiffened told her she’d made a mistake. She continued anyway. “I can ride better than any noble except perhaps the king himself, I can recite histories back to the days of the oral tradition, I know the - “
“Thou knowest less than thou shouldst,” her mother said, possessed of a sudden fierceness that Andy was not accustomed to hearing from the soft-spoken baroness. “Else thou wouldst not interrupt thy lord father.”
“Since when have we ever abided by such manners in this house?” Andy said, huffing an incredulous laugh that was not returned.
“Since thy marriage prospects were directly affected by it,” her mother said, fingers tightening on the back of the chair. “Thou art capable, Andrea, and thy father and I are proud beyond reason of thy physical accomplishments. But thou art twenty years of age yet, and have never been to court. Thou knowest not a woman’s place in the political landscape, nor how to wield it. Lady Artoire asked me just the other night if Escritor obscured its eldest daughter from sight because thou art damaged in some way.”
“Lady Artoire be not worth the air she breathed to hurl such slander,” Andy grumbled, but yet again it was the wrong thing to say. Her father seemed content to let her mother speak.
“Enough,” the baroness said. “It is clear to thy lord father that there are areas of thy schooling that were ever a woman’s domain, and we have both failed to prepare thee for lands of thine own. We intend to remedy this, and have been blessed with an opportunity none could turn away, lest they be thought mad.”
“Opportunity…?” Andy sat up in her chair, gripping the arms in case she needed to launch herself out of it and storm from the room.
Her mother nudged her father, and the baron cleared his throat. “The Duchess of Dunaway hath agreed to accept thee as a lady-in-waiting in her house.”
“I pray you, say again,” Andy said, eyes wide as the grip of unease around her stomach clenched into a vice and threatened to crush her whole. Her bones felt light, like she might float away. “Surely you are not referring to Miranda Priestly. Lady Miranda Priestly, Duchess of Dunaway and richer than the king himself. Dragon Lady of the North.”
“The very same,” her father said in a warning tone and Andy clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth ground audibly in her skull. “And thou wouldst do well ne’er to repeat such an epithet in her presence. She hath done this family a great kindness in her acceptance of this arrangement.”
“You cannot,” Andy said. Her voice climbed high in the register of a child, and she loathed that she felt like a little girl again. “We are a country barony. Think you I hear not what others say of us? Land rich, money poor. Hardly more than landed gentry. Noble of sheep if not of blood.” Her parents winced and grew colder with every phrase, but Andy would not be stopped. “What would such a duchess want with a daughter of Escritor? She would have me mocked in the square before taking me to court.”
“It is not for thee to speculate on her motives,” the baroness snapped, and Andy could not recall a time her mother’s brown eyes had sparked in such irritation. “It is only for thee to show gratitude, that thy future may be secured in far better fashion than this ‘country barony’ can provide.”
“And should I refuse?”
The answer to that question had been deceptively simple. Andy’s bags had been packed for her by highly apologetic maidservants. Her younger brother had thrown his finest fit on her behalf, and been restricted to only attending his mathematics lessons for the week. The two large footmen that arrived in black and silver Dunaway livery looked intimidating enough that Andy had entered the carriage voluntarily rather than be tossed in a flurry of deep blue skirts.
Her mother had promised to write. “Be careful, Andrea,” she said, trotting alongside the carriage as it started to move. “The duchess is providing a favor, yes, but she is dangerous. Keep thine eyes open, and thy mouth shut as often as possible.”
Andy did not grace that with a response. Her father could not bear to even be in the drive as the carriage stumbled down the packed dirt road and away from the only manor Andy had ever known.
Her parents had picked an odd time to adopt stern discipline, and it was Andy who faced the consequences. She slumped further in the seat until only her eyes peeked over the ledge of the small viewing window, russet fox fur warming cheeks already flushed by cold as Dunaway Castle came into view.
Nearly a week of travel, during which Andy had not seen the outside of the carriage except for morning and evening necessities. Apparently, her parents had good enough sense to realize she would flee into the forest and throw herself at the mercy of brigands before she would accept the so-called mercy of the House of Dunaway. More was the pity - Andy had always thought she might do well as a brigand or mercenary of some kind, wielding a sword better than she ever had a needle.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and a rush of cold air accompanied the opening of her door by one of those same hulking footmen. Immediately, she hated it. Immediately, she knew none of her clothing but the furs would keep her warm here.
She stepped out of the carriage and landed nimbly on the stone. She took a moment to be peevishly cross with the unnecessary luxury; who needed smooth stone for their entire driveway? That irritation caved, though, as she cast her gaze upward along the towering lines of the largest castle she’d ever seen. The wealth of a duchy was usually far greater than that of a county, which in turn was far greater than a barony, and most baronies were wealthier than Escritor. This duchy, in particular, was the richest in the kingdom. That was evident in the elaborate sculptures and windowsills and spires. It had to have had a hundred rooms at the very least, surrounded by high walls of gleaming white stone. Every door she could see was heavy oak with gilded handles and curling iron hinges.
Andy could not stop herself, her mouth hung open as she looked up, nearly cracking her neck just to see the point of the uppermost spire. “Saints above,” she breathed. “I am going to die here.”
—————
“Thinkest thou she will flourish?”
“Lord Escritor giveth not his daughter her due stubbornness. Sending a mule would be kinder to Dunaway house than my lady Andy.”
—————
The grand foyer of Dunaway Castle was not as gaudy as Andy had imagined when she allowed herself to think of it. Marbled floors and a great chandelier wrought of crystal rather than metal stunned her into silence, yes, but there was not gold glittering in piles on every surface or servants enough to populate a village.
In fact, there was a lone man in a sleek black doublet waiting for her at the base of a richly-carpeted staircase. He was an older gentleman with wire-wrapped spectacles perched low on his nose, a smooth bald head, and gloves so white they looked crafted from clouds. He watched her take in the surroundings with obvious amusement before his gaze flickered to the trunk Andy had insisted on dragging in herself. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth when he looked at the distraught maidservant trying to take the trunk by its other handle.
“Lady Andrea Sachs?” he asked. He flicked his wrist at the maidservant, who ducked her head and disappeared.
Andy had received enough visitors alongside her mother back in Escritor to know how noble guests were to be greeted. This man was likely a prominent male servant but certainly not the duke. And if she was to be pressed into service, then the duchess could at least do her the kindness of letting Andy see her jailer. She stopped herself from scowling and let the trunk hit the marble with a satisfying thud. “You identify truly, Master…?”
“Kipling, your ladyship. Nigel Kipling, head butler.”
“Master Kipling, then,” she said with a small curtsy, which he blinked at. “But I would have you call me Lady Andy. Ah… is the duchess or her lady’s maid about?”
Another flick of his wrist, and a young man in the black-and-silver livery she was beginning to see everywhere darted forward. He took her trunk before she could snatch it back, and the butler’s amused expression became a full smile. “No, I fear Lady Dunaway is unavoidably occupied in her study. However, I have been granted leave to escort you to the east wing, where your fellow ladies-in-waiting should prove most helpful in showing you to your new apartments.” He trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Andy’s sour expression. He folded his hands behind his back and performed a little half-bow. “If your ladyship would deign to allow it, of course.”
Andy flushed. The butler was perfectly polite, but he made her sound like a child throwing a tantrum just for expecting some hospitality from her new household. If her parents were so afraid of her lacking etiquette, they would surely be horrified to know that a lone male servant constituted her sole introduction to Dunaway house. “I will allow it,” she said in her most polite tone, the words thick in her mouth as she jutted her chin out and squared her shoulders. She could navigate this world, even if she didn’t understand it quite yet. She was still a Sachs.
“This way, and it please you,” Master Kipling said. Even when he turned to lead the way and all Andy could see was the smooth back of his head and the tails of his perfectly tailored coat, she could not escape the feeling he was amused with her.
Dunaway Castle seemed to have endless corridors to its name. Andy could think of no other purpose for the painted portraits adorning every spare inch of wall except to indicate the difference between identical tunnels of stone. Master Kipling, however, seemed to know exactly where he was going, and in short order had rapped upon an oak door at the far end of a long corridor. Andy could not hear the reply except to identify the voice as female, but the butler opened the door for her and stepped back.
“Good fortune to you, Lady Andy,” he murmured mildly as she passed him, and it was because she looked back in surprise that she tripped over the edge of the thick crimson rug and collided with someone.
A woman with truly startling red hair caught her by the shoulders. Blue eyes narrowed over a pinched expression that made her look rather like a ruffled bird as she pushed Andy back to her feet. “God’s teeth, thou hast a step like a beast of burden,” she hissed. Finely manicured hands brushed at her gown - a bodice of emerald green silk absolutely dripping with beaded pearls over equally emerald overskirts and a cream underskirt split by paneling. Andy felt plain in her blue traveling gown, loose and covered by a coarse cloak and furs.
“A thousand apologies,” Andy stammered out, dipping into another curtsy. This woman, as well as the taller woman in grey silks like swirling smoke behind her, were clearly important. Their unbound hair marked them as unmarried women, and not of an age to be the duchess herself, but Andy could recognize noble bearings well enough. “I am still growing accustomed to this castle.”
“Thou art the new lady-in-waiting,” the tall woman in grey said curiously, tilting her head like Andy was some intriguing oddity rather than a person. “Baron Escritor’s daughter?”
“Andrea Sachs,” she confirmed, shedding the fox fur. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, crackling away, and she refused to sweat in front of these women. “Truly, I prefer Lady Andy if you insist on formalities.”
“We do,” the grey woman said without a smile.
The redhead scoffed and tossed her head, glaring at Andy from the corner of her eyes. “Thou wouldst do well to grow accustomed to hearing thy proper name. Our lady Dunaway accepts nothing less.”
“Well, if you are so insistent upon manners, wherefore have you not introduced yourself?” Andy countered, cheeks growing hotter. It seemed everyone was aware that she was wrong-footed, but she would not be mocked.
“Lady Emily Charlton, daughter of Earl Ivest, senior lady-in-waiting to Her Grace, Lady Miranda Priestly, Duchess of Dunaway,” the redhead said, gesturing impatiently at herself. She waved a hand toward the grey lady. “Lady Serena Bündchen, daughter of Earl Schulz, junior lady-in-waiting to Her Grace, Lady - “
“Aye, I have the title properly engraved upon my mind,” Andy said, and both women looked displeased with her interruption. Only Emily huffed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances."
“Thou truly art without wit,” Emily said, looking her over from head to toe. “And saints preserve us, didst thou intend to greet my lady dressed thusly?”
“It is a perfectly acceptable traveling cloak.”
Serena snickered behind her hand, her eyes lowered. Andy was not sure her cheeks could turn any more red, but she kept her shoulders back. “I would change, but the maidservants disappeared with my trunk.”
“To our rooms, no doubt,” Emily said with a roll of her eyes. “Honestly, thou shouldst be glad of the Duke’s absence. My lady is in far better mood without him present, else she would likely banish thee back to whatever godforsaken burrow from which thou didst emerge.”
“I have not even met my lady Miranda,” Andy said. Emily and Serena looked at her with twin expressions of disgust. “What?”
“Thou shalt only refer to her as Lady Dunaway, until such time as thou hast earned her permission for such informality,” Serena said, sharp words tinged with warning.
“Even then,” Emily continued, “Shouldst thou ever receive such a kindness from our lady, such an expression would only be permissible in a private setting. Perhaps a burrow was too generous a description of the hovel thou must have dwelled in, not to know as such?”
It was Andy’s turn to huff. The nerves that had gathered in her stomach at the sight of Dunaway castle were curdling into sour anger. “My mother’s lady-in-waiting did always call her, ‘my lady Eva’.”
“Thy mother must have been most fond of her lady-in-waiting, to permit it,” Serena said quickly, when Emily took a deep, agitated breath of air. “Lady Dunaway is of a stricter, traditional mind. Truly, thou must only refer to her by her title. For thy wellbeing.”
“We, of course, are granted such favor from time to time,” Emily said, clasping her hands neatly in front of her skirts and glancing at Serena with a smug smile. The smile faded as she glared at Andy’s cloak. “Honestly. Lady Serena speaketh of thy preserved life. Allow me to speak of thy preserved reputation, or at least what little remains to the Escritor barony: change clothing.”
“I have nothing, my trunk - “
“Enough lace, and a modesty panel, and she should suit well enough in my old dress for an introduction,” Serena suggested as if Andy weren’t present.
Emily nodded. “Lady Dunaway would be displeased to know we dallied even this long. Fetch it.”
“Now wait - !”
They did not. Andy was bustled out of her furs and cloak and stuffed into a pale cream gown with garnet underskirts, stammering all the way. The only thing she could say for the thing was that it was well-suited to the Dunaway climate. Lining on the interior kept a sleek and fashionable silhouette of silks and jewels, but she felt as warm as if she were standing in the sun on the overlook outside Escritor House.
“How does that feel?” asked the maidservant responsible for lacing Andy’s bodice.
“Fine, but for the lack of air,” she groused.
Serena looked pleased, full lips thinning to suppress a smile. “But of course. Thou art wearing a garment with my measurements. I am certain the duchess shall order a gown fit to thee, shouldst thou make a fine impression. Thou wilt need one before court.”
“Mm,” Andy said faintly, hands resting on her waist to keep her balance. She kept her ribcage expanded in the hopes she’d be able to breathe once tied into her dress, but the maidservant was ruthless.
Emily looked amused, but both of Dunaway’s ladies-in-waiting looked over the third and nodded when the maidservant left the room. “It will do,” Emily said, catching her own chin thoughtfully between her thumb and forefinger.
“Nothing to be done about the boots,” Serena said, and Andy flushed. She had been expecting a formal greeting in the foyer, to be shown to her rooms, and dismissed shortly after to change. Then, perhaps, a meeting before dinner to outline the duchess’s expectations. She certainly had not expected to be stuffed into an ill-fitted gown like a reconstructed pheasant by two women who seemed to think Andy belonged with the houndskeeper instead of in the main house. What did it matter if her boots were designed for travel? She had been traveling.
“One stiff breeze, and I shall collapse,” Andy complained. The tight bodice had made a shelf of her cleavage and she shoved at it in vain while Serena laughed behind her hand again.
“‘Tis only for this evening, thou shalt not perish,” Emily said briskly. Some of the condescension had faded now that she seemed determined to present Andy to Lady Dunaway for inspection the way a stablehand presented a groomed horse to its rider. Emily’s lip still curled when Andy finished arranging herself, and she presented Andy with a pearl necklace and a set of matching earrings. “Put these on. We shall proceed to the study. Should the duchess, for some reason, find thy presence acceptable enough for permanent residence, Serena or myself shall show you to the ladies’ chambers.”
“What, now?” Andy protested, combing her fingers through her hair quickly. “I am not ready - “
“Nor shalt thou ever be,” Emily said, snagging her by the wrist. “Thus, no time is more acceptable than the present.”
As she was dragged from the room, Andy got the distinct feeling she knew how it must feel to stumble on two feet toward one’s own execution.
—————
“Is it true she bid you call her ‘Lady Andy’, Master Kipling?”
“Thy hearing is rivalled only by thy wagging tongue, Tiffany. Allow Lady Andrea a moment’s reprieve to acclimatize herself to the house before thou dost begin thy campaign of misinformation.”
—————
Emily and Serena had stuffed Andy’s head with so much information on the walk toward the east wing that she was no longer certain which way was east at all. Miranda Priestly was a particular woman, and Andy’s etiquette had to be above reproach. She should not speak unless directed to, except to say, “yes, my lady”, or “no, my lady”. She should not look directly in her eyes. She should not mention the duke. She should express extreme gratitude for the honor of being in her presence.
“Shall I also promise her the holy grail, if only she should tolerate me?” Andy mumbled, but Emily’s resulting glare was so fierce she did not try for humor again.
“Wait here,” Emily told both her and Serena as they arrived at yet another oak door that was indistinguishable from the rest to Andy’s eye. The redhead knocked exactly three times, and a cool feminine voice bid her enter. She slipped inside so quickly that Andy could not make out any of the room’s interior before the door was once again shut in her face.
“Is it always like this?” she whispered to Serena.
The taller blonde looked down at her, and her eyes actually softened without Emily present. “It must be quite a change,” she acknowledged. “But you seem possessed of enough will to learn.”
Andy barely had time to process that Serena had spoken politely to her before Emily poked her head out the door. “Come in,” she hissed. “And by all the saints, do not humiliate thyself.”
Studies were highly personalized rooms, Andy knew. Her father’s had been all cherry wood, ivy plants crawling in between bookcases with piles of parchment everywhere. A warm fire was always crackling, to make up for the way the room seemed to curl around whoever entered. Her mother’s was all lamps and chairs placed by windows, next to tea cups and books stacked high enough to create leaning towers wherever her mother placed them.
The first thing she noticed about Miranda Priestly’s study was that there was far more light than she was expecting. The entire back wall was made of panes of glass that jutted outward from the stone, paneled with dark wood joinings. The north forest stretched endlessly into a bleak, dark landscape beyond the glass. Every wall was a perfectly-arranged bookcase, with enough tomes that the study was a more comprehensive collection of written knowledge than most actual libraries. Not a single book was bound improperly, nor out of place. The stone fireplace on the far side was massive, perfectly white, and three chairs upholstered in Dunaway black-and-silver surrounded it in a semi-circle. One chair was larger, with a plush ottoman next to it. Just in front of the glass wall was a large mahogany desk, ornately carved with the form of a dragon at rest as the main decorative inset, facing Andy.
Of course, all of that was less important at the moment than the woman occupying the high-backed chair at the desk.
Miranda Priestly, Duchess of Dunaway, was striking in the untouchable way of carved marble sculptures. She had completely white hair that did not seem to suit her age. It was swept back off her severe features by a deceptively simple hood that certainly cost more than Andy’s best hawk. She wore a gown constructed of black velvet with gold underskirts and sleeves, and every fastening was made of gold and garnet. Even her spectacles, half-moon shaped and low on the edge of a long, striking nose, were framed entirely in gold. She was looking at Andy over the rim of those frames with eyes so pale they looked like chips of ice and Andy was momentarily thrown by the way Lady Dunaway seemed to see straight through her.
Andy was completely still as the duchess’s gaze dipped from her face to the too-tight bodice, to the boots peeking out from under her skirts. Lady Dunaway looked from the poor fit to Serena with a raised eyebrow, and the lady-in-waiting swallowed and nodded once. The duchess pursed her lips and made a dismissive gesture, waggling the manicured fingers of one hand. Rings adorned all five fingers and caught the light, and Andy tracked the motion before remembering she was supposed to pay reverence.
She dipped into a curtsy of the exact depth Emily had instructed. “Lady Dunaway, I am Andrea Sachs, daughter of - “
“I am well aware,” the duchess said. She spoke softly, sounding bored, but when Andy looked up, she found herself looking into sharp, disdainful eyes.
Miranda Priestly said nothing else, picking up a quill that had to be the feather of some kind of eagle. Andy looked helplessly at Serena, who frowned, and Emily, who also looked at a loss for words. “My lady, my father sends his gratitude for your hospitality - “
“Baron Escritor did no such thing, I am certain.” Another long silence. Emily and Serena were absolutely no help, and her calves were starting to scream their protestations at the deep curtsy, so she rose. The duchess’s eyes snapped from her writing to Andy quickly enough that she flinched.
“I simply wished to pay my respects to the lady of the house that hath welcomed me so graciously,” Andy gritted, though she could think of many things she’d rather do than pay respects to Lady Dunaway. She longed for her horse and an empty game trail.
The duchess stared at her, eyes narrowed. Andy could hear Emily hold her breath and realized she had failed yet another test - not meeting those icy eyes. Her fists clenched at her sides but she did not lower her gaze. Lady Dunaway set down her quill and leaned forward, interlacing her fingers under her chin. “You are literate, I trust?”
“I am, my lady,” Andy bristled, but one did not snap at a dragon for rudeness if one wanted to avoid being burnt to a crisp. “Latin, Greek, French, Italian. English, of course.”
“Of course,” she agreed in that soft tone that made Andy feel like she was standing under the sword of Damocles, waiting for the cord to fray. “Your other skills?”
“Swordsmanship, falconry, horseback riding,” Andy said. She could not help it; pride seeped into her voice. The duchess raised an eyebrow, and Andy realized she was meant to continue. “Er… I am passable at needlepoint, spinning and mathematics. I can play the lute.”
“A start,” Lady Dunaway tilted her head. “But of little use to me at this time. You shall transcribe my correspondence for me and attend me at dinners for now, until you are more proficient.”
“In what - ?”
“Lady Emily.”
“Yes, my lady,” Emily said instantly, cutting off Andy’s question. The duchess’s gaze lingered at Serena’s gown on Andy’s shoulders for a moment more before flicking to her senior lady-in-waiting.
“Show Lady Andréa her room. See the tailor and inform him I have authorized three household gowns in her measurements, and no more. Ensure you are all presentable for dinner this evening. I am entrusting her etiquette to you and Lady Serena.”
“Yes, my lady,” Emily said with her head bowed. Andy stared. She knew already that the redhead hated her; she could not imagine Emily was pleased with the instruction, but the lady-in-waiting was the picture of polite deference.
“That will be all.”
Before Andy could say another word, Serena and Emily had each looped an arm through one of hers, pulling all three of them into a deep curtsy before bustling her out of the room.
Once outside in the hallway, Andy yanked her arms back and adjusted her bodice once more. “Is the Lady Dunaway always so cold? God, but I thought she would bite the head from my shoulders.”
Emily and Serena exchanged displeased looks, and Serena pursed her lips. “Thou shouldst count thyself fortunate in the extreme, Lady Andrea,” Emily hissed, pulling her by the wrist down the hallway and away from Lady Dunaway’s door. “I have never seen the duchess so tolerant of such impudence.”
“Tolerant!”
“Yes, tolerant, and that thou knowest this not means she hath charged us with a Herculean task,” Emily said. She stormed down the hallway, and Andy stumbled over the long skirts in her attempt to follow. “Etiquette, thou? She only desireth to see us suffer.”
“Clearly,” Andy bit back. “You are quite rude; I cannot imagine you have anything to teach me.”
Emily whipped her head around to glare at Andy, and Serena covered her mouth with her hand again. Andy glared back, undeterred.
“Let us show thee to our rooms,” Serena suggested with a smile. “Lest we give the household enough bickering to feed their rumor-mongering for the next fortnight.”
Andy and Emily huffed in unison, but let Serena guide them both past a pair of maids wearing completely neutral expressions as they dusted the same portrait for a second time.
—————
“Didst thou see her at dinner?”
“I see Lady Dunaway at every dinner.”
“Nitwit! The Sachs daughter. Mary said she did ask to be excused before Lady Dunaway was done eating. Imagine!”
—————
The next few weeks passed in a blur, and Andy could hardly keep track of the days. She was up before the sun every morning - Emily made sure of it. They had adjacent apartments that formed a semi-circle around the duchess’s living quarters and could hardly be called rooms. There were five antechambers to the duchess’s chambers, each with a bed, chest-of-drawers, and writing desk, and three doors: two that led to the next lady-in-waiting’s room, and one that led to the corridor. Apparently the duchess was meant to have at least five ladies attending her, but Lady Dunaway’s ladies either found themselves married off quickly or leaving her service after being found wanting.
Emily had preened like a peacock upon informing Andy that her room possessed the sole adjoining door to Lady Dunaway’s chambers, that Emily might attend her whenever required. Andy did not find this particularly enviable and was grateful that the quieter Serena’s room was between her and Emily Charlton.
Still, Emily was at her door every morning at four-and-thirty, insisting they all dress for the day and be in perfect order before she went to dress Lady Dunaway. Andy asked why the duchess didn’t have a maidservant do such a thing, to which Emily had scoffed but uncharacteristically said nothing.
The day would then follow the same pattern. Breakfast. Lady Dunaway’s correspondence, which Andy was charged with painstakingly scribing. The duchess made this even more difficult because she would not repeat herself, and Andy’s hands were cramped and ink-stained by the end of this hour.
“Sorry, but could you repeat that, my lady?” she asked once when her rush to scribble down a name resulted in an indecipherable inkblot.
The duchess simply raised one elegant eyebrow. “Which is the fault, your memory or your hearing?”
“Neither,” Andy protested as her knuckles whitened on the quill.
“Then I see no need to revisit mine own words,” she said idly, examining her signet ring. “Continue.”
This unique torture was always followed by two hours of whatever activity caught Miranda Priestly’s attention, most usually archery or horseback riding through the great forest behind the castle. Andy liked this time best, as no one was expected to speak, and the black gelding she’d been provided never snapped her as people did. She was neutral on archery, as it was never a sport she cared for, but she did admire the outfits they were provided for these events. Lady Dunaway always wore elaborate black-and-silver archery gowns, but Serena seemed to have a different color for every day of the week, and was content to leave Andy the deep blue one that she claimed suited Andy’s complexion.
They passed the training yard often, but never stopped to spar with blades, and Andy had good enough sense not to beg for a bout with Emily. Still, she looked longingly every time they passed the gravel square and straw-stuffed training dummies.
After their morning sport, Lady Dunaway would retreat into her study for an hour before lunch, where she would take tea but was otherwise not to be bothered under any circumstances. Emily took this as time to drill Andy in so-called etiquette. They reviewed forms of address and family trees of noble lineages that Andy did not care for and often forgot the moment the information was not on a page in front of her. Emily put math problems in front of her, accountings of Dunaway taxes and imports, inventories of the kitchens. Andy vastly preferred when Emily would throw her hands up in frustration and turn her over to Master Kipling.
Nigel Kipling was far savvier than Andy was accustomed to in waitstaff. He brought her to meet countless people, maids and footmen and stable boys and the quartermaster and the groundskeeper. She asked him why, one day, and he smiled at her.
“Lady Andy, it never hurts to know well the people who make your bed and serve your food,” he said as he brought them through the kitchens. He snagged a ripe apple off the top of a pile waiting to be cored and offered it to her. “In fact, one might argue it pays dividends to care for those charged with care of you.”
Andy took to purposely annoying Emily in order to spend time with Master Kipling, who eventually told her she could call him Nigel, since informality was ‘ever her vice’.
After lunch, more work as a glorified scribe. Andy did not recognize all the names that fell from the duchess’s lips, but she quickly learned the difference between someone Lady Dunaway wished to keep a good relationship with, and someone that irritated her beyond measure. Letters to the latter were beautifully floral but said nothing at all. Letters to the former often made reference to past events that Andy didn’t understand and Miranda Priestly would not explain. They also sounded more like threats than pleasantries. Andy did not think she knew of a single person who exchanged more correspondence than the duchess. Emily and Serena were always nearby during this time, but they had the luxury of working on needlepoint and smirking at Andy’s struggles.
One afternoon, the duchess leaned back in her chair and gazed at the fireplace. “Lady Forsythe sent a dozen of her finest cuts of venison with her last missive,” she said slowly. Andy had learned that, when she spoke this way, she was almost always testing her ladies-in-waiting. She wracked her brain to identify the name and came up with Lady Millicent Radcliffe, Countess of Forsythe. A county within the duchy of Dunaway that provided most of the wild game for the Duke’s hunts. “Lady Emily, I find myself wondering what would prove suitable recompense for such a gift.”
The redhead set down her needlework with a frown far too serious to Andy’s mind. “The pears in the orchard are ripe enough for jam,” Emily said, eyeing Lady Dunaway warily. “A few cases might suit the countess’s fondness for pastries.”
Andy rolled her eyes and focused on cleaning up the writing desk, capping the inkwell and stowing her quill.
“Perhaps. Lady Serena, what think you?”
Serena balked, more uncertain than Emily. “Her eldest son is of an age for schooling,” the blonde suggested. “A writing desk from a Dunaway carpenter might prove useful.”
Lady Dunaway pursed her lips, and Serena stammered and sputtered so anxiously that Andy couldn’t help but let out a disbelieving huff, shaking her head at her own desk. The silence that followed was complete, and when Andy looked up, all three women were staring at her.
“Something amusing, Lady Andréa?” the duchess asked, voice soft and velvety. Andy felt her throat go dry.
“No, my lady,” she whispered, staring down at her hands rather than meet Emily and Serena’s terrified looks. “I only… well, it all seems rather silly. Why not simply send Lady Forsythe coin for her venison?”
“Ah, I see,” Lady Dunaway purred, leaning so her chin rested atop her knuckles and staring at Andy over the rim of her spectacles. “You truly think yourself above this.”
“What?” Andy sputtered. “No, I - “
“You think the realm of negotiations ‘silly’,” the duchess continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You have not paid a whit of attention to my correspondences, it would seem, or you would realize the flaw in your reasoning. Why not send Lady Forsythe coin, indeed? Shall I imply to her that her house is incapable of providing for itself, that she needeth coin from her duchess? Lady Serena suggested a writing desk, a noble enough idea because, as you are no doubt unaware, Dunaway’s chief export is lumber. We are known for the quality of our carpentry, and it would be a fine enough exchange for Forsythe’s chief export of smoked meats. However, venison is consumable, whereas carpentry is not. Lady Emily’s suggestion, then, holdeth more merit, as mine orchards are renowned for the sweetness of their pears, and she did rightly pinpoint Millicent’s insatiable desire for pastries, which makes this gift suitable to delight the countess. She will surely remember such a gesture at such a time when I have need of Forsythe lands or influence. She would surely loathe any gift so transactional as coin.”
Andy swallowed hard, tears of frustration blurring her vision. “I did not think - “
“No, you did not,” the duchess agreed, eyes cold and unamused. “A baffling turn of events, as it was just such an exchange that brought you into the very household you find so loathsome.”
“I beg my lady’s pardon?”
“What is the chief export of Escritor?”
“Wool,” Andy mumbled. The duchess frowned, so Andy repeated herself more clearly. “Our sheep provide fine wool.”
“Remarkable observation. Who, then, would be your lord father’s largest buyer?”
Andy searched her mind for an answer, only landing on it when Emily stared at her like she was the most dimwitted woman in the kingdom. “The northern lands,” she said quietly. “Dunaway.”
“Just so.” Miranda’s eyes took on a predatory gleam, like a wolf watching a wounded deer separate from its herd. “And while I have no doubt a barony as destitute as Escritor would benefit from any coin Dunaway provided in exchange for such goods, it was not gold that Anthony and Eva Sachs asked for when an excess of Escritor wool prevented many of my people from perishing in last winter’s freeze.”
“My father… asked you to take me in,” Andy said in a small voice.
“Your lady mother, actually, in a correspondence much like the one I now carry with Lady Forsythe,” the duchess said with a humorless smile. “So, you see, it is a terrible farce that you, specifically, should deride the role of women in political machinations, when you owe your future prospects entirely to letters exchanged between noblewomen in power, who sit and debate in studies just like this one, all over the kingdom. Ones who understand the value of barter and would never dare recommend the exchange of something so simple and insulting as… coin.”
When Andy blinked, tears rolled hot and burning down her cheeks, and her fingers curled in the crimson skirts of the gown that had been fitted to her just the previous week. Her throat bobbed painfully. “Apologies, my lady,” she said, wishing she could sink through her chair, through the floor, and straight into an early grave. Emily and Serena would not even look at her.
The duchess did not acknowledge the apology, only went back to discussing Forsythe’s gift with Emily and Serena. Andy could not bear to be in the room any longer. She knew it was rude and beyond her station, but she stood abruptly and fled, Dunaway skirts swirling around her ankles.
“Lady Andréa?” the duchess called. Andy paused at the door, her fingers splayed along the frame. “Ensure you are not late for dinner.”
Andy took far too much satisfaction in the slamming of the study’s heavy oak door behind her.
—————
“The duchess is in a rare mood this afternoon.”
“Tiffany did say that Lady Andrea hath been in tears in the training yard for the last hour. Lady Dunaway doth always enjoy terrorizing her ladies.”
—————
The wooden sword in her hand was a hand-and-a-half, bulky and no substitute for a fine steel court sword. However, Andy was not feeling particularly picky at the moment. What had started as a simple practice of basic forms to calm her nerves in the late afternoon sun had quickly devolved into merciless destruction of the straw dummy. It began with a smiling face drawn in charcoal across lumpy canvas, but Andy’s wooden blade had thwacked it into something that would have been unrecognizable even if her vision was clear at the moment.
“God, will anyone have mercy upon his soul?” a lilting male voice called from a respectable distance to her left.
“I am not in the mood, Master Kipling,” she said thickly, letting her blade fall to her side.
“Clearly, else my Lady Andy’s foe would be faring far better,” he said, closer this time. When she looked up, the butler’s hands were raised cautiously, as if Andy were some kind of venomous snake ready to bite. Perhaps she was. “Would you speak of it?”
Andy’s lip trembled as she tried to keep her spine straight. “I simply cannot please her, Nigel.”
“The duchess?”
“The same,” Andy nodded. “Is she not meant to teach me? Am I not here to learn? Nothing I do is worthy of her notice, unless it is a mistake, in which case she is merciless! I could not harm someone so thoroughly even were this a blade of steel!” She gestured with her sword, and Nigel grimaced.
“Couldst thou not?” he murmured. “Forgive my familiarity, I am emboldened by thine own. May I speak freely?”
Andy nodded once, stunned.
“Thou art a bright young woman, but undeniably five years too late to this position,” Nigel said, holding up his hands again. “I yield, Lady Andy, before thou turnest that blade upon me. What should the Lady Dunaway do? Coddle thee, as thy parents did? A thousand unmarried noblewomen would do hideous things to hold the position thou didst stumble into. Service to the Lady Dunaway is either a guaranteed marriage or a sentence to obscurity, and many are counting on the former.”
“Bold, for a butler,” Andy sniffed.
“Truth enough to be useful to a friend,” he corrected. He held his palm out gently for the wooden practice sword, and Andy reluctantly placed it in his hands. “Thou hast learned much. But thou art disdainful of that which thou dost not understand. Didst thou truly expect the Lady Dunaway to congratulate thee for remembering a name or two and managing not to stumble over thy skirts for a full seven days?”
“No,” she said miserably, swiping at her eyes with the fine silk of her gifted sleeves.
“No,” he repeated with a sigh. “Lady Andy, thou hast a choice. Thou mayest grow accustomed to this world and flourish, or leave it. And, in so doing, doom thy father and mother in the same breadth.”
“I would prefer to flourish,” she muttered.
Nigel’s answering smile was sympathetic but amused. “As would I. Come.”
“Where are we going?” she frowned, trotting to keep pace with him as he crossed the yard.
“It payeth well to know the staff, remember,” he smiled. “I rather think a real blade would suit thee better than this child’s toy.”
All thoughts of Lady Dunaway’s disdainful blue eyes fled Andy’s mind, and her grin nearly split her face. Nigel led her to a small office just off the training yard, where a gruff man in his late forties was muttering over a rudimentary abacus.
“Agforth, mine ever faithful Achilles,” Nigel smiled, rapping the doorframe with his knuckles.
“Nigel, my ever devoted Patroclus,” the seneschal said, rolling his eyes. The butler held a hand to his chest and mimicked the beating of a heart with his palm.
“Ah, a soldier and a man of learning, I confess myself utterly charmed.”
“That maketh one of us. What bringest thou to mine office?”
Nigel gestured to Andy. Upon seeing her, the seneschal’s face took on even more of a scowl as he bowed. “Her ladyship requireth a court sword for truly efficient practice.”
“The Sachs girl?” Agforth muttered, looking back to Nigel. “Art thou mad?”
“The Lady Andrea,” Nigel said with a pointed grin, “is due the same respect as any other lady in our esteemed duchess’s service. I was thinking perhaps the wire-wrapped hilt, with the ivy crossguard?”
The seneschal stared at Nigel with a truly incredulous look that Andy could not parse. “On thy head be it, Nigel Kipling, markest thou - “
“Of course,” the butler interrupted with his best charming smile. Andy frowned when Nigel’s eyes flicked almost anxiously to her for only a moment. Agforth disappeared behind another door, and Andy didn’t have time to interrogate the odd exchange before he was back with the most beautiful sword Andy had ever seen.
It was gleaming, perfectly edged steel without a single nick or rust spot, obviously sharp and well-maintained. The wire-wrapped hilt was colored a deep crimson, and the ivy crossguard was intricately carved to represent the curling plant, easing into Andy’s hand like it belonged there. “How lovely,” she said with reverence, admiring the way it caught the light when she twisted her wrist. The balance was perfect, as if designed for a woman of just her build.
“Yes, beautiful,” the seneschal groused, but he seemed to relax when Andy handled the sword with expertise and did not seem likely to inadvertently remove anyone’s eye.
“Agforth, thou art a gem among men,” Nigel grinned. He made a shooing motion at Andy. “Go, my lady. Wreak havoc upon all hapless dummies what stand in thy way.”
Andy was too delighted to think of retort, and so she left the butler to his flirtations. Everything felt more manageable with a blade in her hand, and she returned to the yard to begin her forms anew.
She slid from position to position, then practiced movements in a series of quick cuts and thrusts, parries and ripostes. Once she had the feel of the magnificent sword, she turned on the nearest serviceable dummy, and in short order it was ripped to shreds.
She did not know how much time had passed before a gentle clearing of a throat interrupted her moving meditation. She whirled, and standing at the edge of the gravel yard was Miranda Priestly. Andy dipped into an immediate curtsy.
“If only you displayed such proficiency in politics as you do with a blade,” the duchess remarked in lieu of greeting, her blue eyes unreadable. Andy looked up uncertainly and the duchess made an impatient gesture for her to rise. Andy’s fingers curled protectively around the hilt of the sword and Lady Dunaway’s gaze flicked to the motion. “A fine blade,” she said mildly. “Where did you procure such a thing?”
“It was lent me by the seneschal, my lady,” Andy said quickly. “I can return it.”
“Mm,” the duchess said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Do not bother. It suits you.”
Andy blinked. Had Lady Dunaway actually complimented her? “I - thank you, my lady.”
“Think nothing of it,” the duchess said, turning to return to the castle proper. She paused, looking over her shoulder to evaluate her newest lady-in-waiting. Andy stiffened, feeling the weight of that gaze like a physical presence. She thought Lady Dunaway’s gaze darkened for a moment, but all the duchess said was, “Do not be late for dinner.”
Andy watched her retreat, still clutching the court sword to her chest. It was unlike the duchess to repeat herself. She supposed it was critical, for some unknown reason, that she be ready for the evening meal. That, or else the duchess was outlining some other impossible test for Andy to fail.
She took a deep breath and turned back toward the training yard. She did not think she was ever going to understand the goings on of Dunaway Castle.