The scissors caught the light a half second before they caught her hair.

The service bells rang at precisely a quarter to seven.

In the basement quarters beneath the kitchen, Nadia sat on the edge of her narrow cot, her back straight, her hands resting flat against her thighs. Her room was small, partitioned off from the laundry corridor by a thin wooden wall that smelled perpetually of lye, damp stone, and scorched starch. On the small chest of drawers sat her only mirror—a silver-backed oval with a crack running through the bottom left corner.

She had spent twenty minutes standing before that glass with a pair of sewing shears, trying to trim the uneven disaster Clarissa had left behind. Her long, soft waves that used to reach the center of her back now ended abruptly just below her ears, jagged and blunt.

The bell marked Dining Room clattered on the overhead board—three sharp, impatient rings.

Clarissa’s signal.

The door to her room creaked open, and Rosa stepped inside, holding a folded white apron against her chest. The older woman’s eyes were rimmed with red, her face sallow in the yellow glare of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

"Nadia," Rosa whispered, her hands shaking slightly. "The bell. Mr. Hawthorne is at the head of the table. Mr. Vance is seated to his right. Miss Clarissa is demanding you serve the consommé."

Nadia did not move. "Mr. Vance told me to stay here."

Rosa let out a soft, frightened hiss, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. "Are you mad? Mr. Vance is a guest! A powerful one, yes, but Mr. Hawthorne signs the pay vouchers! If you disobey Miss Clarissa tonight, she will call the police! She already told the housekeeper that you stole an antique silver salt cellar from the pantry!"

Nadia felt a cold spark ignite in her chest. "She knows I didn't touch her silver."

"It doesn't matter what she knows!" Rosa’s voice broke, tears spilling down her weathered cheeks. "Truth doesn't live above the stairs, Nadia! You know that! It’s just us down here, and if you make her angry tonight, she will ruin you! She’ll tell the agency you’re a thief! Where will you go? Who will hire a girl with no reference and hacked hair?"

Nadia looked at the older woman. For seven years, Rosa had been kind in small, cowardly ways—slipping an extra roll into her apron pocket, leaving sweet tea on the back counter after a sixteen-hour gala. But when Clarissa had commanded her to hold Nadia’s arms, Rosa’s hands had not hesitated.

"I am not going up, Rosa," Nadia said quietly.

Before Rosa could argue, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, appeared in the doorway, her keys jingling at her waist like iron shackles.

"Nadia! Out of that bed this instant!" Mrs. Gable snapped, her face flushed with frantic rage. "Miss Clarissa is asking for you by name! What have you done to your hair? Good heavens, you look like a street urchin! Put on your lace cap and get upstairs before Mr. Hawthorne loses his temper!"

Nadia stood up slowly. She did not reach for the lace cap.

"I will not cover my head," Nadia said.

Mrs. Gable froze, her mouth slightly agape, staring at Nadia as if the girl had suddenly sprouted horns. "What did you say to me?"

"I said I will not cover my head," Nadia repeated, her voice perfectly even, ringing with an unearthly calm. "If Miss Clarissa wants me in the dining room, she will have me as she made me."

She stepped past the two women into the corridor, her spine rigid, her chin lifted high.

Upstairs, the dining room was warm and fragrant with the scents of roasted veal, buttered leeks, and heavy red wine. The long mahogany table gleamed under the glow of forty beeswax candles, reflecting the polished crystal and heavy sterling silver.

Theodore Hawthorne sat at the head—sixty years old, silver-haired, his stomach pressing comfortably against his embroidered waistcoat, the picture of old-money confidence built upon inherited wharves and silent municipal corruption. To his left sat Clarissa, dazzling in an emerald silk dress that accentuated her porcelain skin, laughing charmingly at a story her father had just concluded.

And opposite Clarissa, seated at Theodore’s right hand, was Lucas Vance.

He had removed his overcoat. He wore a crisp black suit, his cuffs secured with plain steel links. He had not touched his wine. In front of him, his silver spoon lay entirely undisturbed beside his empty bowl.

The double swinging doors from the pantry opened, and Nadia stepped into the room carrying the silver tureen.

Clarissa looked up, an amused, predatory smile curving her lips—a smile that vanished the instant she saw Nadia’s head.

Nadia was not wearing the maid's cap. Her shorn, uneven hair was completely exposed, falling in blunt, jagged chestnut locks around her pale face, making the dark bruise on her cheekbone stand out in sharp, undeniable relief against her skin.

Theodore paused mid-laugh, his fork hovering above his plate. He blinked, adjusting his spectacles. "Good God. Nadia? What in heaven's name happened to you? Have you been ill?"

Clarissa’s knuckles whitened against her napkin. "Father, please. Nadia had an unfortunate mishap with some tangled ribbons this afternoon. I told her to remain belowstairs until she was presentable, but she seems determined to disrupt our dinner."

"Is that what happened, Miss Hawthorne?"

The voice cut across the table like a straight razor across silk.

Lucas Vance had not raised his voice. He had not shifted in his chair. But the room’s temperature plummeted instantly.

Theodore turned to his guest, chuckling nervously. "Ah, Lucas, domestic matters. You know how the girls are. Always some drama in the pantry."

Lucas did not look at Theodore. His gray eyes were locked onto Clarissa’s face, cold and unblinking.

"I was not asking your father, Clarissa," Lucas said softly. "I was asking you. Did Nadia have a mishap with ribbons?"

Clarissa’s chin lifted, her socialite armor sliding back into place, though a faint, nervous flutter beat at the base of her throat. "Mr. Vance, I hardly think the grooming habits of the junior house staff are an appropriate topic for the dinner table. We were discussing the harbor lease agreements."

Lucas reached inside his jacket.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out the white linen handkerchief. He did not toss it; he placed it squarely in the center of the mahogany table, directly between the candelabras, and untied the corners with his scarred fingers.

The severed length of chestnut hair spilled across the polished wood, shining under the candlelight.

Theodore stared at the hair, his face turning pale. "Lucas... what is the meaning of this?"

"This was taken from the orchid house two hours ago," Lucas said, his gaze never leaving Clarissa’s widening eyes. "Severed with potting shears, while two servants held this woman's arms against her will."

Clarissa’s breath hitched. "Father, she's lying! She’s an insolent, thieving—"