Chapter Text
The morning light struggled through the tall windows of the Governess's study, thin and gray like everything else in this house. Boq straightened the stack of correspondence on the writing desk—each envelope perfectly aligned, wax seals facing up. Nessarose's way.
He'd been at this since dawn. Drafting responses to dignitaries who wanted the Governess's favor, copying her careful script, signing her name. His fingernails were permanently stained with ink now. Five years of transcribing someone else's thoughts would do that.
Five years. Has it really been that long? Sometimes it felt like yesterday that he'd followed Nessarose home from Shiz, abandoning his studies to serve at her side. He'd convinced himself then that devotion might bloom into love, given time. Now that hope sat in his chest like a stone.
Boq smoothed his gray jacket, checking for wrinkles that weren't there. Even his clothes followed Nessarose's rules—nothing bright, nothing memorable. Nothing that might steal attention from her.
The clock chimed quarter past nine. Miss Glinda would arrive for tea at two. Even thinking her name made something twist beneath his ribs. Glinda, who'd once been everything to him, now barely remembered he existed.
Funny how people could reshape your entire life with half-forgotten promises and never notice the wreckage they left behind.
He pocketed the sealed letters and headed for the servants' corridor to fetch Nessarose's silver ink pot. Everything had to gleam for their important guest.
The hallway stretched before him—polished floors no guest would ever see, walls scrubbed spotless but bare as bones. Even the light seemed thinner here, like it knew this space wasn't meant for looking at.
Boq had learned to move silently through these halls. In Nessarose's house, servants were ghosts—present when needed, invisible otherwise. He knew which corridors to avoid when she was angry, which rooms she never entered, which servants earned her sharpest scrutiny.
Soft sounds from the alcove near the linen closet made him slow. Rustling. The quiet crunch of someone eating. A whispered word.
The newest maid huddled in the shadows—Nimmie Amee, though everyone called her Nim. She'd arrived two summers ago after fever took her parents, left with nothing but desperation Nessarose had been quick to exploit.
Boq had noticed her before. The way she kept her head down, moved like she was trying not to take up space. How her eyes darted when the Governess entered a room. Sometimes she hummed when she thought no one could hear—a habit that would earn harsh words if discovered.
He hadn't meant to watch, but something about how she ate her meager breakfast held him. A stale roll, thin cheese, bruised apple. There was dignity in it somehow, stubborn pleasure found in stolen scraps. And beside her sat a small brown mouse, delicately nibbling a breadcrumb.
When had he last seen simple kindness in this house? When had anyone cared for something without calculating the advantage?
He must have made a sound because Nim's head snapped up, eyes wide. The mouse vanished into her pocket.
The call bell rang sharp and demanding. Nessarose was awake.
Motion blurred around the corner—Nim at full speed, panic written across her face. She slammed into him, not hard but unexpected enough to send him back a step.
Her cap had gone askew, dark hair escaping. Their eyes met and her cheeks flushed scarlet.
"I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching—"
"Are you alright?" The words tumbled out awkward and concerned. He wasn't used to this—talking to someone without the careful script of servitude. His hands fluttered uncertainly. "I should've looked too. These halls do pinch in a bit, don't they?"
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he fussed with his collar.
"Y-yes," she whispered, tucking the escaped hair under her cap, smoothing her apron.
Something shifted in her pocket. The mouse. Keeping a pet in Nessarose's house was brave and foolish in equal measure. The Governess controlled everything—mess, imperfection, independence were personal insults to her perfect order.
"The Governess has been ringing," he said, focusing on her completely. "She wants her chambers prepared." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Miss Glinda's coming for tea. Everything has to be just so for our perfectly important guest."
Something bitter crept into his tone before he could stop it. He twisted his fingers together, a nervous habit.
Nim's expression shifted at Glinda's name—that careful neutrality he knew well.
"Fresh flowers in the east parlor, best silver out." He spoke faster now, the familiar rhythm of tasks pulling him along. "Everything perfect for Miss Glinda. As always."
The words came before he could stop them: "Some of us run ourselves ragged for people who wouldn't notice if we rusted straight through."
Too honest. Dangerous honesty in this house where truth was a luxury servants couldn't afford.
The bell rang again—sharper, impatient. Third ring.
"I should go," Nim said, starting past him.
Something tumbled from her pocket—the half-eaten apple, rolling to stop between them.
Boq looked at the apple. At Nim. At the telltale bulge in her pocket.
"What's that you've got there?" Not suspicious, just curious. He felt an odd urge to protect this girl's small rebellion.
The bell rang again. Four times. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
"I... I..."
Without speaking, Boq bent and picked up the apple like it was something precious, not contraband. He pulled out his handkerchief—old but clean, embroidered with tiny blue birds his mother had stitched long ago—and polished the apple carefully before offering it back.
"There. Can't have anyone fainting in the halls."
Nim stared, stunned, taking the apple with trembling fingers.
He glanced toward the Governess's chambers, then back with conspiratorial lean. "Might want to tuck that someplace safer. And maybe keep your friend out of sight too?"
"You... saw?"
"Not much escapes notice when you polish the furniture." He'd been watching her for weeks—not improperly, but with recognition. He saw how she fed the kitchen cat when no one looked, how she touched ordinary objects with reverent fingers like they reminded her of something precious. How she talked to herself, carrying on whole conversations with someone who wasn't there.
He knew what it meant to be alone here, carving tiny pieces of freedom in a world demanding complete surrender.
The mouse poked its head out, whiskers twitching at the apple. Bright eyes darted between them.
"Oh—he's real."
Nim nodded, mortified.
Boq crouched for a better look, voice gentle. "That's a mouse?"
"His name's Boots. I've had him a while."
"He's got excellent taste in breakfast." Then quietly: "You'd better hurry. Fifth ring, she starts yelling."
Nim turned to go, clutching the apple.
"Wait—" His hand hovered before dropping. "Hold the pocket steady. He's lively."
She looked down to see the mouse halfway out, nose twitching. She pressed her hand over the lump, murmuring something that seemed to calm him.
"You've got flour on your skirt. Right side."
She brushed at it, cheeks warm.
He leaned slightly closer. "You'll be alright. She doesn't look that closely if the tea's hot and the flowers don't droop."
Why offer this kindness, this scrap of wisdom? Maybe because he recognized himself in her—the nervous determination, desperate need to belong, terror of failing at impossible tasks.
"I can do that," she whispered.
"Good. And if she does notice something... let her yell. That's what she likes best."
The fifth ring split the air.
Nim ran, disappearing in a flurry of movement.
Boq retrieved his handkerchief, stood still a moment longer. Something about the encounter left him unsettled, like furniture subtly rearranged when he wasn't looking.
He continued to the linen closet. The ink pot wouldn't polish itself, and Nessarose's patience was gone.
But his thoughts kept returning to Nim's face—that flash of gratitude, how her shoulders had straightened at his encouragement. It had been so long since he'd connected with anyone. So long since he'd been more than Nessarose's shadow.
Instead of returning directly to the study, his feet carried him toward the garden door. He shouldn't. The morning's tasks waited, Nessarose would be furious. But something pulled him forward.
Outside, autumn air bit sharp and clean, carrying woodsmoke from the kitchen chimneys. The gardens sprawled in geometric perfection—hedges like soldiers, gravel paths silver ribbons through boxwood and skeletal roses.
In the far corner behind the stone fountain, where Nessarose never went, Boq knelt in cool soil. From his pocket came a cloth bundle—tulip bulbs bought from a traveling merchant two days ago with his meager wages.
He dug careful holes, nestled each bulb gently. Foolish. Tulips wouldn't bloom until spring. Who knew where any of them would be by then? But some stubborn part refused to surrender completely to Nessarose's ordered world. This small act of faith in the future felt like the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely.
The bulbs were smooth and firm, full of waiting potential. He patted soil over the last one, whispering silent encouragement. Grow. Survive. Become.
Something prickled at his neck—the feeling of being watched. He turned toward the manor.
There at the eastern window stood Nim, hands pressed to the glass, expression mixing curiosity with something like longing. For a suspended moment, they simply looked at each other across the manicured distance. She'd removed her cap, dark hair falling in simple waves around a face both younger and older than he'd realized. In this unguarded moment, she looked real. A person, not just a function.
Without planning it, Boq smiled. Not much—just a small lifting at the corners, brief softening of worry lines. But it felt significant, like the first green shoot through frozen ground.
Behind him, the fountain caught weak sunlight, turning ordinary water into liquid silver. For that instant, Nim looked like a visitor from another world rather than a prisoner.
Something warm and unfamiliar spread through his chest. Hope—not the desperate kind that had driven him to follow Nessarose from Shiz, but something quieter. The kind that could wait patiently for the right moment. Like the tulips. Like the parts of himself he'd buried to survive in this house of precise cruelties.
The bell rang again, carrying even to the garden's edge. His smile faded. He glanced once more at Nim—still watching, motionless—and gave a small nod before rising.
Duty called. It always did. But as he brushed soil from his hands and turned back, Boq carried something new—the memory of connection formed across empty space. It wasn't much. But in this house where kindness was scarce, it felt like the beginning of something that might matter.
Something dangerously close to hope.