By the second day, Ambrose had a better grasp of his duties. The quiet repetition of cleaning, arranging, and serving was something his body could memorize easily. Like slipping back into an old habit he thought he'd buried long ago.
That afternoon, Mr. Fleming ordered him to tidy up the study room on the upper floor.
It was quite a large room, lined with dark wooden shelves on two sides, each one filled with books. Far more than Ambrose expected for a household like this.
He could tell at a glance that many of these books were real luxuries. Paper was expensive, and the Ashfords had collected it in excess.
The air here was still, carrying that familiar scent of paper and old ink, like time had been quietly gathering dust between the pages. It was... pleasant.
Perhaps the first place in the whole estate where Ambrose could move with a little ease.
He began stacking the books left out on the desk. One by one, before bringing them to the shelves. His fingertips traced over worn leather covers and gilded spines, reading the titles without meaning to. Some of them were familiar, names he hadn't seen since his school days.
It would be so easy to linger.
But he didn't.
Instead, he slid each book into its designated place. The Ashfords seemed to organize their collection by topic first, then alphabetically by author. A system that suggested habit more than passion. Whoever arranged these books liked things tidy, but they probably never lost themselves between the pages.
By the time Ambrose reached the last book, he'd almost forgotten where he was. His mind was somewhere else, half buried in memories, when a voice cut through the silence.
"You're good at this."
Ambrose froze.
He hadn't heard anyone enter.
When he turned, the young master stood just a few steps away. Tall, straight-backed, with dark blue eyes set against a clear, smooth face.
Carmine Ashford.
Up close, he was brighter than Ambrose remembered from the first day. Like someone painted in softer, warmer colors. The kind of boy who'd been raised in a house where nothing bad had ever touched him.
Ambrose's first instinct was to lower his gaze. But then... he didn't.
He didn't know why.
"Thank you, sir," he answered. His voice was flat, polished. The same tone he'd used a hundred times before with other masters.
But Carmine lingered.
He took a few small steps into the room, letting his fingers trail lightly along the edge of the desk.
"You know how to read," he remarked. Like it was something he'd caught Ambrose in the middle of rather than a simple observation.
Ambrose's heart gave a small, sharp beat against his ribs.
"I do."
Carmine's lips curved, just slightly.
"Hm."
He picked up one of the books Ambrose hadn't shelved yet, flicking through the pages without really looking. His eyes were still on Ambrose. Sharp, curious in a way that felt a little too knowing for someone so sheltered.
"You don't look like the others," Carmine said quietly.
Ambrose's spine tensed.
For one flicker of a second, he thought, He knows.
He knows what I am. He knows why I'm here.
But Carmine's gaze dropped just as quickly, back to the book in his hands.
"I mean... the way you move."
He flipped another page.
"Too precise."
Another page.
"Too clean."
Ambrose's breath stuck somewhere low in his throat. He didn't flinch, but he felt it. A comment meant to sound offhand, but sharper than it looked.
The boy was noticing more than he should.
Ambrose's fingers twitched at his sides. Itching to snatch the book away and remind this golden boy not to dig too deep. But instead, he pressed his hands neatly behind his back.
"I'm just following orders, sir."
A polite lie.
But Carmine only smiled, like he'd heard it before.
He closed the book gently and set it down on the desk, stepping back toward the door.
"You'll have to tell me one day," he said, almost to himself.
Ambrose's heart skipped again.
"Tell you what, sir?"
Carmine glanced back over his shoulder. Bright and untouched, but not quite as harmless as he'd seemed a moment ago.
"What you're really good at."
. . .
Carmine Ashford quickly became a quiet thorn in Ambrose's side.
At first, it seemed harmless.
The next morning, Ambrose was put on serving duty at breakfast, a simple enough task. He carried trays from the kitchen, poured tea, and kept his head down as the family dined.
Everything was going smoothly. Until the young master spoke directly to him.
"What's your name?"
Ambrose nearly spilled the milk.
He glanced up sharply, but Carmine's blue eyes were already fixed on him. Bright, curious, far too open for his own good.
Ambrose should have ignored him.
He should have bowed and walked away.
But something about Carmine's gaze pinned him in place.
"...Ambrose, sir."
Carmine's smile curled slow. Like he'd been waiting for the answer.
"Ambrose." He repeated the name thoughtfully, as if tasting it on his tongue.
The head maid, Mrs. Griggs, was quick to cut in from the side of the room. Her thin mouth pressed tight.
"Young master, it's not proper to speak to the staff during meals."
Carmine didn't even glance at her.
"I'm only asking his name," he said lightly, still watching Ambrose. "I don't see the harm in that."
Mrs. Griggs bristled, but before she could scold him further, Carmine added, sweet as honey, "Unless you'd rather I ask mother?"
The woman went stiff at once.
Ambrose lowered his eyes to hide the flicker of amusement threatening to crack through his mask.
So that's what he is.
A golden boy. Yes.
But spoiled enough to know exactly how far he could push before anyone dared push back.
Mrs. Griggs backed down with a clipped little sniff, turning on her heel.
But as she walked away, she muttered just loud enough for Ambrose to hear.
"You're lucky the head butler's not here... pestering the servants like a little brat."
Carmine smiled wider at that. Like he'd won something.
Ambrose kept his mouth shut.
. . .
The next time it happened, there was no accident about it.
Ambrose was sent back to the study room that afternoon. This time without being asked.
Books scattered across the desk. Loose pages left carelessly folded. A glass tipped over, soaking half a stack of parchment.
Ambrose stared at the mess in faint disbelief.
It had taken him almost an hour to tidy this room the day before.
And when he glanced toward the window, he found Carmine standing outside on the garden path. Hands in his pockets, whistling a little tune to himself.
Ambrose clenched his jaw.
The little brat.
. . .
By the third time, it was no longer subtle.
Carmine came down to the staff kitchen. Of all places, just as the sun was setting.
He'd been out riding horses, still half-muddy from the stables with his hair wind-tousled and his shirt sticking damp to his back.
None of the other Ashfords ever came down here. The servants' wing was meant to be invisible. A place that existed only to keep the household running without anyone ever noticing.
But Carmine leaned in the doorway like he belonged there, watching with lazy interest as the maids scrubbed dishes and chopped vegetables.
When Ambrose finally looked up from polishing cutlery, Carmine's eyes locked straight onto him.
"I left something in my room," he announced to no one in particular.
The kitchen went silent.
Ambrose's rag stilled against the knife in his hand.
"And what would that be, sir?"
Carmine tilted his head, smile lazy. Like he could see exactly how hard Ambrose was holding back his irritation.
"My snack. The honey biscuits."
The ones Ambrose had served him at tea, two hours ago.
Ambrose wiped his hands slowly on the cloth, already feeling the heat crawling beneath his skin.
He glanced at Mrs. Griggs, half-expecting her to send one of the scullery maids instead. But the woman only kept peeling carrots, muttering under her breath.
"Well?" Carmine prodded, feigning impatience now. "Go fetch it."
Ambrose's fingers twitched against the cloth.
He knew what Carmine was doing.
And worse, Carmine knew that he knew.
But servants didn't refuse orders.
So Ambrose gave a small, tight bow and left the kitchen without another word.
. . .
By the third day, the little games stopped.
No books scattered across the floor. No snacks conveniently forgotten. No sudden appearances in the servants' wing.
The absence was noticeable. Less noise, less mess.
But there was always work to be done in the Ashford household. He kept himself busy. Tending to the Master's clothes, makes sure their belonging was tidy and in the right place, receiving the right care.
It wasn't until the fifth day that Ambrose understood what had kept Carmine away.
He was tidying the drawing room when the door creaked open behind him.
Ambrose glanced up, expecting one of the maids, only to find Carmine himself lingering in the doorway.
For once, the boy wasn't smiling.
His brow was furrowed, arms crossed over his chest. He carried a thick leather-bound book under one arm. The kind Ambrose recognized from the study upstairs.
He stood there for a moment, lips pursed, like he hadn't meant to stumble in here at all.
Then his blue eyes flicked toward Ambrose, and his whole face crumpled into a pout.
"Oh, thank God," Carmine groaned, stepping into the room as if he'd just found a lifeline. "Do you know anything about geography?"
Ambrose froze mid-polish.
He'd never heard anyone sound so utterly miserable about the subject.
Then his mind caught up to the question, and a slow tension curled beneath his ribs.
He straightened, lowering the cloth.
"I'm afraid that's not within my duties, sir."
Carmine slumped onto the nearest sofa like the weight of the whole world was dragging him down. He flipped the book open with a sigh, rubbing at his temple.
Ambrose didn't move.
He'd been here first. Quietly tending to the room, minding his own tasks. Long before the young master came storming in with his complaints and his heavy book.
If anyone should leave, it was Carmine. But he didn't.
So, Ambrose stayed by the table, gaze cool and steady, letting the boy stew in his frustration a little longer. His eyes flicked down to the open pages. It was there, he couldn't help but read the lines.
The boy's father was due to return home soon.
And Carmine wasn't studying out of curiosity. He was studying because he was expected to.
Ambrose's jaw clenched.
He hated the thought of that man looming over this house, even in absence.
But before the old anger could settle in his chest, Carmine made a small, frustrated noise. Dragging Ambrose's attention back to the present.
"I don't see why I need to know where the bloody Danube is," he grumbled, jabbing his pencil at the page. "It's not as if I'll ever set foot there."
Ambrose's lips twitched before he could stop himself.
"And what if you were captured, sir?"
Carmine's head snapped up. "What?"
Ambrose kept his face carefully neutral.
"If you were taken hostage in the next great war, sir," he said, dry as dust, "how would you know where you'd been dragged off to if you didn't know your rivers?"
For a second, there was only silence.
Then…
A sharp, breathless little giggle escaped from Carmine's mouth before he could smother it.
He pushed the book toward Ambrose across the table. Leaning in close with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Do you know where the Danube is, then?"
.
.
.