He was also the only person in this mansion with a shred of sympathy left for Grayson. No matter how cruel or wicked Grayson got, my uncle’s understanding was unfailing. He always said Grayson Crowne was a nice boy who was forced to grow thorns to survive.

I dropped my hand.

He always said the key to surviving this job—to surviving Crowne Hall—was to keep your dignity. I think I’m about to test that.

The pitter-patter of my black flats tapping against black marble floors was the only sound as I walked to Grayson’s wing. Crowne Hall was deathly quiet—odd, considering there should’ve been a party going on, the one I should have helped Abigail get ready for.

I held my items tighter against my body.

The closer I got to Grayson’s wing, the darker it got.

Outside, Crowne Hall was known for its dark spires and shingles, a black castle that could be seen from anyplace in our town of Crowne Point. It was more than a mansion; it was a palace stuck in time. Inside? It was like something out of a Poe poem. Floral molding cut into pearly white walls, inky black railings and doors, with a peppering of gold trim.

Just outside Grayson’s wing, I stopped.

Two scary-looking men in charcoal suits flanked either side of the arched doorway. They didn’t so much as glance in my direction. Whereas Abigail had one constantly changing guard, Grayson was always flanked by a group of security.

I took a slow step, watching them.

When they didn’t stop me, I scurried past them, looking over my shoulder to double-check they weren’t about to take me.

They hadn’t moved a millimeter.

That didn’t calm me. No one got past them without Grayson’s say-so, not even maids.

Grayson was waiting for me.

I walked slowly down the hallway, soaking in my surroundings. I’d never been to Grayson’s wing. In fact, none of my friends and coworkers had. The only person who’d been here, whom he allowed here, was my uncle. He made my uncle clean the entire fucking thing.

And yet my uncle still defends him.

Grayson’s wing was long and winding, the architecture ornate, but it was so…empty. No pictures. No paintings. Nothing on the tables and no blankets on the chairs. Somehow my small bedroom felt more filled than this.

I finally reached his bedroom at the end of the winding wing. If I kept walking, I could go through a gilded door, taking steps down to Grayson’s own personal beach. I’d never heard of anyone going there, not even my uncle. Instead, I turned and faced black-and-gold double doors, so huge I had to tilt my head back to see the top.

We servants had one question we were allowed to ask the Crownes, one thing we could say to them. One.

You called?