"Matadre?" I whimpered, my voice hoarse.
Her eyes fell upon my clothes in the sink.
I sank deeper into the water as if the flimsy element could conceal me completely. She didn't seem angry. She appeared calm. Too calm.
A pang of unease tightened my chest, and I looked down at the water.
She dropped the basket of clothes she had come in with and climbed a small platform to reach the upper cabinet for the soaps and other washing essentials.
Then Matadre knelt beside the tub and began washing me without a word.
I froze in shock.
"Please sit up," she said, deadpanned. "Lord Fashire requested that I have you cleaned."
I slowly sat up, my eyes still fixated on the water. She took hold of my good arm and started to lather the soap on my skin.
"Becca is devastated, and the other servants are furious. You made fools of us all..." Her words spilt out in a rush, each one cutting deeper than the last. "How did it feel, deceiving us all?"
Nausea twisted my insides. I couldn't bear to imagine what the maids and pets thought of me now.
Matadre's voice softened slightly. "I can't help but take some pity on you, considering your aunt seems to have dragged you into this mess."
"No. I… willingly came to work here…"
Matadre held my gaze, and I shrank back.
"Are you sure?" she pressed, her voice dripping with suspicion. "Had you even heard of this castle? Who planted those ideas in your head?"
I slowly shook my head, even though I could vividly recall the day I asked my aunt for help. She had offered me the only help she could provide, and Melody had given me more information.
My chest constricted with a suffocating mixture of confusion and betrayal. Had this all been planned?
Matadre let go of me and glanced at the scar on my shoulder. "With this… It stands to reason that I may never have truly known her. If she isn't human or vampire, I cannot fathom what she truly is. And if you are indeed blood-related… then you aren't entirely human either."
My head spun.
My upbringing had been relatively normal, and my ageing father had always told me that my mother died when I was born. But could that have been another lie?
Was it possible that my aunt held resentment toward my father for some other reason? He was considerably older when I was born, and her sister had chosen to be with him, despite their vast age difference.
Before I knew it, I started weeping for some reason.
The water was drained and replaced to rinse me off, and Matadre proceeded to towel me dry. Soon, I was dressed in thicker clothing.
My hair was hastily gathered into a messy bun, causing my scalp to ache from the rough combing. Perhaps beneath Matadre's composed facade, she, too, was angry over being deceived.
The door slammed open, and I flinched, terrified as Lord Fashire strolled in. He completely disregarded my presence to glare at Matadre.
I wanted to step back and distance myself from Matadre so his gaze wouldn't inadvertently fall upon me. Yet, I remained rooted in place, paralyzed by the fear that even the slightest movement would draw his attention.
"You're slow," he chided.
With a small bow, Matadre responded in a dry tone, "My apologies, my Lord. I am attending to her as swiftly as I can."
He grunted and rolled his eyes, but then he looked at me. His lips twisted into a sinister smile, and my blood went cold.
I was staring at the face of a demon.
"Your things are in the carriage. Come along now."
I hesitated, wanting to run away from all this. The scornful eyes of the pets, the disappointed and perplexed stares of the servants, and worst of all, the furious gazes of the Lords.
But I didn't want to enter whatever cage this monster was taking me to.
My heart pounded as my legs remained rooted to the floor.
His eyes narrowed, and his smile widened further. "What are you doing?"