The air in the infirmary wing smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers.
Herminia sat by the bed, holding Nana Rose's frail, wrinkled hand. The old woman was paralyzed from a stroke, but her eyes were bright and wet. She squeezed Herminia's hand weakly.
"I missed you, Nana," Herminia whispered, resting her forehead against their joined hands.
Lana was in the corner, arranging fresh hydrangeas in a vase. She paused, sniffing the air. She frowned.
"Miss Herminia," Lana said. "What is that smell?"
Herminia froze. "What smell?"
"It's... minty. Strong," Lana said. She stepped closer. "That's Mr. Randolph's scent. The liniment he uses after polo. The whole west wing smells of it when he's used it."
Panic spiked in Herminia's chest. She had applied more of the ointment before coming down to soothe the ache on her neck.
"Oh," Herminia said, her mind racing. "I... I twisted my ankle. In the library. He saw me fall and gave me some."
She stood up, putting weight on her left foot and wincing theatrically.
Nana Rose made a distressed sound in her throat, trying to look at Herminia's legs.
"It's okay, Nana," Herminia soothed. "Just a sprain."
Lana narrowed her eyes. "I see. You should be more careful in the library, Miss."
Herminia felt sweat prickle her hairline. The lie hung in the air, heavy and awkward. Lana knew. Or she suspected. The look she gave Herminia wasn't one of a servant to a master; it was pity mixed with judgment.
"I should go," Herminia said, limping toward the door. "My foot hurts."
She walked out into the corridor, maintaining the fake limp. She passed Agatha, Barbara's secretary.
"Mrs. Randolph expects you at breakfast tomorrow," Agatha said without stopping, her eyes flicking to Herminia's limp. "Try not to be late."
Herminia fled back to the East Wing. She locked her door and leaned against it. She pulled her phone out.
A text message from Hunter lit up the screen.
Ankle? You're a terrible liar.
Herminia dropped the phone on the bed as if it had burned her. He was watching. He was always watching.
