Accomplice to the Villain (Assistant and the Villain, #3)(113)

A human. As he’d been.

It was like waking up from a bad dream where he’d forgotten everything that made Alexander a man, but he remembered now. Just in time for the young woman blinking at him with large green eyes to stumble backward, mouth open.

The end of a broom came down, swatting where he sat, and he quickly leaped to one of the higher cabinets, just missing it. “No, no! Shoo, you pest!” The young woman’s voice was soft, the sort that all staff took on in a grand home, so as not to be seen, so as not to be heard. Even now, this young woman adhered to those instructions. “Get down from there! Right now!”

Alexander was never one to ignore the request of a lady. It was a compulsion to obey. Compulsion and annoying built-in manners. He jumped down to the table, blinking at her, the wooden table creaking under the force with which he landed.

She blinked back at him, tilting her head to the side. She was unsure how to react, if the wrinkle between her eyebrows was anything to go by. “Oh. I didn’t expect you to…listen.”

He had no signs with him to communicate what he wanted to say, so he shrugged. She gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth, drawing his attention back to her green eyes. Like moss, or like a lily pad. He was not as adept at descriptions as he’d once been, but even he noticed that they were deep, and fathomless, and impossibly big, rounding further when he held up a webbed foot, waving.

“Don’t do that!” She slapped a hand down at her side, and twinkling light spilled from her fingertips. The rays hit a nearby flowerpot, turning the once-red roses a bright gold. “Oh, no, no, no,” she said, panicked.

Magic. The girl with the big eyes had just turned the flowers a different color.

“Winnifred? What on earth is all that noise?”

The girl named Winnifred paled. “Nothing, mistress! I slipped on some spilled water.” Alexander didn’t know how this timid thing expected anyone to hear her at such a low volume.

Loud footsteps pounded down the hall. The familiarity of the voice. The kitchen with yellow splashes of paint on the walls. Kingsley had been here before.

Without ceremony, he was scooped up by Winnifred, feeling air rush his ears as she threw him in a cookie jar. “Be silent.” She put the lid on top with a clatter, and then it was dark. Rude.

If he had his signs, he’d tell her so, but for now he’d send the thought her way and hope it stuck.

“Mistress Maverine,” Winnifred said, and Kingsley went still as stone. He’d hopped himself right into the same place he’d turned into a bloody frog in the first place. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You never mean to, Winnifred,” Amara Maverine said sharply. “I don’t appreciate your insubordination when I’ve extended every courtesy to you. I expect you to do your job without fuss or excess noise. I consider crashing sounds fuss.”

“Of course, Mistress Maverine. Again, I am so sorry.” There was a smallness to her response, a smallness that Kingsley recalled Amara Maverine often seemed to evoke.

“My husband’s pulling up the drive. Do you have lunch prepared?”

“Yes, mistress. It is on the sitting room table.”

There was a pause, and even Alexander, stuck in his tight quarters, could feel tension permeating the room.

“What happened to the roses?”

Alexander leaned his head up, peeking just out of the cookie jar. The top sat on his crowned head like a hat. Amara Maverine was ten years older and just as beautiful as always, with jet-black hair and even darker eyes. Silver strands shone in the light, even pulled back in the neat bun at the base of her neck. Her lips were tight, her gaze eviscerating.

Winnifred stared at the roses, appearing calm as she swept a brown lock off her forehead, but Alexander could see the telltale sign of a bead of sweat at her brow. “They came from the gardener this color, mistress.”

Amara’s stern mouth twisted as she looked Winnifred up and down with distaste. “I’m sure. See that they remain red from now on, would you?”

Winnifred dipped into a quick curtsy, her cheeks flushing as she averted her gaze to her shoes. “Of course, mistress.” The servant girl was quiet by nature, Alexander guessed by the softness of her voice, which was melodic and unused. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”

Amara sniffed, slowly looking in his direction, and Kingsley ducked back into the jar so fast, the lid made a clicking sound. “What was that?” A step toward him. Another. Alexander would be sweating if he had the glands for it.

“Nothing, mistress! Don’t you want to—”

“Amara! I’m home!” Arthur Maverine’s voice boomed through the house, causing relief to settle over Kingsley. The others were here. He was saved. “Where are you?”

“Coming!” Amara called. Alexander heard more footsteps slowly fading and then lighter ones. The lid opened, and it was—

Oh. Still the girl who’d swatted him with the broom. Wonderful.

Winnifred looked at him mournfully. “All right, Your Highness. Time to go.”

Your Highness? Did she know him? Had she recognized him?

She picked him up, holding him as far from her face as humanly possible. “Whoever put a crown on you is a fan of cruel and unusual punishments.”

Oh…well, she was right on that score, anyhow.