Chapter 2 The Maid's Daughter

Twelve years can pass in a house like the Ashworth home without anyone noticing, the way a candle burns down while you are busy talking.

By the autumn Lyra turned seventeen, the gravel drive where she had once wobbled on a bicycle was something she crossed without thinking. The window seat in her room had a worn dent in the cushion shaped exactly like her. Mr. Buttons, the gray rabbit with one chewed ear, sat on the highest shelf of her bookcase, retired with honors, and no one in the house was allowed to joke about him. Not even Damien, who had tried once and lost a week of dessert to Eleanor's disapproval.

The boys had grown into men, or something close to it. Adrian, twenty-one now, was tall and broad-shouldered and carried himself like the head of the household, which in the evenings, when their father was away on business, he practically was. Damien, twenty, still had the messy hair and the quick temper, though he had learned to aim his anger at things that deserved it. Julian, nineteen, could charm a stone into giving him directions. And Kieran, eighteen and quietest of all, had grown into a thoughtful young man who still, on bad days, sat on the floor outside Lyra's door without saying a word until she opened it.

They were her brothers in every way that mattered. When Lyra's grades came back from the day school at Hollowmere Academy, Adrian read them twice and pretended not to be proud. When she caught a cold, Julian brought her tea and terrible jokes. When a boy from her literature class asked her to the autumn dance and then spent the entire evening talking about himself, Damien quietly drove past the boy's house three nights in a row, just to make a point. No one ever asked him why.

She was, in a word, safe. She had been safe for twelve years, and she had never once thought to wonder what it would feel like if she were not. It was a Tuesday morning when Eleanor called her down to the kitchen and told her there would be new faces in the house. "I've hired another maid," Eleanor said, stirring her tea. She looked a little tired, the way she did lately, with the silver in her dark hair catching the light. "Mrs. Hale has been with us for years, and her knees are not what they were. This new woman comes very highly recommended. She has a daughter, about your age, and I have arranged for them to take the small rooms off the east wing."

Lyra set down her toast. "A girl my age?"

"Seventeen, I believe. Her name is Camille." Eleanor smiled gently. "I thought you might like the company. You have been surrounded by boys your entire life, my darling. It might do you good to have a friend."

Lyra tried to imagine it. She had friends at school, but none close enough to visit the house. A girl her age living down the hall felt strange and a little exciting. She smiled. "I'll make her feel welcome."

"I know you will," Eleanor said, and squeezed her hand.

They arrived that afternoon in a battered green car that rattled up the long drive and stopped with a groan beside the porch. Lyra watched from the window seat as a thin woman in a gray coat climbed out, followed by a girl. The girl was small and delicate, with light brown hair held back by a pale ribbon and a face so soft it seemed made for pity. She wore a faded blue dress with a darned hem and carried a single battered suitcase in both hands. She looked up at the house, at the tall windows and the stone porch and the climbing roses along the wall, and her lips parted as if she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. Lyra liked her immediately. She went downstairs to meet them, and when Eleanor made the introductions, Camille ducked her head and said, in a voice so quiet that Lyra had to lean in to hear, "It's an honor to meet you, Miss Lyra. Mama says I'm to be no trouble at all." "Please, just Lyra," she said warmly. "And you won't be any trouble. I'm glad you're here." Camille looked up through her lashes. For one fleeting second, something flickered behind her pale eyes, a quick, bright, measuring look, like a cat watching a bird. Then it was gone, and she was smiling shyly, and Lyra thought she must have imagined it. The brothers came in from the garden a few minutes later, laughing and loud, with grass on Julian's sleeves and Damien arguing about a football match. They stopped short when they saw the visitors in the hall. "Boys," said Eleanor, "this is Camille, our new maid's daughter. She and her mother will be staying with us. Please make them welcome." Adrian inclined his head politely. Damien grunted a greeting. Julian grinned and said, "Welcome to the madhouse." Kieran only nodded, though he gave a small, courteous smile. And Camille, to Lyra's surprise, burst into tears. It was so sudden that for a moment no one knew what to do. She stood in the hallway with her hands over her face, shoulders shaking, her small suitcase tipping against her leg. "I'm so sorry," she gasped. "I'm so sorry, it's only that everyone is so kind. I wasn't expecting anyone to be kind to us." "Oh, sweetheart," Eleanor said at once, stepping forward. "Of course we are. Come, sit down, I'll have Mrs. Hale bring you some tea."

The boys looked at each other. Julian, who could never bear to see anyone cry, hurried forward with a handkerchief. Damien's expression softened in a way Lyra had not seen in a while. Adrian cleared his throat and said, a little gruffly, "You don't have to be afraid of us. We're not that bad."

Camille peeked out from behind her fingers and managed a wobbling smile. "Thank you," she whispered. "You're all so good."

Lyra stood a few steps back and felt a small, unexpected pang. She did not know why. Perhaps it was only that she was used to being the one the boys fussed over. She pushed the feeling away at once. It was petty and unkind, and the poor girl had clearly been through a great deal.

"Come on," she said, stepping forward and taking the suitcase. "I'll show you to your room. It's got a lovely view of the garden."

Camille looked up at her, eyes bright and wet.

"You're so kind, Miss Lyra," she said softly. "I hope I can be as good as you."

The first week passed pleasantly enough. Camille was quiet and helpful, always hovering at the edge of a room with a tray or a cloth in her hands. She learned the household routines with startling speed. She knew exactly when Adrian liked his coffee, how Damien took his tea, and which biscuits Julian pretended he did not eat. She never asked for anything. She simply appeared, soft-footed and smiling, with whatever they needed.

Lyra tried hard to be a friend. She lent Camille a book she thought she would like. She invited her to sit in the garden on warm afternoons. She even offered her a cardigan one chilly morning, and Camille accepted it with such grateful, shining eyes that Lyra felt ashamed of that small pang in the hallway. This was only a lonely girl in a strange house. She did not notice the other thing. Camille watched. She watched how Adrian's face lit up when Lyra walked into a room. She watched how Damien lowered his voice and gentled his temper around her. She watched how Julian saved the last piece of cake and slid it across the table without a word, and how Kieran, wherever he was in the house, always seemed to know where Lyra was. Lyra would look back on it afterward and see it everywhere, the way you see a crack in a wall once the house has begun to lean.

Camille watched, and she counted, and she understood exactly what she was looking at. She was looking at the thing she had never had. The thing she wanted.

On the eighth day, she was careful.

Lyra was coming down the main staircase with a book under her arm when she heard a small, choked sound from the landing. She turned and found Camille standing with her back against the wall, one hand pressed to her cheek, tears sliding down her face.

"Camille?" Lyra hurried over. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Camille flinched, as though startled. "It's nothing," she said, wiping her eyes. "Please, Miss Lyra, it's nothing. I'm only homesick. I'm sorry. I'll go."

"Don't be silly. You don't have to hide from me."

"You're too kind." Camille gave a small, brave smile that seemed to cost her a great deal, and then she slipped past and hurried down the stairs.

Lyra stood there, worried, until she heard footsteps behind her. Adrian was standing at the top of the staircase, a pen still in his hand, looking down at the retreating girl with a frown.

"Was that Camille? Was she crying?"

"I think she's just homesick," Lyra said. "I'll bring her some tea later and see if she wants to talk." Adrian nodded slowly. He looked at the stairs a moment longer, then went back to his study. Lyra thought nothing of it. She went to her room and sat in the window seat with her book, and she read the same page four times.

What she did not know was that Camille had not gone to her room. She had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, wiped her face dry with her sleeve, and listened. She had heard Lyra's kind words. She had heard Adrian's footsteps and the quiet, concerned pause that followed. And Camille smiled.

She had not said a single false thing, not yet. She had only let a tall, serious boy see her cry. That was enough for one day. Lies, she knew, were like seeds. You did not throw them all at once. You waited for the soil to soften.

Upstairs, Lyra turned a page and smiled at something in her book, and the house went on being warm and loud and golden around her, as if nothing in it had changed at all. Everything had.