Chapter 2
Beyond the heavy evergreen garlands framing the roaring fireplace, Iris Bennett moved quietly, desperately trying to remain unnoticed. The twenty-five-year-old housemaid was breathtakingly beautiful, possessing delicate features and clear, highly expressive eyes. Tonight, however, she possessed an exhausted, deeply vulnerable manner that sharply contradicted the festive elegance of the estate.
She wore a fitted black maid dress with a cinched waist, a white collar and cuffs, a slightly rumpled white apron, and a white ruffled headband. She kept her hands occupied, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Iris, you are moving too slowly," the head butler whispered harshly, adjusting his own collar as he passed her. "The reception is in full swing. Miss Marsh requires the firewood basket to be brought to the hearth immediately."
"I am hurrying, sir," Iris replied, her American accent trembling so violently she could barely form the words. "It's just very heavy tonight."
"You can rest when your shift is over," the butler interrupted coldly. "Miss Marsh gave explicit orders that the staff remain highly efficient. Do your job, or there will be consequences."
Iris squeezed her eyes shut, a violent shiver wracking her small frame. The consequences had already been dealt in minor, cruel ways throughout the week. Celeste had taken an immediate, vicious dislike to the gentle maid, recognizing the unspoken affection Damon held for her.
"I will take it to the fire," Iris whispered, wiping a trembling hand across her pale, rosy cheeks.
"Mommy?" a soft, innocent voice asked from waist height.
Three-year-old Milo Rowe stepped out from behind the evergreen garlands. The motherless boy possessed soft dark curls, round rosy cheeks, and little dimples that appeared whenever he smiled. He was dressed impeccably in a cream knitted reindeer sweater, red velvet overalls, and miniature brown boots.
"Yes, sweetie, I'm here," Iris said softly, offering a fragile smile.
Milo had witnessed a horrifying scene in the mudroom earlier that evening. He didn't understand the complex malice of adults, but he understood that the woman in the emerald dress had done something very bad.
"Auntie put Buttons in the basket," Milo observed, his tiny fingers pointing toward the large, lidded wicker firewood basket sitting on the marble floor.
"Buttons?" Iris asked, confused, referencing the ten-week-old spaniel puppy Damon had gifted his son. "No, sweetie, Buttons is sleeping in the kitchen. This is just firewood for the party."
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"No," Milo insisted softly.
"I have to take this to the fire, Milo," Iris choked out, hoisting the heavy basket into her arms, completely unaware of the horrifying truth hidden beneath the closed wicker lid.
