"You are quieter than usual," Helga remarked.

"I do not belong here," Catherine decided to be honest up to a point.

"No," Helga agreed. "You do not. But you are here, and that is how it is."

The woman's practical answer made her feel as if Helga understood what she felt because she didn't belong here either. But the housekeeper had made a life for herself, and Catherine would have to do that as well.

"You were not a born a servant," Catherine said, wondering if she was being too forward.

"No," Helga agreed as they entered the house. "My father had a title, and we possessed vast estates, but he never had a son." Her back straightened, and her manner altered ever so slightly, almost as if in the hallways of her mind, she was back home.

"Human males do not leave their estates to women, and when my father died unexpectedly when I turned sixteen, my cousin inherited everything—including my sister and me. Our father had not expected to pass and had made no provision for our futures."

The bitterness in her tone spoke volumes.

"Willem was already married, and his sons were young," Helga stopped speaking as a pair of maids passed them in the Hallway.

"He had no use for us, and we had no dowries since everything belonged to him." She hesitated as they took the stairs that creaked slightly under their weight and smelled of bees wax.

"Two of our neighbors offered marriage, but Willem's wife feared that our wealthier neighbors might be persuaded by nubile young wives to take action on our behalf."

They reached the first-floor landing, and Helga glanced at her. The haunted vestiges of the past revealed deep hiding in her eyes.

"Willem argued that he could ask the men to pay him a dowry for us and make good alliances, but Alvera wanted us sent away."

Helga gripped her dress to keep from stepping on the hem as they ascended the stairs.

"She did not want a claim lodged on the estates if we had heirs." Helga's expression turned cold. "They sold us into servitude and told our neighbors that we died during a vampire attack on our caravan."

The silence between them stretched. Despite herself, Catherine was curious about what happened next. She had not really had someone to speak with like this since before she was captured and almost executed. It restored a little bit of a sense of normality, even if only for a few moments.

"What happened?" she asked, daring to be more forward because they were alone.

"Vampires attacked the broker's caravan a few days later. We spent the next five years as slaves in the possession of Marteau Platt."

Catherine recognized the name, and her heart unexpectedly ached on Helga's behalf. Platt was the type of man who gave all vampires a bad reputation.

"You know of him," Helga said.

They reached the next landing and took the hallway to the guest bedrooms.

"Yes," Catherine admitted. "He is a wealthy trader with no roots and a taste for the finer things in life."

"He took me and my sisters as slaves, and we worked in his home in Arres." Helga paused with her hand on the door handle, almost as if she had forgotten where she was.

"You can trust me," Catherine said quietly, even though she could already guess where this was headed.

Helga turned her head slightly, and their eyes met. And there it was—the naked agony and humiliation of a woman who had lived the darker side of life.

"We cleaned his house and fed his animals," she said, turning the handle.

She checked if the room was empty and closed the door behind her.

"Help me change the sheets," Helga said.

Catherine complied, and she half didn't expect her new friend to continue.

"It wasn't long before he took blood from us, and if his vampire women were not in residence, he..."

Helga's hands shook as she stripped the pillowcases off the goose-down-filled inners.

"Took his pleasure from you and your sister," Catherine said what Helga could not.

The woman nodded. Even though she was as pale as death, two bright spots of color burned on her cheeks.

She has never told anyone, Catherine realized. Or shared this burden. Helga carried it alone for all these years.

"Hellenic was my father's right-hand man. Still is. He had secured my hand in marriage, but he would have to wait until my father retired for me to inherit the throne."

Catherine stopped fiddling with the sheets, afraid she might tear them.

"And then he would be a prince regent, standing behind a woman. So, he made it look as if I attempted to murder my father." She took a deep breath and helped strip away the fine linen sheets as she slowly released it.

"When I was detained in the dungeons, he bribed the guards to take a stroll."

The words were easier to say this time, and although Dillon had told her to keep her past quiet, she had a feeling that Helga needed a kindred spirit—someone who would understand.

She helped Helga fold the large sheet.

"Then he dishonored me," Catherine revealed.

Helga froze, and their eyes met again.

"He counted on my father to have me executed because the marriage agreement still stands." She took the sheet from Helga's hands and placed it in the basket with the other washing.

"Not only would my death have wiped away his sin, but it would also make him my heir."

Somehow, hearing the words out loud made them real and worse than they had sounded in her head during her sleepless nights.

"Lord Dillon told me you were the daughter of a powerful man and that a misunderstanding stole your future from you," Helga said, folding the pillowcases. "He did not tell me that you were The Drake's daughter."

"There was no misunderstanding," Catherine chose to ignore the last part of what Helga said.

"Hellenic planned everything except for me surviving my execution."

"What stops him from coming here and finishing what he started?" Helga asked with fear in her eyes. "What stops him from killing all of us to get to you?"

Helga was not afraid of dying during a vampire attack, she was afraid of surviving and Catherine could understand that. She was still a beautiful and elegant woman that no vampire male would kill without reason.

This time it was Catherine that froze as she opened the linen chest to get clean sheets.

"My father guaranteed Lord Dillon's safety," she said, getting what she needed.

The words sounded hollow.

"If they had murdered us along the way, it could have been blamed on outsiders. Coming here to attack this castle would be an act of war my father would not allow."

She sounded more certain than she felt.

"How did you escape Marteau?" Catherine changed the subject.

"Dillon's uncle traded with Marteau and saw me there," Helga said, a frown tugged at her brow and a vulnerability had crept into the corners of her mouth. "He wanted a woman in the house to look after Dillon and Marteau owed him a favor."

She shuddered slightly as she helped Catherine shake out the sheets.

"These need to be ironed," Helga said almost automatically.

"Yes," Catherina agreed. "What happened to your sister?"

Helga's eyes brimmed with tears, her jaw working as she bit on her teeth.

"Dillon's uncle could not afford the price Marteau wanted for her at the time, and before he could get the money together, she died."

Helga packed the clean linens into a woven basket to take downstairs for the chambermaid to iron them. Catherine piled the rest into her arms to take to the washing room.

"I should have been the one that stayed behind, not Claire," Helga said.

Her mouth wobbled as she picked up her burden and strode toward the door as if she could outpace her pain.

Catherine followed her down the stairs.

"But Marteau had taken a fancy to her and didn't much mind settling his debt with me."

Anger laced Helga's voice as if she blamed herself for what happened.

"It wasn't your fault," Catherine said quietly.

"Yes, it was," Helga countered. "Claire did what she had to do to keep me safe, but I couldn't make myself bow to Marteau's will. I fought him in as much as I dared."

"He has never been a man that liked a strong woman, but your sister would not want you to blame yourself for what happened."

"That does not stop me dreaming of her calling out for help as I run toward her but never reach her. Nor does it ease my guilt."

Catherine could understand that too.

"I am sorry for what happened to you, Helga."

The housekeeper stopped short of the last step, and Catherine almost ran into her.

"Why? Because you are a vampire?" Helga asked, not turning to face her. "If my father had gotten his affairs in order, none of this would have happened. And if Willem had been half the man my father had been, Claire would still live."

She took the last step down and paused again.

"But thank you for listening, and I am sorry for what happened to you too."

"What happened to Willem and his wife?" Catherine chose not to say that if her father had been half the man she remembered, she would not be a slave.

"They've grown fat on the lands of my father," Helga said, heading toward the kitchen. "A few years ago, I accompanied Lord Dillon to Weston house for the hunting festival to oversee his house there. They were invited to our annual dinner by a friend of Lord Dillon's and did not even recognize me."

"What did you do?" Catherine asked as they reached the laundry room just off the kitchen and close to the well.

"I wanted to do and say a lot of things, but Lord Darren was there to garner support for our cause, and stirring the waters would have done him no good. They were not worth my time and effort."

"What cause?" Catherine asked, curious.

"That he will tell you if and when he deems you ready," Helga said, suddenly shutting down the conversation.

Catherine's brows knitted, but the housekeeper's expression warned her that their moment of confidence was over.

Another maid entered the room, and she didn't press for details.

The words "our cause" had had a weight and a meaning that hinted that it was something important. If Lord Dillon required the support of other lords to achieve his goal, then it wasn't a domestic matter.

Not that it was any concern of hers, she had enough problems of her own.

She fetched water from the well, soaked the sheets, and scrubbed them on the iron washing board with a bar of woodsy-smelling soap. She found the mindless repetition soothing as she devoted her entire attention to the work at hand.

She ignored the maid, who ironed the sheets with a heated iron from the kitchen filled with coals.

Yet her mind soon wandered to her own past and tales of Helga's life.

The way the housekeeper spoke of her father revealed that she had loved and respected the man despite his foolhardy choices. Catherine wished she had the luxury of still loving her father. She missed the man she had known, and hating him did not come naturally to her. It hollowed her out to think of the man who had condemned her to death and then sent her here for reasons of his own.

Would she be able to be the bigger person as Helga had been if her road ever crossed with that of Hellenic again?

No.

Although she didn't want to merely give him a piece of her mind, she wanted to slip a blade between his ribs and into his heart. Preferably one coated with enough silver to end his miserable life. But the idea of facing her father left her feeling vulnerable. Despite what he did, she would never be able to kill him. Unfortunately, he might be inclined to end her if their paths met again.

Her throat tightened, and she continued her chore with unnecessary vigor.