"You will, if you wish to keep your place."
The words had curled around Aylin's throat like a silk noose.
Faye's voice had been soft, almost amused, but it cut deeper than any raised hand. That day, the greenhouse had smelled of rot and sweetness, of overripe fruit and clipped stems. Aylin had stood amid the orchids like a statue, her fingers clasped before her, her chin slightly lowered.
"You don't speak to the staff unless I give you permission," Faye had gone on, sipping from a crystal glass held delicately between crimson-painted nails. "You don't change the menu. You don't touch the accounts. You may be a Lancaster by name, but this house is Silverclaw."
A pause, then a glance over the rim of her glass.
"Unless, of course, you'd rather go back to whatever cottage your mother birthed you in."
