Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Annabelle has her chance back at the Front of House to prove herself worthy of the position.
When she spots a large garden spider on the ledge and looks at her rival, she cannot help herself but try to get one up on her
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,097
F/F | foot Tickling | Tickle Torture
Jane stood in the center of the room, her nightgown clinging to a body that was trembling with a fine, exhausted vibration. Her feet—still pink and tender from the Duchess’s oil-and-brush torture hours earlier—were perched on the oak foot roller.
It was a deceptive little instrument. To the casual observer, it was a tool for massage. To Jane, after forty minutes of standing motionless upon it, it was a rack. The hard, polished wooden knobs dug relentlessly into her sensitive arches, feeling less like massage and more like hot pebbles being ground, pressing deep into the plantar fascia, finding the bruised spots Margaret had assaulted and the nerves Annabelle had awakened.
Every instinct screamed at her to step off, to curl her toes, to crumple. But Alice was watching.
Alice sat in her high-backed chair, sipping her tea, a willow switch resting casually across her lap. She wasn't watching Jane’s feet. She was watching her spine.
"Shoulders," Alice snapped, her voice cutting through the dim warmth of the room. "You are curling inward again. You look like a frightened hedgehog."
Jane forced her shoulder blades back, a hiss of air escaping her teeth as the movement shifted her center of gravity, driving the wooden knots deeper into her heels. "Hhh-ssst..."
"Silence," Alice corrected, not unkindly, but with absolute firmness. "Pain is information, Jane. It tells you where you are heavy. It tells you where you are weak. If you gasp every time the floor pushes back, you will never survive the Drawing Room."
Alice stood up, the willow switch whipped through the air with a thin vvt-vvt. She circled Jane like a shark. She reached out and tapped the small of Jane’s back with the tip of the switch—not a strike, but a cue.
"Tuck your pelvis. You are swaying. A sway implies instability."
Jane adjusted, her muscles burning. "It... it hurts, Alice. My feet feel like they’re on fire."
"Good," Alice said, coming to stand in front of her. "Fire purifies. If you can stand on this for an hour with the grace of a queen, then standing on a plush rug for five hours while the Duchess ignores you will feel like a holiday."
Alice sighed, rubbing her temples. The perfect mask of the Senior Housemaid slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a deep, grinding irritation.
"I need you to be ready, Jane. Because I cannot tolerate another service with Margaret."
Jane blinked, sweat dripping down her nose. "Margaret? But she is Second Housemaid now. Surely she knows the steps."
Alice let out a short, bitter laugh. "Margaret knows the steps of a clog dancer. Today, during the luncheon..." Alice paused, her face tightening with professional disgust. "She walked into the Blue Room like she was wearing horseshoes. Thud-thud-thud. The crystal in the cabinet actually rattled."
Alice paced the room, her frustration boiling over. "And her hands... she has the dexterity of a butcher. She slammed the tureen down so hard a ladle of soup sloshed onto the linen. The Duchess didn't say a word, of course. She just stared at the stain. But I saw her eye twitch. That tiny little spasm near the temple that means someone is going to bleed later."
Alice turned back to Jane, her eyes fierce. "Margaret thinks the promotion is a license to be lazy. She thinks because she was cruel to you in the courtyard, she has earned her place. She doesn't understand that cruelty without precision is just... mess."
Jane’s legs began to shake violently, the muscles in her calves spasming. She gritted her teeth, staring at a knot in the wall, refusing to fall.
Alice watched the struggle, a flicker of approval softening her gaze. She stepped forward and placed a hand on Jane’s shoulder—not to push her down, but to steady her.
"Hold it," Alice whispered. "Ten more seconds. Use the pain. Don't let it use you."
Jane squeezed her eyes shut. The wooden knobs felt like they were piercing her skin, but she locked her knees and held her breath.
Ten... nine...
"Tomorrow," Alice said, her voice low. "You will not be in the scullery. You will shadow me. You will walk six paces behind me. You will mimic my stride. And you will watch Margaret."
Five... four...
"You will see exactly what I mean," Alice continued. "You will see the clumsiness. The arrogance. And you will see that she leaves herself wide open."
Three... two... one.
"Step down."
Jane collapsed off the roller, her feet hitting the flat floorboards. The sudden absence of pressure was a shock, a wave of pins-and-needles nausea that washed up from her soles. She swayed, gasping, "Hhh-uh! Hhh-uh!"
her feet hitting the flat floorboards. The sudden absence of pressure was a shock, a wave of pins-and-needles nausea that washed up from her soles
Alice caught her arm, keeping her upright. "Steady. The blood is rushing back. It will sting."
"I... I can do it, Alice," Jane panted, looking up at her mentor. "I can be quieter than her."
"I know," Alice said, a dark conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Tomorrow, we simply watch. We let her dig her own grave. And if she happens to hand us the shovel... well, who are we to refuse it?"
---
The afternoon sun poured through the high windows of the Service Wing corridor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air—or at least, they would have questioned the dust if Alice hadn't already ensured every surface was immaculate.
Jane stood in the shadow of the pantry door, her hands clasped behind her back. She was no longer wearing the coarse grey wool of the scullery. Alice had found her a spare housemaid’s uniform—crisp black bombazine and a starched white apron that rustled softly with every breath. It was a size too big in the bust, but the waist fit perfectly, cinched tight to enforce the posture she had practiced on the roller.
Her feet still ached with a deep, bone-bruise throb, but in the flat-soled soft shoes Alice had provided, the pain was a manageable hum, a constant reminder to tread lightly.
"Six paces," Alice reminded her, adjusting her own cuff. "And do not speak unless addressed. You are a shadow."
"Yes, Ma'am," Jane whispered.
Ahead of them, in the bustling Butler’s Pantry, Margaret was holding court.
As Second Housemaid, Margaret was responsible for the final presentation of the afternoon tea tray. She stood by the long slate counter, fussing with a silver tiered stand. She looked flustered, her face shiny with perspiration.
"Where is the clotted cream?" Margaret snapped at a terrified kitchen girl. "And these scones... they’re cooling! The Duchess will have my head if the steam is gone!"
Margaret was frantic, her movements jerky and aggressive. She grabbed a silver pot of jam, slamming it onto the tray with a sharp chink! that made Alice wince from the doorway.
"Look at her elbows," Alice murmured to Jane, barely moving her lips. "Flapping like a chicken. No economy of motion."
Jane watched, fascinated. Alice was right. Margaret moved with a chaotic energy that wasted time and created noise.
"I need more napkins!" Margaret shouted, turning abruptly. She didn't check her surroundings. She practically threw herself away from the counter, marching toward the linen cupboard at the far end of the pantry.
In her haste, she left the primary tray—laden with warm, golden scones and waiting for its silver domed lid—completely unguarded by the open window.
Alice turned her back completely, marching to the far wall to inspect the inventory slate. She began aggressively tallying the tea tins, her finger tapping a series of sharp ticks against the slate, drowned out by Margaret's screeching. The chaos Margaret was creating—the clatter of silver, the shouting about starch—created a perfect auditory screen.
Jane saw it instantly. The pantry window had been cracked open to let in a breeze against the oven heat. Resting on the sill, clearly disturbed by the vibration of Margaret’s stomping, was a spider.
It wasn't a small, wispy thing. It was a mature house spider—thick-bodied, dark brown, and hairy, with legs that spanned the width of a teacup. It sat motionless against the white paint, a stark blot of horror waiting to happen.
Jane glanced at the linen cupboard. Margaret was arguing with the laundry maid.
She glanced at Alice. Alice was frowning at the ledger, her back turned.
Jane saw the opening. It was a three-second window where the world was looking the other way.
The impulse hit Jane like a bolt of lightning. It wasn't a plan; it was an instinct. It was the weed reaching out to strangle the flower.
Jane didn't think. She moved.
She crossed the three steps to the counter in total silence, her soft shoes absorbing every sound.
She grabbed a spare linen napkin from the stack. With a fluid, fearless motion—the kind born of a childhood spent turning over rocks in the garden—she scooped the spider from the sill.
Through the fine linen, she felt a frantic, wiry thrumming—the desperate pushing of its jointed legs against the cloth—before she quickly bunched the fabric, stilling the movement and trapping it securely within the folds
She turned to the tray. The scones were piled high, steaming gently.
With a single, fluid motion, Jane placed the napkin containing the spider directly on top of the clean stack. She didn't just drop it; she set it down with a practiced air, as if adding one final, essential piece to the arrangement. To any observer, she had simply added a napkin. The slight, almost imperceptible lump in the center of the linen was the only sign of the dark secret now nested within, waiting.
The vibration of the tray and the overwhelming heat commanded it to stay still, to curl its legs tight and wait for the earthquake to stop.
Jane replaced the lid of the cloche tray with a small click before stepping back, sliding seamlessly into her previous position just as Margaret turned around.
"Finally!" Margaret grumbled, marching back to the tray. She shoved the napkins onto the side of the platter. She grabbed the handles of the heavy silver tray, heaving it up against her hip.
The spider was sealed in. A dark secret in a silver palace.
"Out of my way," Margaret snarled at Jane as she passed, barging through the doorway. "Real work to do."
Jane watched her go, a cold, electric thrill racing down her spine.
Alice looked up from her ledger. "Ready?"
"Yes, Alice," Jane said, her voice perfectly steady.
"Then follow. And remember... watch the feet."
Alice swept out of the room after Margaret. Jane followed six paces behind, her heart hammering a rhythm of pure, wicked anticipation.
---
The Blue Drawing Room was a sanctuary of afternoon languor. Sunlight pooled on the Persian rugs, and the air was heavy with the scent of hothouse jasmine and the faint, smoky aroma of Lapsang Souchong.
Duchess Annabelle reclined on the velvet chaise, a book of poetry resting idly in her lap. She looked the picture of boredom—a woman waiting for the world to entertain her.
The double doors opened. Margaret entered first, the heavy silver tray propped against her hip. Her face was flushed a motley red from the exertion and the heat of the pantry. She walked with a heavy, flat-footed gait—thud, thud, thud—that made the china teacups rattle in their saucers with a faint tink-tink-tink.
Alice glided in behind her, silent as smoke. Jane followed six paces back, her hands clasped, her eyes lowered but watchful.
"Afternoon tea, Your Grace," Margaret announced, perhaps a decibel too loud for the serene room. She thumped the tray down onto the low mahogany table.
Annabelle winced slightly at the impact but didn't look up from her book. "Pour the tea, Margaret. And I trust the scones are actually hot this time? I detest cold dough."
"Steaming, Your Grace," Margaret promised, eager to please. "Fresh from the oven."
Margaret reached for the ornate silver handle of the domed cloche. She paused for dramatic effect—a clumsy attempt at flair—and then lifted the lid with a flourish.
Two things happened simultaneously.
First, a cloud of fragrant steam released into the cool air, smelling of butter and yeast.
Second, the sudden flood of light sent the spider into shock.
The disruption was total. The roof was ripped off its world, and the blinding afternoon sun struck it. Instinct took over. It didn't think; it fled. The spider surged out from the folds of the linen napkin at the base of the pile, desperate to find a shadow.
It shot out like a dark bullet across the white fabric, sprinting away from the exposed center and directly toward the nearest object that offered cover—Annabelle’s hand.
For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Annabelle stared at the black, multi-legged horror charging at her.
"AAAAIIIIEEE!"
The scream was not aristocratic. It was primal. Annabelle recoiled violently, kicking her legs out and scrambling back into the cushions of the chaise, her book flying onto the floor.
Margaret shattered.
Panic hijacked her motor functions. She shrieked—a high, piercing sound—and dropped the heavy silver lid.
CLANG-CRASH.
The lid hit the edge of the delicate china service. The teapot tipped. Hot, dark liquid flooded the tray, soaking the scones and splattering onto the expensive rug.
"It’s loose! It’s loose!" Margaret screamed, flapping her apron at the table like a demented goose, creating a wind that only confused the spider further. She backed away, knocking into a side table, her clumsiness turning the accident into a catastrophe.
Alice stepped forward, her face a mask of shock, reaching for the Duchess.
But Jane was faster.
She didn't run; she flowed. Ignoring the six-pace rule, she surged past Alice. She didn't look at the screaming Duchess or the flailing Margaret. Her eyes were locked on the target.
The spider, terrified by the noise, had paused on the edge of the tea tray, its legs twitching.
Jane reached out. She didn't swat it. She didn't crush it. With a decisive, fluid motion, she cupped her bare hands over the creature, trapping it against the mahogany table.
She felt the dry, frantic tickle of its legs against her palms—a frantic, scratching sensation that would have made a lesser girl flinch. Jane didn't blink. She scooped her hands together, creating a cage of fingers, lifting the spider into the air.
The room fell into a stunned, heavy silence, broken only by Annabelle's rapid, panicked breathing.
Jane turned calmly. She walked to the French doors that led to the terrace. She used her elbow to unlatch the handle, stepped outside, and shook her hands over the stone balustrade. The spider tumbled down into the ivy below.
Jane closed the doors. She turned back to the room, wiping her hands on her apron.
The scene was a tableau of disaster. Tea dripped from the table. Margaret was hyperventilating against the wall, her hands over her mouth. Annabelle was clutching a cushion to her chest, her eyes wide, staring at Jane staring at Jane as if she were an exorcist.
Jane walked back to the center of the room. She stopped in front of Alice, bowed her head, and spoke with a quiet, practiced humility.
"I apologize for breaking formation, Alice. I... I didn't want it to touch Her Grace's dress."
Annabelle lowered the cushion slowly. Her chest was heaving beneath the silk of her gown. She looked at the puddle of tea. She looked at Margaret, who was shaking and weeping.
Then, she looked at Jane.
"You caught it," Annabelle whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of residual terror and dawning awe. "With your bare hands."
"It was just a garden spider, Your Grace," Jane said softly. "It meant no harm. It was simply... misplaced."
Annabelle’s gaze hardened as she turned it toward Margaret. The fear in her eyes was replaced by a cold, reptilian fury.
"Misplaced?" Annabelle hissed. She stood up, stepping over the spilled tea without looking down. She walked up to Margaret, who shrank back against the wallpaper.
"You brought a monster to my table," Annabelle said, her voice dripping with venom. "You nearly ruined my gown. You destroyed the service. And when I screamed... you threw the silver at me."
"No! Your Grace! I didn't mean to!" Margaret sobbed. "I was scared! It jumped out!"
"Scared?" Annabelle laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. She pointed a shaking finger at Jane. "The scullery maid caught it in her hands. You are the Second Housemaid, and you reacted with all the grace of a toddler in a thunderstorm."
Annabelle turned back to Jane. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind that specific, dangerous clarity that Alice had warned about. The boredom was gone. The Duchess had been frightened, and now, someone had to pay for that fear.
"Alice," Annabelle commanded. "Clear this mess. And take Margaret to the East Wing."
Margaret let out a fresh wail of despair. "Please! Your Grace! NOT THE EAST WING!"
"Silence!" Annabelle snapped. She looked at Jane, her eyes narrowing with dark inspiration.
"You seem very comfortable with pests, Jane," Annabelle purred, a cruel smile returning to her lips. "You caught the beast. Now... I think you should be the one to tame the sow."
Jane looked up, meeting Annabelle’s gaze. She saw the invitation. It wasn't just a punishment; it was a promotion ceremony.
"I would be honored, Your Grace," Jane said.
---
The East Wing Punishment Room was a masterpiece of acoustic engineering. Heavy velvet drapes covered the walls, absorbing sound, while the floor was bare, polished oak that reflected every scrape and whimper. In the center, bathed in the light of a single, focused gas lamp, stood the St. Andrew’s Cross.
Margaret was not screaming anymore. She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving against the wood as Alice finished securing the final leather cuff. Her ankles were spread wide, her wrists hauled high above her head. She was stripped to her chemise, her skin blotchy with fear and exertion.
"Alice, please," Margaret whispered, her voice cracking. "Tell her I'm sorry. I didn't know it was there. It was just a spider."
Alice ignored her. She checked the tightness of the buckles with professional indifference, then stepped back into the shadows where Duchess Annabelle sat in a high-backed velvet chair. The Duchess held a glass of brandy, her eyes dark and unblinking.
"Begin, Jane," Annabelle commanded from the gloom. "Show me that your hands are good for more than just catching bugs."
Jane stepped into the light. She had removed her apron and rolled up the sleeves of her black dress to the elbow. She walked to the small table of implements.
There were whips. There were canes. There were leather straps.
Jane ignored them all.
She picked up the bottle of glycerin. It was thick, clear, and far stickier than the orange oil. Beside it, she selected the silver hairbrush—not the stiff horsehair one Margaret had used, but an antique vanity brush with metal bristles set in a soft rubber cushion. It was designed to detangle hair, not scour floors.
Jane turned to the cross. She saw the terror in Margaret’s eyes—the fear of a beating.
"You're going to hit me?" Margaret whimpered, flinching as Jane approached. "Just get it over with."
"Hit you?" Jane whispered, stepping between Margaret’s spread legs. She unscrewed the cap of the glycerin. "Oh, Margaret. You really haven't been paying attention, have you?"
Jane tilted the bottle. A thick bubble formed and broke with a lowglug. She didn't dump it. She poured a slow, deliberate line of the thick, syrupy liquid down the center of Margaret’s right foot. It pooled in the high arch, gleaming like liquid glass in the lamplight.
"Cold!" Margaret gasped, trying to pull her foot away, but the leather held firm.
Jane knelt. She didn't use the brush yet. She used her thumbs.
She pressed them into the glycerin, spreading the sticky substance over the sole. She began to knead the arch—deep, firm circles that felt almost medicinal.
Margaret stopped hyperventilating. She looked confused. "What... what are you doing?"
"Hush," Jane murmured. "The Duchess hates noise without purpose."
Jane picked up the silver brush. She looked at Margaret, a small, cold smile touching her lips. "You scrubbed me, Margaret. You tried to sand my skin off. Do you remember?"
"I was doing my job!" Margaret spat, a flash of her old arrogance returning.
"And now I'm doing mine."
Jane brought the silver brush down. She didn't strike. She dragged the metal bristles slowly from the heel to the toes.
The sensation was unique. The metal tines didn't scratch; they raked. The glycerin created a drag, a suction that pulled at the skin before snapping back. It was intense, sharp, and overwhelmingly ticklish.
"EEEEP!" Margaret jerked, her leg spasming. "What is that?! It—it feels weird!"
"Weird?" Jane asked, reversing the stroke. She swirled the bristles in the sensitive hollow of the arch. "Does it tickle, Margaret?"
"NO! STOP! IT'S SHARP! IT'S—AHA-HA-HA!"
The laughter broke through. It was ugly, honking, and involuntary.
"You have such heavy feet, Margaret," Jane lectured, mimicking Alice’s tone perfectly. She increased the speed, scrubbing the metal bristles back and forth across the sticky skin. "Stomping around the pantry. Scaring the spiders. We need to lighten your step."
"KYAAAA-HAAA-HAAA! GET OFF! GET OFF! AHA-HA-HA-HEEE!"
Margaret thrashed, her head banging against the wood. The glycerin made the sensation cling to her, lingering seconds after the brush had moved on.
Jane moved to the armpits. Margaret’s chemise was sleeveless, leaving the damp, hairy hollows exposed. Jane didn't use the brush here. She used her fingers.
She dug her nails into the pits—not to scratch, but to flutter. She played the ribs like a piano, her fingers dancing a frantic, spider-like rhythm.
"NOOOO! NOT THEEE-HEEE-RE! I HATE IT! I HATE IT!" Margaret shrieked, her body convulsing.
"You hate it?" Jane whispered, leaning in close, her voice dropping to a terrifying calm. "I hated the stocks, Margaret. I hated the goats. But I learned to sing. Can you sing for Her Grace?"
In the shadows, Annabelle leaned forward. The brandy glass tilted in her hand. She watched Jane—the way she controlled the pace, the way she alternated between the deep, sticky grind on the feet and the sharp, frantic flutter in the pits. There was no anger in Jane’s movements, only precision. She was playing Margaret like a cheap fiddle, extracting exactly the kind of desperate, humiliated noise that Annabelle craved.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! PLEASE! JANE! JAAAA-HAAA-NE!"
Margaret was weeping now, tears streaming down her blotchy face, snot running from her nose. She was a mess of fluids and noise.
Jane pulled back, leaving Margaret gasping for air. The silence in the room was heavy.
"Is she clean enough, Your Grace?" Jane asked, not looking back, her chest heaving slightly.
Annabelle stood up. She walked into the light, her silk dress rustling. She looked at the wreckage of Margaret—the red, sticky feet, the heaving chest, the broken spirit.
"She is loud," Annabelle observed coolly. "And she lacks rhythm."
Annabelle looked at Jane. "But you... you have a conductor’s hands."
The Duchess reached out and took the silver brush from Jane. She tapped it against her palm.
"The punishment for startling a Duchess is severe, Jane," Annabelle purred. "Ten minutes is standard. But this... this slovenly display requires overtime."
She handed the brush back to Jane.
"Keep going," Annabelle commanded, sitting on the edge of the platform to watch from inches away. "Don't stop until she stops making sense. I want to hear her beg in tongues."
Jane accepted the brush, feeling the weight of the silver in her sticky palm. She turned back to Margaret, whose eyes were wide with a fresh, hysterical terror. Margaret shook her head, a silent, desperate plea forming on her lips, but Jane’s expression was unyielding.
"Well," Jane murmured, her voice carrying the same mock-concern Margaret had used in the courtyard. "It seems the Duchess feels you are not sufficiently clean, Margaret."
Jane knelt down again. She brought the silver bristles to hover just millimeters from the center of Margaret’s glycerin-slicked arch. The anticipation made Margaret’s foot twitch violently against the leather strap, making it creak.
"Oh, look," Jane whispered, a cruel, triumphant smile blooming on her face. Her free hand shot out, clamping over Margaret's toes and yanking them back, forcing the arch to bow upward into a taut, trembling, and utterly defenseless surface. "I guess I missed a spot."
She plunged the brush down.
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Annabelle has her chance back at the Front of House to prove herself worthy of the position.
When she spots a large garden spider on the ledge and looks at her rival, she cannot help herself but try to get one up on her
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,097
F/F | foot Tickling | Tickle Torture
Jane stood in the center of the room, her nightgown clinging to a body that was trembling with a fine, exhausted vibration. Her feet—still pink and tender from the Duchess’s oil-and-brush torture hours earlier—were perched on the oak foot roller.
It was a deceptive little instrument. To the casual observer, it was a tool for massage. To Jane, after forty minutes of standing motionless upon it, it was a rack. The hard, polished wooden knobs dug relentlessly into her sensitive arches, feeling less like massage and more like hot pebbles being ground, pressing deep into the plantar fascia, finding the bruised spots Margaret had assaulted and the nerves Annabelle had awakened.
Every instinct screamed at her to step off, to curl her toes, to crumple. But Alice was watching.
Alice sat in her high-backed chair, sipping her tea, a willow switch resting casually across her lap. She wasn't watching Jane’s feet. She was watching her spine.
"Shoulders," Alice snapped, her voice cutting through the dim warmth of the room. "You are curling inward again. You look like a frightened hedgehog."
Jane forced her shoulder blades back, a hiss of air escaping her teeth as the movement shifted her center of gravity, driving the wooden knots deeper into her heels. "Hhh-ssst..."
"Silence," Alice corrected, not unkindly, but with absolute firmness. "Pain is information, Jane. It tells you where you are heavy. It tells you where you are weak. If you gasp every time the floor pushes back, you will never survive the Drawing Room."
Alice stood up, the willow switch whipped through the air with a thin vvt-vvt. She circled Jane like a shark. She reached out and tapped the small of Jane’s back with the tip of the switch—not a strike, but a cue.
"Tuck your pelvis. You are swaying. A sway implies instability."
Jane adjusted, her muscles burning. "It... it hurts, Alice. My feet feel like they’re on fire."
"Good," Alice said, coming to stand in front of her. "Fire purifies. If you can stand on this for an hour with the grace of a queen, then standing on a plush rug for five hours while the Duchess ignores you will feel like a holiday."
Alice sighed, rubbing her temples. The perfect mask of the Senior Housemaid slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a deep, grinding irritation.
"I need you to be ready, Jane. Because I cannot tolerate another service with Margaret."
Jane blinked, sweat dripping down her nose. "Margaret? But she is Second Housemaid now. Surely she knows the steps."
Alice let out a short, bitter laugh. "Margaret knows the steps of a clog dancer. Today, during the luncheon..." Alice paused, her face tightening with professional disgust. "She walked into the Blue Room like she was wearing horseshoes. Thud-thud-thud. The crystal in the cabinet actually rattled."
Alice paced the room, her frustration boiling over. "And her hands... she has the dexterity of a butcher. She slammed the tureen down so hard a ladle of soup sloshed onto the linen. The Duchess didn't say a word, of course. She just stared at the stain. But I saw her eye twitch. That tiny little spasm near the temple that means someone is going to bleed later."
Alice turned back to Jane, her eyes fierce. "Margaret thinks the promotion is a license to be lazy. She thinks because she was cruel to you in the courtyard, she has earned her place. She doesn't understand that cruelty without precision is just... mess."
Jane’s legs began to shake violently, the muscles in her calves spasming. She gritted her teeth, staring at a knot in the wall, refusing to fall.
Alice watched the struggle, a flicker of approval softening her gaze. She stepped forward and placed a hand on Jane’s shoulder—not to push her down, but to steady her.
"Hold it," Alice whispered. "Ten more seconds. Use the pain. Don't let it use you."
Jane squeezed her eyes shut. The wooden knobs felt like they were piercing her skin, but she locked her knees and held her breath.
Ten... nine...
"Tomorrow," Alice said, her voice low. "You will not be in the scullery. You will shadow me. You will walk six paces behind me. You will mimic my stride. And you will watch Margaret."
Five... four...
"You will see exactly what I mean," Alice continued. "You will see the clumsiness. The arrogance. And you will see that she leaves herself wide open."
Three... two... one.
"Step down."
Jane collapsed off the roller, her feet hitting the flat floorboards. The sudden absence of pressure was a shock, a wave of pins-and-needles nausea that washed up from her soles. She swayed, gasping, "Hhh-uh! Hhh-uh!"
her feet hitting the flat floorboards. The sudden absence of pressure was a shock, a wave of pins-and-needles nausea that washed up from her soles
Alice caught her arm, keeping her upright. "Steady. The blood is rushing back. It will sting."
"I... I can do it, Alice," Jane panted, looking up at her mentor. "I can be quieter than her."
"I know," Alice said, a dark conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Tomorrow, we simply watch. We let her dig her own grave. And if she happens to hand us the shovel... well, who are we to refuse it?"
---
The afternoon sun poured through the high windows of the Service Wing corridor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air—or at least, they would have questioned the dust if Alice hadn't already ensured every surface was immaculate.
Jane stood in the shadow of the pantry door, her hands clasped behind her back. She was no longer wearing the coarse grey wool of the scullery. Alice had found her a spare housemaid’s uniform—crisp black bombazine and a starched white apron that rustled softly with every breath. It was a size too big in the bust, but the waist fit perfectly, cinched tight to enforce the posture she had practiced on the roller.
Her feet still ached with a deep, bone-bruise throb, but in the flat-soled soft shoes Alice had provided, the pain was a manageable hum, a constant reminder to tread lightly.
"Six paces," Alice reminded her, adjusting her own cuff. "And do not speak unless addressed. You are a shadow."
"Yes, Ma'am," Jane whispered.
Ahead of them, in the bustling Butler’s Pantry, Margaret was holding court.
As Second Housemaid, Margaret was responsible for the final presentation of the afternoon tea tray. She stood by the long slate counter, fussing with a silver tiered stand. She looked flustered, her face shiny with perspiration.
"Where is the clotted cream?" Margaret snapped at a terrified kitchen girl. "And these scones... they’re cooling! The Duchess will have my head if the steam is gone!"
Margaret was frantic, her movements jerky and aggressive. She grabbed a silver pot of jam, slamming it onto the tray with a sharp chink! that made Alice wince from the doorway.
"Look at her elbows," Alice murmured to Jane, barely moving her lips. "Flapping like a chicken. No economy of motion."
Jane watched, fascinated. Alice was right. Margaret moved with a chaotic energy that wasted time and created noise.
"I need more napkins!" Margaret shouted, turning abruptly. She didn't check her surroundings. She practically threw herself away from the counter, marching toward the linen cupboard at the far end of the pantry.
In her haste, she left the primary tray—laden with warm, golden scones and waiting for its silver domed lid—completely unguarded by the open window.
Alice turned her back completely, marching to the far wall to inspect the inventory slate. She began aggressively tallying the tea tins, her finger tapping a series of sharp ticks against the slate, drowned out by Margaret's screeching. The chaos Margaret was creating—the clatter of silver, the shouting about starch—created a perfect auditory screen.
Jane saw it instantly. The pantry window had been cracked open to let in a breeze against the oven heat. Resting on the sill, clearly disturbed by the vibration of Margaret’s stomping, was a spider.
It wasn't a small, wispy thing. It was a mature house spider—thick-bodied, dark brown, and hairy, with legs that spanned the width of a teacup. It sat motionless against the white paint, a stark blot of horror waiting to happen.
Jane glanced at the linen cupboard. Margaret was arguing with the laundry maid.
She glanced at Alice. Alice was frowning at the ledger, her back turned.
Jane saw the opening. It was a three-second window where the world was looking the other way.
The impulse hit Jane like a bolt of lightning. It wasn't a plan; it was an instinct. It was the weed reaching out to strangle the flower.
Jane didn't think. She moved.
She crossed the three steps to the counter in total silence, her soft shoes absorbing every sound.
She grabbed a spare linen napkin from the stack. With a fluid, fearless motion—the kind born of a childhood spent turning over rocks in the garden—she scooped the spider from the sill.
Through the fine linen, she felt a frantic, wiry thrumming—the desperate pushing of its jointed legs against the cloth—before she quickly bunched the fabric, stilling the movement and trapping it securely within the folds
She turned to the tray. The scones were piled high, steaming gently.
With a single, fluid motion, Jane placed the napkin containing the spider directly on top of the clean stack. She didn't just drop it; she set it down with a practiced air, as if adding one final, essential piece to the arrangement. To any observer, she had simply added a napkin. The slight, almost imperceptible lump in the center of the linen was the only sign of the dark secret now nested within, waiting.
The vibration of the tray and the overwhelming heat commanded it to stay still, to curl its legs tight and wait for the earthquake to stop.
Jane replaced the lid of the cloche tray with a small click before stepping back, sliding seamlessly into her previous position just as Margaret turned around.
"Finally!" Margaret grumbled, marching back to the tray. She shoved the napkins onto the side of the platter. She grabbed the handles of the heavy silver tray, heaving it up against her hip.
The spider was sealed in. A dark secret in a silver palace.
"Out of my way," Margaret snarled at Jane as she passed, barging through the doorway. "Real work to do."
Jane watched her go, a cold, electric thrill racing down her spine.
Alice looked up from her ledger. "Ready?"
"Yes, Alice," Jane said, her voice perfectly steady.
"Then follow. And remember... watch the feet."
Alice swept out of the room after Margaret. Jane followed six paces behind, her heart hammering a rhythm of pure, wicked anticipation.
---
The Blue Drawing Room was a sanctuary of afternoon languor. Sunlight pooled on the Persian rugs, and the air was heavy with the scent of hothouse jasmine and the faint, smoky aroma of Lapsang Souchong.
Duchess Annabelle reclined on the velvet chaise, a book of poetry resting idly in her lap. She looked the picture of boredom—a woman waiting for the world to entertain her.
The double doors opened. Margaret entered first, the heavy silver tray propped against her hip. Her face was flushed a motley red from the exertion and the heat of the pantry. She walked with a heavy, flat-footed gait—thud, thud, thud—that made the china teacups rattle in their saucers with a faint tink-tink-tink.
Alice glided in behind her, silent as smoke. Jane followed six paces back, her hands clasped, her eyes lowered but watchful.
"Afternoon tea, Your Grace," Margaret announced, perhaps a decibel too loud for the serene room. She thumped the tray down onto the low mahogany table.
Annabelle winced slightly at the impact but didn't look up from her book. "Pour the tea, Margaret. And I trust the scones are actually hot this time? I detest cold dough."
"Steaming, Your Grace," Margaret promised, eager to please. "Fresh from the oven."
Margaret reached for the ornate silver handle of the domed cloche. She paused for dramatic effect—a clumsy attempt at flair—and then lifted the lid with a flourish.
Two things happened simultaneously.
First, a cloud of fragrant steam released into the cool air, smelling of butter and yeast.
Second, the sudden flood of light sent the spider into shock.
The disruption was total. The roof was ripped off its world, and the blinding afternoon sun struck it. Instinct took over. It didn't think; it fled. The spider surged out from the folds of the linen napkin at the base of the pile, desperate to find a shadow.
It shot out like a dark bullet across the white fabric, sprinting away from the exposed center and directly toward the nearest object that offered cover—Annabelle’s hand.
For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Annabelle stared at the black, multi-legged horror charging at her.
"AAAAIIIIEEE!"
The scream was not aristocratic. It was primal. Annabelle recoiled violently, kicking her legs out and scrambling back into the cushions of the chaise, her book flying onto the floor.
Margaret shattered.
Panic hijacked her motor functions. She shrieked—a high, piercing sound—and dropped the heavy silver lid.
CLANG-CRASH.
The lid hit the edge of the delicate china service. The teapot tipped. Hot, dark liquid flooded the tray, soaking the scones and splattering onto the expensive rug.
"It’s loose! It’s loose!" Margaret screamed, flapping her apron at the table like a demented goose, creating a wind that only confused the spider further. She backed away, knocking into a side table, her clumsiness turning the accident into a catastrophe.
Alice stepped forward, her face a mask of shock, reaching for the Duchess.
But Jane was faster.
She didn't run; she flowed. Ignoring the six-pace rule, she surged past Alice. She didn't look at the screaming Duchess or the flailing Margaret. Her eyes were locked on the target.
The spider, terrified by the noise, had paused on the edge of the tea tray, its legs twitching.
Jane reached out. She didn't swat it. She didn't crush it. With a decisive, fluid motion, she cupped her bare hands over the creature, trapping it against the mahogany table.
She felt the dry, frantic tickle of its legs against her palms—a frantic, scratching sensation that would have made a lesser girl flinch. Jane didn't blink. She scooped her hands together, creating a cage of fingers, lifting the spider into the air.
The room fell into a stunned, heavy silence, broken only by Annabelle's rapid, panicked breathing.
Jane turned calmly. She walked to the French doors that led to the terrace. She used her elbow to unlatch the handle, stepped outside, and shook her hands over the stone balustrade. The spider tumbled down into the ivy below.
Jane closed the doors. She turned back to the room, wiping her hands on her apron.
The scene was a tableau of disaster. Tea dripped from the table. Margaret was hyperventilating against the wall, her hands over her mouth. Annabelle was clutching a cushion to her chest, her eyes wide, staring at Jane staring at Jane as if she were an exorcist.
Jane walked back to the center of the room. She stopped in front of Alice, bowed her head, and spoke with a quiet, practiced humility.
"I apologize for breaking formation, Alice. I... I didn't want it to touch Her Grace's dress."
Annabelle lowered the cushion slowly. Her chest was heaving beneath the silk of her gown. She looked at the puddle of tea. She looked at Margaret, who was shaking and weeping.
Then, she looked at Jane.
"You caught it," Annabelle whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of residual terror and dawning awe. "With your bare hands."
"It was just a garden spider, Your Grace," Jane said softly. "It meant no harm. It was simply... misplaced."
Annabelle’s gaze hardened as she turned it toward Margaret. The fear in her eyes was replaced by a cold, reptilian fury.
"Misplaced?" Annabelle hissed. She stood up, stepping over the spilled tea without looking down. She walked up to Margaret, who shrank back against the wallpaper.
"You brought a monster to my table," Annabelle said, her voice dripping with venom. "You nearly ruined my gown. You destroyed the service. And when I screamed... you threw the silver at me."
"No! Your Grace! I didn't mean to!" Margaret sobbed. "I was scared! It jumped out!"
"Scared?" Annabelle laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. She pointed a shaking finger at Jane. "The scullery maid caught it in her hands. You are the Second Housemaid, and you reacted with all the grace of a toddler in a thunderstorm."
Annabelle turned back to Jane. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind that specific, dangerous clarity that Alice had warned about. The boredom was gone. The Duchess had been frightened, and now, someone had to pay for that fear.
"Alice," Annabelle commanded. "Clear this mess. And take Margaret to the East Wing."
Margaret let out a fresh wail of despair. "Please! Your Grace! NOT THE EAST WING!"
"Silence!" Annabelle snapped. She looked at Jane, her eyes narrowing with dark inspiration.
"You seem very comfortable with pests, Jane," Annabelle purred, a cruel smile returning to her lips. "You caught the beast. Now... I think you should be the one to tame the sow."
Jane looked up, meeting Annabelle’s gaze. She saw the invitation. It wasn't just a punishment; it was a promotion ceremony.
"I would be honored, Your Grace," Jane said.
---
The East Wing Punishment Room was a masterpiece of acoustic engineering. Heavy velvet drapes covered the walls, absorbing sound, while the floor was bare, polished oak that reflected every scrape and whimper. In the center, bathed in the light of a single, focused gas lamp, stood the St. Andrew’s Cross.
Margaret was not screaming anymore. She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving against the wood as Alice finished securing the final leather cuff. Her ankles were spread wide, her wrists hauled high above her head. She was stripped to her chemise, her skin blotchy with fear and exertion.
"Alice, please," Margaret whispered, her voice cracking. "Tell her I'm sorry. I didn't know it was there. It was just a spider."
Alice ignored her. She checked the tightness of the buckles with professional indifference, then stepped back into the shadows where Duchess Annabelle sat in a high-backed velvet chair. The Duchess held a glass of brandy, her eyes dark and unblinking.
"Begin, Jane," Annabelle commanded from the gloom. "Show me that your hands are good for more than just catching bugs."
Jane stepped into the light. She had removed her apron and rolled up the sleeves of her black dress to the elbow. She walked to the small table of implements.
There were whips. There were canes. There were leather straps.
Jane ignored them all.
She picked up the bottle of glycerin. It was thick, clear, and far stickier than the orange oil. Beside it, she selected the silver hairbrush—not the stiff horsehair one Margaret had used, but an antique vanity brush with metal bristles set in a soft rubber cushion. It was designed to detangle hair, not scour floors.
Jane turned to the cross. She saw the terror in Margaret’s eyes—the fear of a beating.
"You're going to hit me?" Margaret whimpered, flinching as Jane approached. "Just get it over with."
"Hit you?" Jane whispered, stepping between Margaret’s spread legs. She unscrewed the cap of the glycerin. "Oh, Margaret. You really haven't been paying attention, have you?"
Jane tilted the bottle. A thick bubble formed and broke with a lowglug. She didn't dump it. She poured a slow, deliberate line of the thick, syrupy liquid down the center of Margaret’s right foot. It pooled in the high arch, gleaming like liquid glass in the lamplight.
"Cold!" Margaret gasped, trying to pull her foot away, but the leather held firm.
Jane knelt. She didn't use the brush yet. She used her thumbs.
She pressed them into the glycerin, spreading the sticky substance over the sole. She began to knead the arch—deep, firm circles that felt almost medicinal.
Margaret stopped hyperventilating. She looked confused. "What... what are you doing?"
"Hush," Jane murmured. "The Duchess hates noise without purpose."
Jane picked up the silver brush. She looked at Margaret, a small, cold smile touching her lips. "You scrubbed me, Margaret. You tried to sand my skin off. Do you remember?"
"I was doing my job!" Margaret spat, a flash of her old arrogance returning.
"And now I'm doing mine."
Jane brought the silver brush down. She didn't strike. She dragged the metal bristles slowly from the heel to the toes.
The sensation was unique. The metal tines didn't scratch; they raked. The glycerin created a drag, a suction that pulled at the skin before snapping back. It was intense, sharp, and overwhelmingly ticklish.
"EEEEP!" Margaret jerked, her leg spasming. "What is that?! It—it feels weird!"
"Weird?" Jane asked, reversing the stroke. She swirled the bristles in the sensitive hollow of the arch. "Does it tickle, Margaret?"
"NO! STOP! IT'S SHARP! IT'S—AHA-HA-HA!"
The laughter broke through. It was ugly, honking, and involuntary.
"You have such heavy feet, Margaret," Jane lectured, mimicking Alice’s tone perfectly. She increased the speed, scrubbing the metal bristles back and forth across the sticky skin. "Stomping around the pantry. Scaring the spiders. We need to lighten your step."
"KYAAAA-HAAA-HAAA! GET OFF! GET OFF! AHA-HA-HA-HEEE!"
Margaret thrashed, her head banging against the wood. The glycerin made the sensation cling to her, lingering seconds after the brush had moved on.
Jane moved to the armpits. Margaret’s chemise was sleeveless, leaving the damp, hairy hollows exposed. Jane didn't use the brush here. She used her fingers.
She dug her nails into the pits—not to scratch, but to flutter. She played the ribs like a piano, her fingers dancing a frantic, spider-like rhythm.
"NOOOO! NOT THEEE-HEEE-RE! I HATE IT! I HATE IT!" Margaret shrieked, her body convulsing.
"You hate it?" Jane whispered, leaning in close, her voice dropping to a terrifying calm. "I hated the stocks, Margaret. I hated the goats. But I learned to sing. Can you sing for Her Grace?"
In the shadows, Annabelle leaned forward. The brandy glass tilted in her hand. She watched Jane—the way she controlled the pace, the way she alternated between the deep, sticky grind on the feet and the sharp, frantic flutter in the pits. There was no anger in Jane’s movements, only precision. She was playing Margaret like a cheap fiddle, extracting exactly the kind of desperate, humiliated noise that Annabelle craved.
"AHA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! PLEASE! JANE! JAAAA-HAAA-NE!"
Margaret was weeping now, tears streaming down her blotchy face, snot running from her nose. She was a mess of fluids and noise.
Jane pulled back, leaving Margaret gasping for air. The silence in the room was heavy.
"Is she clean enough, Your Grace?" Jane asked, not looking back, her chest heaving slightly.
Annabelle stood up. She walked into the light, her silk dress rustling. She looked at the wreckage of Margaret—the red, sticky feet, the heaving chest, the broken spirit.
"She is loud," Annabelle observed coolly. "And she lacks rhythm."
Annabelle looked at Jane. "But you... you have a conductor’s hands."
The Duchess reached out and took the silver brush from Jane. She tapped it against her palm.
"The punishment for startling a Duchess is severe, Jane," Annabelle purred. "Ten minutes is standard. But this... this slovenly display requires overtime."
She handed the brush back to Jane.
"Keep going," Annabelle commanded, sitting on the edge of the platform to watch from inches away. "Don't stop until she stops making sense. I want to hear her beg in tongues."
Jane accepted the brush, feeling the weight of the silver in her sticky palm. She turned back to Margaret, whose eyes were wide with a fresh, hysterical terror. Margaret shook her head, a silent, desperate plea forming on her lips, but Jane’s expression was unyielding.
"Well," Jane murmured, her voice carrying the same mock-concern Margaret had used in the courtyard. "It seems the Duchess feels you are not sufficiently clean, Margaret."
Jane knelt down again. She brought the silver bristles to hover just millimeters from the center of Margaret’s glycerin-slicked arch. The anticipation made Margaret’s foot twitch violently against the leather strap, making it creak.
"Oh, look," Jane whispered, a cruel, triumphant smile blooming on her face. Her free hand shot out, clamping over Margaret's toes and yanking them back, forcing the arch to bow upward into a taut, trembling, and utterly defenseless surface. "I guess I missed a spot."
She plunged the brush down.
