Serve Me, My Lord

Emmett's eyes snapped open. He gasped. His throat closed up completely, blocking the air. He clawed at the stiff, starched cotton sheets. His fingers tore at the thin fabric. The phantom weight of a thick, coarse rope still crushed his windpipe. He choked. A wet, ugly sound ripped from his throat. His chest heaved up and down. He rolled to the side, desperate for oxygen. His body slid off the edge of the narrow mattress.

He hit the floor. His knees slammed into the cold, polished concrete floor. The sharp pain shot up his legs. He gasped again, and this time, air flooded his lungs. The pain in his knees was real. It wasn't the cold numbness of a broken neck.

He dragged his shaking hand up the side of the nightstand. His fingers hit a small box of matches. He grabbed one and struck it against the wood. The sudden flare stabbed his eyes. He squeezed them shut, then forced them open to look at the small paper calendar pinned to the wall.

He stared at the paper.

October 14th.

His heart stopped. Then it slammed hard against his ribs. Three days. He was exactly three days away from the afternoon Alistair Patterson would fall from his horse and snap his spine.

A loud electronic alarm went off in the hallway. A second later, a heavy fist pounded on his door.

"Emmett! Get up!" Rory yelled through the thin wood. "Finch is on a rampage today!"

Emmett stared at the door. His stomach cramped. Rory. He remembered Rory choking on his own vomit, dying of a fentanyl overdose two years after the Patterson estate went bankrupt.

Emmett swallowed the sour taste of bile in his mouth. He took a deep breath.

"I'm up," Emmett said. His voice sounded like gravel, but it was completely flat.

He pushed himself off the floor. He walked to the small mirror above the plastic sink. He grabbed the edges of the basin. He looked at his face.

There were no bruises on his jaw. No split lip from the police enforcer's fist. His skin was smooth and young. It was the face of a naive boy who thought hard work would get him out of the slums. But his eyes were different. They were completely dead.

He pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head. He grabbed the dark gray uniform of a lower-tier footman. He pulled the trousers up. He buttoned the stiff collar of the shirt. His movements were fast, rigid, and precise.

He opened the door.

Rory leaned against the wall. He rubbed his eyes. "They put me on laundry duty again. Elias hates me."

Emmett didn't nod. He didn't smile. He just stepped past Rory into the hallway.

"Hey, are you listening?" Rory reached out to grab Emmett's shoulder.

Emmett's body reacted instantly. He dropped his shoulder and twisted his torso. Rory's hand grabbed empty air.

Rory blinked. "What's your problem?"

"We're going to be late," Emmett said. He kept walking.

They walked through the underground service tunnels. The concrete walls felt like a prison. Above them, heavy footsteps thumped against the ceiling. The masters were awake.

Emmett pushed through the metal doors of the staff cafeteria. The smell of burnt coffee and harsh bleach hit his nose.

He grabbed a plastic tray. He walked to the serving line.

"Move your bag, Rory! That's my chair!" Moira yelled. She slammed her tray down on the table. The plastic cracked.

Rory scowled and pulled his canvas bag away.

Emmett ignored them. He poured black coffee into a mug. He walked to a small table in the corner and sat down. He wrapped his cold hands around the hot mug. He kept his head down, but his eyes watched everyone. He knew all their secrets. He knew how they would all die or end up in jail.

The double doors swung open. Mildred Finch, the head housekeeper, walked in.

The cafeteria went completely silent. Over forty servants stood up. They stood straight by their chairs.

Finch walked down the aisle. Her black shoes clicked on the floor. She looked at every collar and cuff.

She stopped in front of Emmett. She leaned in. He smelled peppermint on her breath. She reached out to fix his black bowtie.

Emmett didn't move. He didn't blink. He kept his breathing perfectly even. He stared at the blank wall behind her.

Finch's fingers stopped inches from his neck. She frowned. His tie was perfect. His collar was clean.

She dropped her hand. She let out a sharp breath and walked away.

Ten minutes later, the morning meeting ended. Elias, the head butler, spoke through the intercom.

"Emmett. Main dining room. Polish the antique silver before breakfast."

Emmett stood up. He walked to the closet and grabbed the wooden cleaning box. He stepped into the hidden service elevator. He pressed the button for the first floor.

The elevator jerked up. Emmett's stomach dropped.

The doors opened. The basement smell was gone. The air smelled like lemon polish and expensive flowers. The massive crystal chandeliers blinded him for a second. The walls were covered in dark mahogany.

Emmett stepped onto the thick Persian rug. His throat tightened. This room was where they had planned his ruin.

He set the box down on the long table. He pulled on white cotton gloves. He picked up a heavy silver candelabra. He rubbed the polish into the metal.

He moved the cloth in hard, tight circles. He remembered the sound of the judge's gavel. He remembered Clara's fake tears in the courtroom.

The heavy doors of the dining room slammed open.

Alistair Patterson walked in. He wore a red riding coat and white breeches. He held a leather riding crop. He was barking orders at a terrified clerk.

Alistair didn't look at Emmett.

"I don't care what the Crown's Treasury says!" Alistair yelled. His face turned red. "Move the funds from the Swiss account! If the trust liquidity drops, my father will cut me off!"

Alistair paced across the rug. He breathed heavily. He stopped at the head of the table.

"Fix it!" Alistair screamed. He slammed the riding crop down on the table.

The leather hit the edge of a large silver tray. The tray flipped up and slid off the table.

Emmett dropped his cloth. His left hand shot out. He caught the edge of the heavy tray right before it hit the floor. The metal dug into his gloved palm. He didn't make a sound.

Alistair stopped yelling. He turned his head. He looked down at Emmett.

Alistair's eyes were blank. He looked at Emmett like he was looking at a chair.

Emmett slowly stood up. He held the tray against his chest. He tucked his chin down in a deep bow.

Beneath his lowered eyelashes, Emmett's eyes were ice cold. He stared at Alistair's expensive boots. He looked at him like he was already dead.

Alistair scoffed. He turned around and shoved the telegraph dispatch back into the clerk's hands.

"Idiots," Alistair muttered. He walked out of the room. He left the doors open.

Emmett stood in the silence. He put the tray back on the table. He picked up the riding crop. He ran his thumb over the braided leather. He set it down next to the tray.

He picked up his cloth. He went back to polishing.

He looked down at the silver tray. His face reflected in the metal.

The corners of his mouth pulled up. He smiled. It was a cold, dangerous smile.

The antique clock in the hallway chimed seven times. The heavy sounds echoed through the room.

Emmett listened. He started counting.

Seventy-two hours. That was all Alistair had left.