Serve Me, My Lord

It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The sky was a bruised, ugly purple. The air was thick with humidity.

Emmett wore heavy rubber boots. He stood inside the wooden stalls of the Patterson stables. He held a metal pitchfork. He pushed the dirty hay and horse manure into a wheelbarrow. His movements were slow and steady.

Suddenly, the loud, violent screech of rubber tires tore through the quiet afternoon.

Emmett stopped. He leaned on the pitchfork. He looked through the wooden slats of the stall.

An estate's heavy transport carriage slammed on its brakes in the gravel driveway. The doors flew open.

Angus, the old stable master, ran out of the break room. The brass whistle around his neck was swinging wildly.

"Clear the south lawn!" the security captain shrieked from the courtyard. "Clear the landing pad! We need the fastest physician's carriage now!"

Emmett didn't move. He stood perfectly still in the shadows. He watched the panic erupt outside. His eyes were cold and unblinking.

Two white medical wagons flew through the main gates, their sirens wailing. The estate's emergency alarm system activated. Red strobe lights flashed against the dark sky.

Rory sprinted around the corner of the main house. He ran toward the stables. His face was chalk-white. He grabbed the wooden fence, gasping for air.

"He's dead!" Rory screamed. His voice cracked. "Master Alistair! He fell off his horse! The horse stepped on his neck! He's not breathing!"

Old Angus dropped to his knees in the dirt. He grabbed his gray hair. "The family is ruined," Angus moaned. "We're all ruined."

Emmett dropped his pitchfork. The metal clattered loudly against the stone floor. He forced his eyes wide open. He dropped his jaw, creating a perfect mask of shock and terror.

He ran out of the stall and grabbed Angus by the shoulders, pretending to support the old man.

Half an hour later, the swift medical transport clattered down the road. It took Alistair's broken body away. The manor fell into a dead, heavy silence.

By evening, Elias ordered all lower-tier servants to stay in the underground break room. The room was packed. The air was hot and smelled like nervous sweat.

Moira sat in the corner, violently biting her fingernails. "Without an heir, the Wall Street trust will liquidate everything," she said, her voice shaking. "They'll sell the house. We're all fired."

Rory sat on the floor, holding his head. "My etiquette book is useless! We're going to be homeless!"

Emmett sat in the darkest corner of the room. He held a plastic cup of lukewarm water. He watched them panic like trapped rats.

He took a slow breath. He let his shoulders slump. He made his voice sound hesitant and confused.

"I remember..." Emmett started softly. He paused, acting like he was trying to recall a distant memory. "I think... the Viscount isn't the only bloodline."

The entire room went dead silent. Forty heads snapped toward him.

Rory scrambled off the floor. He grabbed Emmett's arm. His fingers dug into Emmett's sleeve. "What do you know? Tell us!"

Emmett jerked backward. He pulled his arm away, acting terrified of the sudden attention.

"I-I don't know," Emmett stuttered. He looked down at his shoes. "I was delivering files to the main house once. I heard the lawyers talking."

Emmett let the silence stretch for two seconds. Then he dropped the bait.

"The Viscount has a brother," Emmett whispered. "And that brother has a legal son. I think his name is... Kearney Bernard."

Moira stood up. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "You're a footman. You don't know anything about trust inheritance laws. You probably misheard them."

Emmett immediately shrank back. He hunched his shoulders. He looked up at Moira with wide, submissive eyes.

"You're right," Emmett said quickly. "I don't have much formal schooling. I don't understand half those complicated legal words."

He played the stupid, uneducated servant perfectly. Moira rolled her eyes and sat back down, satisfied that she was smarter than him.

But the seed was planted. The name "Kearney" echoed in the quiet room.

The heavy metal doors slammed open. Elias, the head butler, marched in. His face was pale and furious.

"All leave is canceled," Elias barked. "The estate is in a period of mourning. If any of you speak to the press, you will be sued for millions under your NDAs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the servants mumbled in unison. They all stared at the floor.

Elias turned and marched out.

Emmett kept his head down. But beneath his dark hair, his eyes gleamed with sharp satisfaction. His first pawn was on the board.

He knew how fast rumors spread in the servant quarters. When Kearney finally arrived, the servants would already be expecting a new master. And Emmett would be the one pulling their strings.