As always, the kitchen was so hot that sweat dripped down Tilda’s neck into the collar of her wool dress. The wet fabric scratched her neck, leaving it raw and red. The pounding of stiff dough for that evening’s bread had left her knuckles raw and she rubbed her hands over the redness that colored them. Heaving a sigh, she splayed her fingers out and turned her hands over, palms up.<br/><br/>Her fingers were calloused, scarred from knives and hot pans. They were servant’s hands, as she was nothing more than a servant. Raquiza had told her that, after Tilda had spilled tea all over Auguste. She was sure she was going to be beat for it, but instead Raquiza had been tender, almost-kind. If not more than a little threatening.  And then there was the weird interaction with Auguste.<br/><br/>Tilda remembered the scene clearly. Standing in his room, pinned between the door and his body, her heart racing and her breath hitching in her throat. It was more than just a memory of some vivid dream, it was real, it had happened. And he couldn’t remember a minute of it. Scrubbing her hands over her face, she sighed in frustration. She felt like her mind was slipping, like she was remembering her life in bits and pieces. It was maddening, and in an outlet of her growing temper, she tore off her stained apron and threw it on the floor, marching out of the hot kitchen into the damp, coolness of the afternoon.<br/><br/>While she walked, Tilda kept her eyes cast down. Her pace was hurried, and her footfalls heavy. She was doing all that should could to keep anyone from speaking to her. There was only one person she wanted to speak to, and he had turned her away every time she had tried. Balling her hands into fists, she let out an exasperated noise between clenched teeth, pressing her eyes closed for just a moment. It was sheer luck that that single moment was enough time for her to miss the sound of boots, or the shadow that fell across her eyes, until she had nearly slammed into the front of a very firm body.<br/><br/>Blinking, Tilda took a step back. Immediately, as she lifted her eyes, her cheeks flushed brilliant crimson. Almost as if she was ashamed, or shy, or knew some secret that she shouldn’t have. Like what his body looked like outside of his stately garb. “Lord A..Auguste. I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”