The bell rang.

Not the ring of breakfast in the east dining room. Not the soft rustle of linens and silver spoons.

This was the servant's bell.

Cold. Hard. Cruel.

It rang at six-fifteen every morning. Before birds fluttered. Before lightening the curtains. Before the family even stirred in their beds.

This morning, it rang for her.

Leya did not move.

She was already awake.

Already wearing a grimy apron and loose filthy brown dress. Too tight around the arms and too loose ...