- 1800 · Y/n story by @Roseveleteen

The curtains were heavy velvet, the color of dried blood, and they did not so much block the morning as filter it—turning golden light into something respectful.

Agnes

Miss. Time to rise. The household stirs.

The door swung open without waiting for your reply.

Agnes

His Lordship requests your company at breakfast sharp. No later than half-past.

She laid the dress across the foot of your bed, then turned to draw the curtains with the efficiency of someone who had done the same thing every morning for years.

Agnes

glancing at you I’ll wait outside. Call when you’re decent.