The smoke thickened, burning Mabli’s nostrils. The “footmen,” now unmasked thugs with grim snarls, moved with predatory grace. One lunged, a blade glinting, but Mabli met him mid-stride. The heavy, hammered-silver tea tray connected with his jawbone, a sickening crunch echoing through the drawing room. The man crumpled, a porcelain teacup shattering on his head as he fell, spraying delicate floral shards. A dowager shrieked, a sound like a peacock being strangled. Mabli didn't flinch. “My God,” Dash breathed, not in horror, but a strange, rapt admiration. He snatched a heavy brass light-stand from a side table, its seven curved branches ideal for bludgeoning. A second thug, hefting a short axe, swung wide. Dash met him with a sharp roar, the metal branches slamming into the man’s temple. The axe clattered, forgotten. Arabella, huddled under a chaise longue, peered out, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and utter disbelief. Elias Vossen, Dash’s uncle, watched, a venomous grimace twisting his face. “Kill them! You fools! The boy first, then them!” Mabli moved like a blur, the tea tray a deadly extension of her arm. Another thug, taller and broader than the last, tried to grapple her. She ducked under his reach, swinging the tray up to catch him under the chin. As he reeled, she shoved a delicate, gilded porcelain figurine of a cherub into his eye socket. His scream was abruptly cut short as he dropped, clutching his face, blood welling between his thick digits. “The humanity!” someone wailed from the crowd of fainting socialites, as if a cherub in the eye was a worse offense than an attempted arson. Dash, meanwhile, was a revelation. His blows with the bronze sconce were precise, brutal. He fought with a desperate ferocity Mabli had never seen, moving to cover her blind spots, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that burned through the smoke. He was utterly reliant on her, yet fiercely protective, a contradiction that twisted something tight in Mabli’s chest. “The door!” Mabli yelled over the din, pointing with her chin. The oak was thick, but the heat from outside was already warping the decorative carvings. “We need to get to Kip!” Dash nodded, teeth gritted. They fought back-to-back, a whirlwind of silver and brass, breaking bones and smashing faces. The remaining thugs, trained to execute quietly, not to face an enraged maid and a billionaire fighting for their lives, hesitated. One of them, a gaunt man with a facial scar, tried to dart past Dash towards the trapped elites. Dash didn’t even glance away from the thug he was currently dismantling; a swift, precise kick sent the gaunt man sprawling, knocking the air from his lungs. Finally, with three guards unconscious and two bleeding profusely, Dash and Mabli stood panting, surrounded by scattered porcelain and splintered furniture. The smoke was now a choking cloud, visibility dropping to mere feet. Elias, seething, had retreated further into the drawing room, his face a mask of thwarted rage. “Together,” Dash gasped, eyeing the thick oak door. He aimed the heavy bronze standard at the lock, while Mabli, with a grunt, prepared the tea tray like a battering ram. “One… two… three!” They struck simultaneously. The bronze base splintered the wood around the lock, and the tray hit with a jarring THWACK, tearing the hinges from their frame. The door groaned, then sagged inward, revealing a corridor wreathed in orange-grey haze. Flames licked at the ceiling molding. “Kip!” Mabli screamed, plunging into the inferno. Dash was right behind her, a hand on her arm, hauling her forward when she stumbled from a coughing fit. The heat was immense, a living thing that tried to force them back, but the thought of Kip, alone and terrified, drove them on. They navigated the labyrinthine corridors, guided by muscle memory and the acrid smell of burning velvet. The crackle of fire was deafening. The guards, those not trapped in the drawing room, had abandoned their posts or were simply overwhelmed. They reached the hallway leading to Dash’s private suite, the heat even more intense here. The door was ajar. Mabli burst through, Dash on her heels, ready for anything. What they saw froze them both. The Head Butler, Porthos, a man whose pomaded hair was now askew, stood over Kip, a glinting dagger held high. Kip was backed into a corner, his small face pale with terror, a heavy, ornate fire poker clutched in his trembling hands. “Forgive me, young master,” the head servant sneered, his tone dripping with false regret. “But the house must be cleansed. And your continued existence complicates matters for my true benefactor.” Before the traitor could bring the blade down, a furry brown missile erupted from the master suite’s elaborate ventilation system, a growl tearing through the air. Fluffernutter, the mastiff, landed with a thud directly on his back, sending the butler sprawling. The dagger flew from his hand, skittering across the polished floor. Kip, seizing the chance, swung the fire poker with all his might. The heavy brass struck the traitor square on the head with a dull THUNK. The butler went limp, eyes rolling back, pinned under the bulk of the dog who snarled through dripping jowls. Mabli rushed to Kip, sweeping him into a fierce embrace. “You’re safe, little moonbeam, you’re safe.” Dash knelt, checking Porthos’s jugular. “Unconscious. Good boy, Fluffernutter.” He stroked the dog’s head, then looked at Kip with a new respect. “Well done, Kip.” The roar of the fire was growing. They had to move. Dash scooped Kip into his arms. “The roof! It’s our only way out! We can get to the adjacent gabled archway!” They ran for the suite’s large bay window, sweeping aside the heavy velvet drapes. Outside, the world was a canvas of smoke and flickering orange light. On the main gabled peak of the estate’s roof, illuminated by the inferno, stood Elias Vossen. He was dragging Arabella by her arm, her elegant gown torn, her face streaked with soot and tears. She was screaming, a high, thin sound lost in the conflagration. Elias pointed down at them, a maniacal grin splitting his soot-stained face. “You think you’ve won, boy? You think you can escape? I’ll take everything! Every last brick! The main gas lines! I’ll detonate the entire wing! You’ll all burn!”

The Scullery Siege