Vivienne knew that mark. It had belonged to her mother. She reached as if to snatch it. I opened it instead. Inside was the same faded photograph that hung in the upstairs hall, and a second picture her family had never seen—my mother at twenty, standing beside the woman in the frame.

Mr. Hale came in on the silence. He looked at the locket, then at my face, then at the portrait. He did not ask how a maid had stolen it. He asked how long I had known. I told him the truth I had kept to keep the job. His late wife had been my mother’s closest friend. Before she died she pressed the locket into my mother’s hand and said if the house ever turned cruel, her child should have proof she had been loved there. I had worn it for courage, not claim.

Vivienne’s friends left without finishing their drinks. Mr. Hale sent me home paid, not dismissed. The next morning he asked me to sit in the study as a person, not a uniform. The locket stayed at my throat. The insults did not. I still worked. I no longer swallowed the room.