The morning after I asked Mara to teach me to read, I found myself thinking about letters more often than I expected.
It was an inconvenient thing to think about while folding linen.
The sheets were clean, the corners were supposed to line up, and Mistress Halen had made it clear that a poorly folded sheet was not improved by staring at it as though it contained the secrets of the universe. Nevertheless, my mind kept returning to the book Mara had held the previous evening, to the neat rows of unfamiliar letters, and to the possibility that I might eventually be able to read the words written on its pages.
Knowledge was useful. That was the sensible explanation.
I had lived long enough to know that ignorance could make a person vulnerable. I had already been deceived once by someone I had believed was offering kindness. If I could read, I might understand signs, instructions, records, and letters without having to depend entirely on other people to explain them to me.
It was a practical goal.
The fact that I was also curious about the story Mara had read to me was irrelevant.
Mostly.
I pressed the final corner of a sheet flat and placed it on the growing pile.
“Not bad.”
I looked up.
Mara stood on the opposite side of the table, checking the stack I had finished. Her brown hair was tied back, and the sleeves of her practical dress were rolled to her elbows. She had been watching me work for several minutes without saying anything.
“Is that praise?” I asked.
“It is an observation.”
“An unusually encouraging one.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Careful. If you become accustomed to encouragement, I may have to stop.”
“I'll try to prepare myself.”
She placed the sheet back on the pile. “You're getting faster.”
“I've had practice.”
“You've been doing this for a few days.”
“Then I'm improving quickly.”
“You certainly are.”
There was something thoughtful in the way she said it.
I lowered my eyes to the linen.
I had learned to recognize that look. Mara had noticed how quickly I picked things up, how I paid attention to instructions, and how often I anticipated problems before they became obvious. She had not confronted me about it, but I suspected she had begun to wonder about the child who behaved as though every small mistake might have serious consequences.
She wasn't entirely wrong.
Mistakes had consequences. I had learned that lesson in a bakery, in a locked carriage, and in a room where strangers had discussed the price I might fetch as casually as they might discuss the price of a sack of flour.
It was difficult to forget such lessons simply because I had been given clean clothes and a place to sleep.
Mara glanced toward the window.
“We have a little time before the next task.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Why would you assume something was wrong?”
“You're looking at the clock.”
“Perhaps I'm admiring it.”
I looked at the clock hanging on the wall.
It was an ordinary wooden clock with a narrow face and hands that moved with a faint mechanical tick. It was not especially beautiful.
“I see,” I said. “A fine example of craftsmanship.”
Mara gave me a flat look.
I tried not to smile.
“Come along,” she said, setting the folded linen aside. “You've been working since the first bell. A short break won't hurt.”
“Did Mistress Halen say that?”
“Mistress Halen believes servants work better when they aren't exhausted. She simply prefers to express it by telling people to stop making mistakes.”
“That sounds like her.”
“It does, doesn't it?”
Mara gathered the small basket of cloth we had finished sorting and carried it toward the shelves. I followed, wondering where she intended to take me.
The kitchen was an obvious possibility. So was the servants' common room, though the idea of sitting there with nothing to do made me uncomfortable. I had begun to understand the rhythm of the household, and empty time felt like an opportunity to be assigned another task.
Instead of heading toward either place, Mara turned down a corridor leading toward the rear of the estate.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The stables.”
I stopped.
She took another step before noticing.
“What is it?”
“Why?”
“Because you could use a change of scenery.”
“I can see scenery from the window.”
“Then you can admire some scenery from somewhere else.”
“That seems unnecessarily complicated.”
“Life is full of unnecessary complications.”
I studied her face, looking for some indication that she was teasing me. She was, at least partly, but there was genuine warmth behind it.
“Have you ever seen the horses up close?” she asked.
“Not particularly close.”
“Then you have something new to do.”
I hesitated.
There was nothing inherently wrong with horses. I understood that perfectly well. They were animals, useful for transportation and work, and people had ridden them for thousands of years. There was no reason to be afraid of them.
There was also no reason to assume that knowing what an animal was made me comfortable standing beside one.
“I don't know anything about them,” I admitted.
“That's all right. You don't have to know everything before you begin.”
The words struck me as unexpectedly familiar.
Perhaps because I had spent so much of my time since arriving in this world trying to learn everything before allowing myself to act.
I had wanted to understand the city before walking through it, the people before trusting them, and the household before letting myself grow comfortable. I had treated every unfamiliar thing as a possible threat.
Some caution was necessary. I had no intention of abandoning it.
But perhaps I could spare a little room for something that wasn't immediately useful.
“All right,” I said.
Mara smiled. “Good. Come along.”
The stables stood behind the main residence, beyond a stretch of packed earth bordered by low stone walls.
The estate's buildings were constructed from dark, ebony-colored stone, which made the stables appear almost black in the morning light. Their timber beams were weathered, and the wide doors stood open to allow the animals and workers to move freely. A faint smell of hay, leather, and warm animal bodies drifted toward us before we reached the entrance.
I slowed as we approached.
The sounds came first: hooves shifting against packed earth, the occasional snort, the creak of leather, and the low murmur of someone speaking to an animal.
It was a surprisingly peaceful collection of noises.
A man emerged from one of the stalls carrying a wooden bucket. He was broad-shouldered, with strong arms and the sturdy build of someone accustomed to physical labor. His sleeves were rolled up, and a smear of dirt crossed one cheek.
I recognized him from the servants' eating room.
Tomas.
We had shared the same table during one of my first meals in the household. He had been sitting among several other servants, talking about a cart that had developed a troublesome wheel. I had mostly listened, keeping my attention on my food and the conversation around me.
He had noticed me then, of course. Everyone had.
Now he glanced from Mara to me and gave a small nod.
“Morning, Mara.”
“Morning, Tomas.”
His gaze shifted toward me.
“And good morning to the new girl.”
I returned his nod, uncertain whether a greeting required anything more elaborate.
“Good morning.”
Tomas looked me over with mild curiosity, but not the sort that made me feel examined.
“So,” he said, “you've escaped the linen room.”
“For a short time.”
“Wise. Those sheets can be dangerous.”
“I've found them difficult to negotiate with.”
Tomas gave a short laugh.
Mara folded her arms. “Don't encourage her.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Perhaps.”
He set the bucket beside the stall and wiped his hands on a cloth tucked into his belt.
“What brings you here?”
“I thought Ellie might enjoy seeing the horses,” Mara replied.
Tomas glanced at me again.
“Ellie?”
“That's the name she's chosen for herself,” Mara explained. “She decided on it a few days ago.”
“Oh.” Tomas nodded, accepting the information without making a fuss. “Well, Ellie, then. Welcome to the stables.”
“Thank you.”
“Though I should warn you that the horses are not nearly as sensible as they look.”
“That's reassuring,” I said.
“It's meant to be.”
Mara gave him a look.
Tomas shrugged. “What? I'm being honest.”
He turned toward the stalls, and we followed.
The stable was larger than I had expected. Wooden partitions separated the stalls, and the animals inside watched us with varying degrees of interest. One horse lifted its head to investigate my presence. Another continued chewing hay without appearing to notice us at all.
A gray horse flicked its ears toward Tomas when he passed.
“Morning, old fellow,” he said, reaching through the partition to rub its forehead. “Have you been behaving?”
The horse nudged his hand.
“Of course you have. You're the only sensible one here.”
“Does he understand you?” I asked.
“No. But he has the good manners to let me pretend.”
I found that answer unexpectedly satisfying.
Tomas continued along the row, occasionally pausing to check a water bucket or straighten a piece of equipment. He seemed to know each animal individually, not merely by appearance but by temperament.
He spoke to them as he worked.
Some received greetings. Others were reminded that biting people was unacceptable behavior. One was informed that a certain amount of dignity was expected from an animal of its size.
The horses seemed largely indifferent to his judgments.
Mara leaned toward me.
“He talks to them constantly.”
“I noticed.”
“He insists they understand every word.”
“I suspect they understand more than he gives them credit for.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply likes having someone to argue with.”
“I heard that,” Tomas called from farther down the stable.
“You were meant to.”
He made a sound of exaggerated disapproval.
For a few moments, I forgot to be wary.
It was a small thing, watching two people exchange familiar insults without any fear of what might follow. Their words carried no hidden threat, no calculation of how much they could gain from one another. Mara teased Tomas because she knew him, and Tomas answered because he expected her to do so.
There was something comforting about it.
I did not know whether I would ever become part of that kind of ordinary familiarity. I wasn't sure I even understood how it worked.
But I could observe it.
For now, that was enough.
Tomas stopped beside a chestnut mare whose coat shone reddish brown in the sunlight coming through the stable doors. She was a handsome animal, with a narrow white marking down her face and an expression that seemed almost suspicious.
She turned her head toward us.
Tomas pointed at her.
“And this is the reason I have learned patience.”
The mare flicked an ear.
“She looks perfectly calm,” I said.
“That's how she gets you.”
“She's a horse.”
“And a very accomplished deceiver.”
Mara laughed softly.
“What did she do this time?” she asked.
“This time? Nothing. Yet. That's the problem with her. She waits until you begin to believe you've won, then reminds you that you haven't.”
The mare lowered her head toward the hay in her stall.
Tomas gave her a disapproving look.
“Don't pretend you aren't listening.”
“She probably isn't,” I said.
“That's what she wants you to think.”
I stared at the animal.
The mare raised her head again.
There was no reason to be nervous. She was standing in her stall, separated from us by a wooden partition. Tomas was right beside her, and Mara was standing near me. Nothing dangerous was happening.
The mare had a white marking on her forehead. Her coat was clean, her mane dark, and her eyes—
Her eyes were watching me.
I realized I wanted to touch her.
The thought came without warning. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was the simple desire to experience something unfamiliar without first examining every possible consequence.
I had seen horses before, of course. In my former life, I had encountered them in photographs, on television, and occasionally in person. But I had never had a reason to reach out to one.
This was a real animal, standing only a few steps away.
“Can I pet her?” I asked.
Tomas turned.
“Lady Temper?”
“Is that her name?”
“No. That's what I call her when she's being unreasonable.”
“Which is often,” Mara added.
The mare snorted.
“See?” Tomas said. “She knows we're discussing her.”
He moved closer to the partition and rested one hand on the wood.
“You can try, but don't reach straight for her face. Let her see your hand first. And don't assume she'll want to be touched simply because you want to touch her.”
I nodded.
It was sensible advice.
I approached the stall slowly, stopping at a distance that felt safe. The mare watched me. I lifted my hand, keeping it low and allowing her time to investigate.
For a moment, she seemed interested.
Her ears turned forward. She stretched her neck slightly.
I took that as encouragement.
It was a mistake.
The mare tossed her head abruptly, snorted, and stamped a forehoof against the ground. The sound cracked through the stable.
I recoiled.
My heel caught against a loose stone, and the floor seemed to tilt beneath me.
For one horrible instant, I was falling.
Then a hand caught my arm, and another steadied my shoulder.
“Easy!”
Tomas had moved faster than I could have imagined. He pulled me upright before I struck the ground, guiding me a step away from the stall.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
The mare tossed her head again.
“Enough of that,” Tomas said sharply.
His tone had changed. The humor was gone, replaced by the firm voice of someone who expected to be obeyed.
He turned his attention to the horse, speaking in a lower voice as he moved to stand beside her stall. He didn't strike her or shout. Instead, he waited for her to settle, then spoke to her with the steady, patient rhythm of someone who had dealt with similar behavior many times before.
“That's quite enough, thank you. You've made your point. No need to frighten the entire household.”
The mare snorted.
“Yes, yes. You've suffered terribly. A child looked at you.”
She shifted her weight.
Tomas waited.
Gradually, the mare's head lowered, and the tension in her movements eased.
Only then did he look back at me.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Certain?”
“Yes.”
He examined me briefly, checking that I was standing steadily.
“Good.”
I became aware that he was still holding my arm.
He released it immediately.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn't mean to grab you so hard.”
“You stopped me from falling.”
“That's generally preferable to allowing someone to fall.”
“I appreciate the effort.”
His expression softened.
“Good. I'd hate for you to think our stables were in the habit of throwing children onto the floor.”
Despite myself, a small, shaky laugh escaped me.
It wasn't quite a real laugh. More an involuntary sound produced by the sudden release of tension.
Still, Tomas appeared satisfied.
“There. You're all right.”
I looked toward the mare.
She had returned to her hay as though nothing had happened.
“I thought she was going to let me touch her.”
“So did I,” Tomas said. “And I've known her long enough to understand that assuming anything about her is a dangerous habit.”
“Then why keep her?”
“Because she's a good horse when she chooses to be. Strong, quick, and clever.” He paused. “Unfortunately, she's also aware of all three qualities.”
The mare flicked her tail.
“Don't look so pleased with yourself,” he told her. “You haven't accomplished anything.”
Mara approached and rested a hand lightly on my back.
“Are you sure you're all right?”
“Yes.”
“You went pale.”
“I was surprised.”
“That's one way of putting it.”
I glanced at her.
There was no reproach in her expression, only concern.
“I should have asked how close I could get,” I admitted.
“You did ask,” she said. “Tomas told you to be careful. You were careful. The horse simply had other ideas.”
“She's a difficult animal,” Tomas agreed. “But there's a lesson in that.”
I looked at him.
“Which is?”
“Never trust a horse that appears to be considering something.”
“That's not a very useful lesson.”
“No? Then try this one. Watch the ears. Watch the head. Watch the feet. An animal often tells you what it's going to do before it does it. You just have to learn what you're looking at.”
I glanced at the mare again.
Her ears moved as she chewed.
“So I should have watched her ears?”
“You should have watched all of her. The ears are a good place to start, but don't treat one sign as a promise. If you're uncertain, ask someone who knows the animal. And if she doesn't want you near her, give her space.”
I nodded.
It was sensible advice, and not only for horses.
People could also give warning signs before they hurt you. Sometimes the signs were obvious. Sometimes they were not. Sometimes, even when you recognized them, you could still be trapped by circumstances beyond your control.
But the comparison wasn't entirely fair.
The mare hadn't deceived me. She had simply reacted to something she didn't like.
I was the one who had assumed too much.
“I'm sorry,” I murmured.
Tomas frowned slightly.
“To the horse?”
“To you. I nearly caused a problem.”
“You didn't cause anything. Lady Temper has been causing problems since before you arrived.”
“I was standing in front of her.”
“And now you're standing somewhere else. A successful outcome all around.”
He glanced at Mara.
“Besides, if I blamed every person who made a mistake around here, I'd spend the entire day shouting at people.”
“You already spend most of the day shouting at horses,” Mara said.
“That's different. They have the decency not to answer back.”
The mare snorted.
Tomas pointed at her.
“You see? Insolence.”
Mara shook her head, but she was smiling.
I looked from one to the other, and the tightness in my chest eased a little more.
No one was angry with me.
No one had decided I was useless because I had made a mistake.
No one was demanding payment for the trouble I had caused.
The realization was so simple that I almost didn't know what to do with it. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
After a few minutes, Tomas returned to his work.
He checked the mare's water, inspected the fastening on her stall, and muttered something about needing to repair a hinge before she discovered another way to inconvenience him.
Mara and I stayed nearby, watching.
I was content to remain at a distance.
There was no need to prove that I wasn't frightened. Being frightened was not a moral failing, and pretending otherwise would not make me braver.
Still, I found myself looking toward the other horses.
One stood quietly in the next stall, a bay with a dark mane and a small white mark near its muzzle. Unlike Lady Temper, it seemed more interested in the hay than in the people around it.
Tomas noticed my attention.
“That's Bramble.”
“Is he difficult too?”
“Not particularly. He's a good, steady fellow.”
“Does he throw people onto the floor?”
“Only if they give him a convincing reason.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
“I'm joking. Bramble is one of our calmer horses. We use him when someone needs a reliable mount.”
“Someone like me?”
“Someone who hasn't ridden before.”
I looked away.
“I didn't say I wanted to ride.”
“No, you didn't.”
He said it without pressure, which made the possibility harder to dismiss.
I imagined sitting on a horse, high above the ground, with nothing but a saddle between me and a very long fall.
My fingers curled against my palms.
“I don't know how,” I said.
“Most people don't, the first time.”
“And if I fall?”
“Then we help you up, assuming you haven't managed to offend Bramble as thoroughly as you've offended Lady Temper.”
“I didn't offend her.”
“Of course not. She's merely expressing her strong opinions about your existence.”
Mara laughed.
I looked at the bay horse again.
It was larger than I was, which was not especially reassuring. Almost everything was larger than I was.
But Bramble wasn't moving restlessly or tossing his head. He stood with his weight evenly balanced, his ears turning occasionally toward the sounds around him.
He looked calm.
That didn't mean he would always be calm. Tomas had just explained that an animal's behavior could change, and that I needed to pay attention rather than assume.
Still, I could ask.
“Would it be safe?” I said.
Tomas's expression became more serious.
“If we do it properly. I'll be there the entire time, and we won't take him anywhere fast. You can stop whenever you want. If you're uncomfortable, you tell me, and we'll get you down.”
“You wouldn't be angry?”
“Angry? Why would I be angry?”
“If I changed my mind.”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Because you changed your mind?”
I nodded.
“Ellie,” he said, with the patience of someone explaining something obvious, “I'd rather you tell me you're frightened than pretend you're not and get hurt trying to prove otherwise.”
I didn't know what to say.
It was such an ordinary statement. A practical one, even.
But I had grown used to people deciding what would happen to me without caring whether I wanted it. My choices had become narrow, and even the smallest decision could feel like a risk.
Tomas was offering me something different.
Not complete freedom. Not safety guaranteed by some impossible promise.
Just the opportunity to try something, with the understanding that I could stop.
I swallowed.
“All right,” I said.
“Good.”
He didn't celebrate my answer or tease me for hesitating. He simply moved toward Bramble's stall and began preparing the horse.
Mara watched me closely.
“You don't have to do this,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“I'm serious. You can spend the entire break watching from here if you'd rather.”
I considered that.
“I think I want to try.”
Her smile was small but warm.
“Then try.”
Tomas led Bramble out of the stall and into the open space behind the stables.
The horse walked calmly beside him, responding to small movements of the reins and occasional quiet words. Tomas checked the saddle and straps with practiced care before turning toward me.
“First, we'll get you on.”
I looked at the saddle.
It appeared much higher than it had any right to be.
“Is there a ladder?”
“Not unless you'd like me to find one.”
“I was only asking.”
“Of course.”
He brought Bramble to a stop beside a low mounting block. Even with the block, I had to look up.
Tomas crouched slightly so that he could speak to me at eye level.
“Listen. I'll help you. Put your foot here, hold the saddle, and let me do the lifting. Don't try to scramble up by yourself. You'll only make it harder.”
I nodded, then hesitated.
“What if I hurt him?”
“You won't. Bramble has carried people much heavier than you.”
“That doesn't mean I can't hurt him.”
“No, it doesn't. But we'll take care, and I'll guide you.”
I placed my hand against the saddle.
The leather was warm from the sunlight.
For a moment, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
I remembered the last time I had been lifted into something without being given a choice: the carriage that had carried me away from the city, the hands that had dragged me through the auction house, the unfamiliar room where I had waited to be sold.
My body remembered those things more quickly than my mind could dismiss them.
I drew a breath.
This was different.
Tomas was waiting for me to decide. Bramble stood quietly. Mara was close enough that I could see her watching, but she wasn't trying to hurry me.
No one was holding me down.
No one was telling me that I had no choice.
I tightened my grip on the saddle.
“I'm ready.”
Tomas nodded.
“All right. Foot here.”
He helped me mount carefully, supporting my weight until I was settled in the saddle. The movement was awkward, and for one uncomfortable second I felt as though I might slide straight over the other side.
Then I was sitting upright.
The ground seemed much farther away.
I gripped the front of the saddle.
Tomas looked up at me.
“Comfortable?”
“No.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Good. Honesty is important.”
I stared at him.
He grinned.
“You'll get used to it. Loosen your shoulders a little. You're holding yourself so tightly that Bramble might think you've mistaken him for a tree you're trying to climb.”
I forced my hands to relax.
The horse shifted beneath me, and my entire body went rigid again.
“Easy,” Tomas said. “He's only moving his weight. Horses do that.”
“Without warning?”
“They don't usually send a written notice.”
I gave him a look.
He laughed, then placed one hand on the reins.
“Keep your back straight, but don't lock your knees. Let yourself move with him. You don't need to fight every little movement.”
That, I suspected, was advice I would struggle to follow.
Tomas began leading Bramble forward at a slow walk.
The first few steps were terrifying.
Every movement traveled through the saddle and into my body. I could feel the horse's muscles shifting beneath me, the rhythm of his hooves against the ground, and the subtle changes in balance as he moved.
I held on tightly.
“Breathe,” Tomas reminded me.
“I am breathing.”
“Not convincingly.”
I inhaled slowly.
The air smelled of hay and sun-warmed earth. Beyond the stable yard, a narrow path ran along the estate's inner wall, bordered by grass and scattered shrubs. The buildings rose around us in dark stone and timber, their windows reflecting the morning light.
Bramble continued walking.
Nothing terrible happened.
After a few moments, I began to understand the rhythm. The movement was still unfamiliar, but it was no longer a series of sudden surprises. The horse's pace remained steady, and Tomas walked beside us with one hand near the reins.
“You're doing well,” he said.
I looked down at him.
“I'm sitting.”
“An important first step.”
“I haven't done anything.”
“You've climbed onto a horse, which is more than you could do ten minutes ago.”
“That seems like a very low standard.”
“It's a useful standard. If you expect to master everything on the first attempt, you'll spend your life disappointed.”
I fell silent.
He was probably speaking about riding.
That didn't stop the words from finding other places to settle.
I had expected myself to adapt quickly to this world. I had expected my adult memories to be enough to help me avoid danger, understand people, and build a new life. When I failed, I had treated each failure as evidence that I wasn't thinking carefully enough.
But I couldn't solve everything through caution.
I couldn't make myself physically stronger by understanding the importance of strength. I couldn't undo the past by learning from it. And I couldn't turn an unfamiliar world into a familiar one simply by watching it closely.
Sometimes I would have to learn by trying.
Sometimes I would make mistakes.
And sometimes, if I was fortunate, someone would be there to help me recover.
Bramble turned his head slightly, and I instinctively tightened my grip again.
Tomas noticed.
“He's all right,” he said. “Just looking around.”
I followed the horse's gaze.
Beyond the stable yard, the estate gardens stretched toward the main residence. The paths were neatly maintained, and the dark stone walls were softened by climbing vines. Sunlight fell across the grass in broad patches, illuminating small flowers growing beside the path.
I had seen the gardens from a distance, but I had never really looked at them.
There had always been something else to consider: a task, a rule, a person I needed to avoid offending, a possible danger I needed to anticipate.
Now I was sitting on a horse, moving slowly through the morning air, with nothing to do but look.
The world seemed larger from this height.
Not safer, exactly.
But larger.
“Would you like to go a little farther?” Tomas asked.
I looked ahead.
The path curved around a small section of the garden before returning toward the stable yard. There were no steep slopes or narrow passages. Tomas could turn Bramble around whenever he wished.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“All right.”
We continued.
Gradually, I stopped thinking about every movement.
I still held the saddle, but my grip softened. I began to notice the way the sunlight shifted across Bramble's coat, the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the distant sounds of servants going about their work.
Somewhere behind us, someone called out a name.
A door opened and closed.
A bird landed on the garden wall, hopped along the stones, then flew away when we approached.
Ordinary things.
Small things.
Things that did not require me to defend myself.
I watched the bird disappear beyond the wall and felt something loosen inside my chest.
For the first time since waking in this world, I wasn't thinking about the life I had lost.
I wasn't comparing the estate to my former home, or imagining what my parents might have said if they could see me now. I wasn't trying to work out how to survive the next day or wondering whether the kindness around me concealed another trap.
I was simply here.
The horse beneath me walked steadily. The morning sun warmed my face. Tomas hummed a tune under his breath as he guided us along the path.
And I was enjoying myself.
The realization came so unexpectedly that I almost missed it.
I was enjoying myself.
Not because I had forgotten what had happened. Not because my grief had disappeared. Not because the world had suddenly become fair.
For a few minutes, I had found something pleasant that belonged entirely to the present.
A horse. A garden. A morning.
It was enough.
“Look at that,” Tomas said.
I glanced down at him.
“What?”
“You've stopped trying to strangle the saddle.”
I looked at my hands.
He was right.
My fingers had relaxed, and my shoulders no longer felt as though I were bracing for an impact.
“I hadn't noticed.”
“That means you're doing something right.”
I looked ahead again.
The path opened into a small grassy space where sunlight fell uninterrupted across the ground. Bramble's ears moved forward, and he continued at the same steady pace.
Without thinking, I smiled.
It was a small smile, barely more than a change in the shape of my mouth.
But it was real.
I didn't notice it at first. I was watching the garden, listening to the horse's footsteps, and feeling the wind brush against my face.
Then Tomas said something about Bramble being a far better companion than Lady Temper, and I laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound startled me more than the horse had.
I hadn't heard myself make that sound in this world.
For an instant, I felt almost embarrassed, as though I had revealed something I hadn't intended anyone to see. I lowered my eyes and tried to compose myself.
But Tomas didn't comment on it.
He simply continued walking beside Bramble, wearing an expression of quiet satisfaction.
“See?” he said. “Not so terrible.”
I looked at the horse.
“No,” I admitted. “Not terrible.”
“High praise.”
“Don't let it go to his head.”
“Too late. He's already convinced the entire estate exists for his convenience.”
Bramble flicked his ears.
Tomas sighed.
“Now you've encouraged him.”
I laughed again.
This time, I didn't immediately try to stop.
When I glanced back toward the stables, I saw Mara standing some distance away near the entrance. She had paused to watch us, though she was far enough away that I couldn't tell what she was thinking. When our eyes met, she gave me a small wave.
I waved back before turning toward the path again.
It was strangely comforting to know she was there.
By the time Tomas led Bramble back toward the stables, I had almost forgotten to be frightened.
Almost.
When we approached the stable yard, I became aware again of the height of the saddle and the distance to the ground. My hands tightened slightly.
Tomas noticed.
“Time to come down.”
I nodded, suddenly less confident.
He brought Bramble to a halt beside the mounting block and steadied the horse.
“Don't rush. I'll help you.”
I waited until Tomas had positioned himself beside me. Then, following his instructions, I shifted carefully and let him guide me down.
My feet touched the ground.
I wobbled.
Tomas caught my elbow before I could stumble, then released me when I had regained my balance.
“There you are.”
I looked at Bramble.
The horse lowered his head toward a patch of grass near the path.
“Thank you,” I said.
Tomas glanced at me.
“To Bramble?”
“To both of you.”
His expression softened.
“You're welcome, Ellie.”
I hesitated, then reached toward Bramble's neck. This time I didn't move immediately. I waited until Tomas had checked the horse's posture and nodded.
“Try here,” he said. “Slowly.”
I approached from the side, keeping my hand low. Bramble turned his head enough to notice me but didn't move away.
I touched his neck.
His coat was warm beneath my palm, and I could feel the subtle movement of muscle under the skin. He was a living creature, not a distant image or a thing to be admired from behind a fence.
For a moment, I simply stood there, my hand resting against him.
Then Bramble shifted his weight.
I withdrew my hand before I could startle him.
Tomas gave an approving nod.
“That's enough for now. Better to end on a good note.”
“Because he might change his mind?”
“Because horses are horses, and there's no reason to test our luck.”
I stepped away.
Lady Temper's stall was visible from where we stood. The mare had her head over the partition, watching us with an expression I couldn't interpret.
“I don't think she likes me,” I said.
“Don't take it personally. She doesn't like most people.”
“Does she like you?”
Tomas considered the question.
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“It keeps me humble.”
I smiled.
He noticed.
This time, he didn't draw attention to it.
Instead, he picked up the reins and led Bramble back into the stable. I followed at a short distance, stopping near the stall while Tomas removed the saddle and checked the straps.
The work was methodical. He spoke to Bramble as he went, praising him for his good behavior and reminding him that he was not entitled to special treatment merely because he had performed a simple task without causing trouble.
Bramble seemed untroubled by the criticism.
When Tomas finished, he gave the horse a final pat.
“That's enough for today.”
He turned toward me.
“You did well.”
“I mostly sat there.”
“You listened, paid attention, and didn't try to prove anything. That's more than some people manage.”
I looked at him, wondering whether he meant the words as advice or merely as a compliment.
Perhaps it didn't matter.
“Thank you for helping me,” I said.
He waved the gratitude away, though not dismissively.
“Any time. Just ask before you approach one of the horses on your own. Some are friendlier than others.”
“And stay away from Lady Temper unless I'm there.”
“I thought she was your responsibility.”
“She is. Unfortunately, she's also a menace.”
From her stall, the mare snorted.
Tomas pointed toward her without looking.
“Don't start.”
I covered my mouth, trying to hide another laugh.
He shook his head.
“See what I live with?”
“I think you're exaggerating.”
“Give it time.”
Mara appeared at the stable entrance just as Tomas finished returning the equipment to its place.
“How was the ride?” she asked.
I looked at her.
For a moment, I nearly gave my usual answer.
It was fine.
It was acceptable.
Nothing went wrong.
Those were safe answers. They revealed little, invited few questions, and allowed a conversation to end without requiring me to explain anything.
But they would have been untrue.
Not entirely untrue, perhaps. I had been frightened, and I had nearly fallen. I still didn't know whether I would be eager to climb onto a horse again tomorrow.
Yet none of that changed the fact that I had enjoyed myself.
“It was nice,” I said.
Mara waited.
I glanced toward Bramble, who was already investigating his hay.
“Really nice.”
Her smile widened.
“I'm glad.”
I looked down at my hands, suddenly conscious of how much I had revealed with those two words.
Then I forced myself to look back up.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
Mara's expression softened.
“Of course.”
She didn't say that she had wanted to see me happy. She didn't ask why I seemed so surprised by my own enjoyment.
She simply rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Come on. We should get back before Mistress Halen decides we've all abandoned our duties.”
“Has she done that before?” I asked.
“Many times.”
“Did you abandon your duties?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“She found me.”
I considered this.
“That's unfortunate.”
“Very.”
Tomas laughed behind us.
“She's leaving out the part where she was supposed to be sorting supplies.”
“I was sorting supplies.”
“You were sitting on a barrel eating an apple.”
“I was sorting them in my mind.”
“An impressive technique.”
Mara ignored him and guided me toward the door.
I glanced back once.
Tomas was already moving to his next task, his attention returning to the practical business of caring for the horses. Bramble stood quietly in his stall. Lady Temper had gone back to her hay.
Nothing extraordinary had happened.
No great danger had been defeated. No secret had been revealed. I had learned no grand truth about the world.
I had ridden a horse.
I had laughed.
And for a little while, that had been enough.
The rest of the day passed with the familiar rhythm of household work.
Mistress Halen had no particular interest in how I had spent my break, though she did notice when Mara and I returned a little later than expected.
“Everything in order?” she asked.
“Yes, Mistress Halen,” Mara answered.
“Good. Then the pantry inventory still needs finishing, and I want the clean cloth counted before supper.”
“We'll see to it.”
Mistress Halen looked at me.
“And you, Ellie. The jars on the lower shelf need to be arranged by size. Do not move the sealed containers, and if you find anything damaged, report it rather than attempting to handle it by yourself.”
“Yes, Mistress Halen.”
She nodded and moved on.
I followed Mara toward the pantry.
The work was ordinary, repetitive, and surprisingly comforting. I could count jars, compare their sizes, and arrange them without needing to make any important decisions. When I finished one shelf, there was another to begin.
My thoughts still wandered back to the stables.
I remembered the way Bramble had moved beneath me, the sunlight in the garden, and the moment I had realized I was enjoying myself.
The memory felt fragile.
I worried that examining it too closely might somehow ruin it. That if I tried to understand why it had made me happy, I would reduce it to a series of explanations until there was nothing left of the feeling itself.
So I let it remain simple.
I had been happy.
For a few minutes, I had forgotten to be afraid.
That was all.
It was more than I had expected from the day.
When we finished the pantry inventory, Mara glanced at me as we carried the final list to Mistress Halen.
“You seem different.”
My steps slowed.
“Different how?”
“Lighter, perhaps.”
I considered denying it.
The instinct was immediate. If I admitted that something had made me happy, I might have to explain why. If I explained, I might reveal something I didn't want anyone to know.
But Mara wasn't demanding an explanation. She was merely making an observation.
“I liked the horse,” I said.
“Bramble?”
“Yes.”
“And not Lady Temper?”
“I think Lady Temper and I have reached an understanding.”
Mara raised an eyebrow.
“We have agreed to stay away from each other.”
“That sounds wise.”
“It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Mara laughed.
I felt a smile tug at my mouth again.
There it was.
Not as large as before, perhaps, but easier to allow.
Mara noticed it and said nothing.
I was beginning to understand that silence could sometimes be a kindness, too.
By the seventh bell, the household's pace began to change.
Servants finished their final duties, carried tools back to their proper places, and gathered the things they would need before returning to their rooms. The sounds of work gradually gave way to ordinary conversation.
I was tired.
My arms ached faintly from the day's tasks, and my legs felt heavy. The ride hadn't been physically demanding, but the unfamiliar movements had left me more aware of my body than usual.
I had learned something about myself that day.
My body was small, easily startled, and not particularly strong. It could be frightened by a horse's sudden movement and exhausted by tasks that I would once have considered simple.
But it could also learn.
It could climb onto a horse, remain seated, and experience something new. It could laugh. It could feel the sun on its face and enjoy a morning without constantly preparing for disaster.
My body wasn't merely a limitation.
It was the body I had to live in.
That didn't mean I had to like every part of it. I still felt strange when I saw my reflection, and there were moments when the difference between my memories and my present life seemed impossible to reconcile.
But perhaps I didn't have to solve that problem all at once.
Perhaps I could begin by learning what this body could do.
Mara and I returned to our shared room after supper.
The room was small, with two narrow beds, a wooden chest, and a little table placed beneath the window. Our belongings occupied separate spaces, though the room itself felt less unfamiliar than it had when I first arrived.
Mara set her things down and began preparing for the night.
I washed my hands and face, changed into my nightdress, and sat on the edge of my bed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Mara glanced toward me.
“Are you still interested in those letters?”
I looked up.
“You remembered.”
“You asked me to teach you.”
“I thought you might have forgotten.”
“I don't forget promises that easily.”
The words were simple, but I felt something warm settle inside me.
I hadn't expected her to forget, exactly. She had agreed readily enough the previous evening. Still, some part of me had been waiting for the possibility that the offer would disappear, that tomorrow would bring more work and less time, that I would have to ask again and risk making myself a nuisance.
Instead, Mara crossed to the small chest beside her bed and took out the book she had shown me before.
She brought it to the table.
“Come here. Let's start with a few letters.”
I stood and joined her.
The book was old, its cover worn smooth at the corners. The pages were slightly yellowed, but the writing was clear. Mara opened it to a page near the beginning, where a series of letters had been printed in careful rows.
I sat beside her.
The sight of the page stirred an unexpected feeling in me.
I had spent years learning to read in my former life. I had studied textbooks, articles, research papers, and countless other things. Reading had been so ordinary that I had rarely considered what it meant to possess the skill.
Now I was looking at a page of unfamiliar writing, unable to understand even the simplest line without help.
I was starting over.
Again.
The thought should have discouraged me.
Instead, I found myself leaning closer.
Mara pointed to the first character.
“This is one of the most common letters. It appears in a great many words.”
She spoke its name, then showed me how it sounded.
I repeated it.
She corrected the shape of my mouth, and I tried again.
Then she moved to the next letter.
The sounds were unfamiliar, but not entirely foreign. The language itself was one I could already understand when people spoke. Reading it was a different problem, one of connecting sounds to marks on a page.
It was a system.
Systems could be learned.
“Again,” Mara said.
I repeated the sound.
“Good. Now this one.”
She pointed to another letter.
I studied its shape, repeating the sound she had given me. Then I looked back at the first character.
They were different.
That much was obvious. But I wanted to understand the pattern between them, the reason one sound belonged to one shape and another sound belonged to a different one.
I asked a question.
Mara answered it.
I asked another.
She answered that one, too.
Before long, I had begun trying to work out the next letter before she pointed to it.
Mara noticed.
“Slow down.”
“I am going slowly.”
“You're trying to learn the entire page at once.”
“I thought the point was to learn.”
“The point is to learn correctly. You don't have to conquer the whole book tonight.”
I looked at the page.
“But if I understand the pattern—”
“Ellie.”
I stopped.
Mara's tone wasn't stern, but it was firm enough to make me look at her.
“One thing at a time.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“You don't need to apologize for being eager. Just remember that there's no prize for finishing first.”
I considered this.
It was difficult advice to follow.
In my former life, speed had often felt like an advantage. The sooner I understood something, the sooner I could use it. The sooner I solved a problem, the sooner I could move on to the next one.
But Mara wasn't testing me.
She wasn't measuring my worth by how many letters I could memorize in a single evening.
She was sitting beside me because I had asked her to teach me.
That was all.
I drew a breath and looked back at the page.
“All right,” I said. “One thing at a time.”
Mara smiled.
“Good. Now, tell me which letter this is.”
I pointed to the correct character.
“And this one?”
I answered.
She moved to another.
I hesitated, then chose the right one.
“Very good.”
The praise was quiet and sincere.
I felt myself straighten a little.
We continued for a while, repeating the same sounds until I could recognize several letters without help. Mara showed me how they appeared in simple combinations, though she refused to let me rush ahead when I tried to guess the next one.
When I became frustrated, she returned to an earlier example.
When I made a mistake, she corrected it without making me feel foolish.
It was such a small thing.
A lesson at a table. A worn book. A young woman patiently explaining a language I could already speak but had never learned to read.
Yet I found myself relaxing in a way I rarely did.
There was no auctioneer waiting to announce my price. No locked door separating me from the world. No hidden bargain that I had to uncover before I could accept help.
Mara expected me to learn.
She expected me to make mistakes.
And she expected me to try again.
I hadn't realized how much I needed that until I was sitting beside her.
After a while, she closed the book.
“That is enough for tonight.”
I looked at the page.
“We've only done a few.”
“And you'll remember them better if you sleep.”
“I could continue.”
“I know.”
“Then—”
“Tomorrow, Ellie.”
I stopped.
Mara's expression softened.
“There's always tomorrow, you know.”
I stared at her.
The words were ordinary. People said things like that all the time, usually without thinking.
But I had spent so long believing that every opportunity might be my last that I had forgotten what it meant to expect another day.
I had learned to survive one moment at a time.
That was still necessary. I had no intention of becoming careless. The world beyond the estate remained unfamiliar, and I knew almost nothing about the circumstances that had brought me here.
But tomorrow didn't have to be a threat.
It could be a promise.
A chance to learn another letter.
A chance to see Bramble again, if Tomas allowed it.
A chance to fold linen, count jars, and make fewer mistakes.
A chance to discover something new.
I looked down at the closed book.
“All right,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
Mara returned it to the chest and began preparing for bed.
I sat quietly for another moment, letting the feeling settle.
I was still Alex.
That part of me had not disappeared. My memories of university, my parents, and the life I had lost remained as vivid as ever. I still carried grief that I didn't know how to express, and there were moments when the distance between that life and this one felt so enormous that I could hardly bear to think about it.
Choosing the name Ellie had not changed those things.
Nor had riding a horse.
Nor had learning a handful of letters.
But perhaps a new life wasn't built through one great decision.
Perhaps it was built through small things.
A name chosen for a reason that mattered.
A room shared with someone who didn't demand trust before offering kindness.
A horse that allowed me to sit on its back.
A lesson that could continue tomorrow.
I had not forgiven the world for what it had done to me. I had not forgotten the bakery, the carriage, or the auction house. I wasn't ready to believe that every person who offered me kindness had good intentions.
I might never become that trusting again.
But I could learn to distinguish caution from fear.
I could learn to accept help without believing I owed someone my entire self in return.
And I could allow myself to enjoy something without immediately searching for the danger hidden behind it.
That evening, as I changed into bed, I remembered the sunlight on the garden path.
I remembered Bramble's steady movements beneath me and Tomas's amused voice as he walked beside us. I remembered the moment I had laughed, and how strange it had felt to hear that sound come from my own mouth.
I had smiled without intending to.
I had been happy without first convincing myself that I had earned it.
The memory brought a faint smile to my face again.
Mara glanced over from her bed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
She studied me for a moment.
Then, instead of asking another question, she smiled and returned to her book.
I lay down and pulled the blanket over myself.
The room was quiet. Somewhere beyond the window, the estate settled into the night. I could hear the faint sounds of people moving through the corridors, followed by the closing of a distant door.
I was tired.
For once, the thought of sleep didn't feel like surrendering to darkness. It felt like the end of an ordinary day, with another ordinary day waiting beyond it.
Tomorrow, I would return to my duties.
Tomorrow, I would try to remember the letters Mara had taught me.
Tomorrow, I would continue learning how to live in this unfamiliar world.
And perhaps, if I was lucky, there would be another moment like the one I had found in the garden.
Not a grand happiness. Not a miracle.
Just something small and real.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in a long while, I fell asleep with a memory of happiness rather than fear.
It wasn't enough to heal everything I had lost.
But it was something I could carry with me.