I woke the following morning with the faint smell of hay still lingering in my memory.
For a few moments, I lay beneath the blanket, staring at the ceiling while the previous day slowly returned to me. The stables. The stubborn horse. Tomas catching me before I fell. The strange sensation of sitting atop an animal much larger than myself and discovering that, despite my initial fear, I could actually enjoy it.
Most of all, I remembered smiling.
It was an embarrassing thing to remember, though I wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps because it had happened without my permission. I hadn't decided to smile, hadn't consciously concluded that the situation was safe enough to warrant such a reaction. It had simply happened, as naturally as breathing.
I couldn't remember the last time I had done that.
Not in this life, at least.
I turned onto my side and pulled the blanket closer around myself.
The room was quiet. Pale morning light slipped through the small window, illuminating the familiar wooden furniture and the neatly folded clothes beside my bed. Mara's bed stood a short distance away, its blanket still rumpled from the previous night.
She was already awake.
I could hear the soft rustling of fabric as she dressed, followed by the quiet scrape of a drawer being opened and closed. She moved with the ease of someone who had followed the same morning routine countless times, never needing to stop and consider what came next.
I envied that sort of familiarity.
For me, even the simplest parts of the day still required thought. Which clothes were appropriate for which tasks? How quickly was I expected to finish breakfast? Which corridors could I use without accidentally entering an area where I wasn't permitted to go?
And, perhaps most frustratingly, how was I supposed to behave like a child when my mind insisted on approaching everything as an adult?
I pushed the blanket aside and sat up.
Mara glanced over her shoulder.
"Morning, sleepyhead."
"Good morning."
She gave me a small smile before returning her attention to the buttons of her dress.
I watched her for a moment, wondering whether I should mention yesterday. I could have asked about Tomas, or told her that the horse hadn't been quite as terrifying as I had expected. I might even have admitted that I'd enjoyed myself.
Instead, I said nothing.
There was no particular reason for my hesitation. Mara had been there when it happened. She had seen me riding, and I had waved to her when Tomas brought the horse back toward the stable entrance.
Still, putting the experience into words seemed strangely difficult.
Perhaps I was afraid that talking about it would make the happiness feel less real. Or perhaps I simply wasn't accustomed to sharing the small details of my life with anyone.
In my previous life, I had people I could talk to. Friends who would listen to my complaints about university, parents who asked how my day had gone, and acquaintances with whom I could discuss things that seemed important at the time.
I had never fully appreciated how ordinary those conversations were.
Now, the prospect of telling someone that I had enjoyed a horse ride felt almost as daunting as admitting something far more personal.
Mara finished fastening her dress and turned toward me.
"I have something to tell you before we go down."
I straightened slightly.
The words immediately put me on guard.
That was an unfortunate habit of mine. Whenever someone said they needed to tell me something, I instinctively began preparing for bad news. It didn't matter whether the person was a friend, a stranger, or someone who had shown me nothing but kindness.
Experience had taught me that pleasant moments could end abruptly.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Nothing terrible." Mara's expression softened, apparently noticing my reaction. "I have the day off today."
"Oh."
I tried to keep my voice neutral, though the answer left me feeling oddly uncertain.
Mara continued as she gathered a few things from the drawer.
"I haven't visited my family in a little while, so I thought I'd take the opportunity. I'll leave after breakfast and come back tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow morning.
The words were simple enough. There was no reason to misunderstand them, and certainly no reason to be concerned.
Mara was allowed to have a life beyond looking after me. She had responsibilities, relationships, and people who mattered to her long before I arrived at the estate. I had no right to expect her to spend every day making sure I was comfortable.
I knew all of that.
Yet some small, unreasonable part of me had already begun to imagine the day without her.
"All right," I said.
Mara studied me briefly.
"You're sure you'll be fine?"
"Of course."
The answer came out too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
"That's a very convincing answer."
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means you sound as though you're trying to convince yourself."
I looked away.
Mara laughed softly, not unkindly.
"Don't worry. You won't be left to fend for yourself in the wilderness. Elsbeth will have you helping in the kitchen for most of the day."
I wasn't entirely sure whether that was supposed to reassure me.
"Elsbeth?"
"The kitchen worker. You met her at breakfast when I introduced you to everyone."
"I remember."
I did remember her, although mostly as a face among several others. She was a woman who looked as though she had little patience for wasted effort. Even during breakfast, she had moved with an efficiency that made the people around her seem almost leisurely by comparison.
I couldn't recall exchanging more than a few words with her.
"She's not particularly fond of people getting in her way," Mara said, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. "So listen carefully when she gives you instructions, and don't touch anything unless she tells you to."
"That sounds straightforward enough."
"It should be."
She gave me a pointed look.
I folded my arms.
"I can follow instructions."
"I'm sure you can. Just remember that a kitchen is a busy place, and people carry hot pots, sharp knives, and all sorts of things you don't want falling on your feet."
"I'll be careful."
"Good."
Mara seemed satisfied with that answer. She picked up her apron and tied it around her waist, then checked that her hair was properly arranged.
For a moment, I considered asking her to stay.
The thought was so absurd that I almost laughed at myself.
I wasn't a little child who needed someone to hold her hand every time she entered an unfamiliar room. I had survived far worse circumstances than spending a day in a kitchen with a blunt woman.
Besides, Mara deserved her time away. She had shown me kindness when she had no obligation to do so, and I wasn't going to repay that kindness by making her feel guilty for having a day off.
"Will you be back before the first bell tomorrow?" I asked instead.
Mara paused.
"Yes. I'll be back before breakfast."
"All right."
She watched me for another moment, then smiled.
"I'll see you tonight, then."
"You're going to see your family tonight."
"Very good, Ellie. I'm pleased to see you've been paying attention."
I gave her a flat look.
She laughed again.
The sound was so easy and familiar that, for a moment, I forgot there had ever been a time when I hadn't known her.
Then she opened the door, and the moment passed.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get breakfast before the others eat everything."
I climbed out of bed and followed her into the corridor.
I didn't know it yet, but the day ahead would teach me something I had not expected to learn.
It would teach me that I could manage without Mara.
And, more inconveniently, that managing without someone wasn't the same as not wanting them there.
Breakfast was much the same as it had been every morning since I arrived at the estate.
The servants gathered in the dining room, speaking in low voices as they ate. Someone complained about the weather. Someone else mentioned that a delivery had arrived late the previous evening. Tomas sat near the end of one of the tables, listening to a conversation about a horse that had apparently managed to escape its enclosure.
I wondered whether it was the same horse from yesterday.
Given the animal's personality, I wouldn't have been surprised.
Mara and I sat together, and I ate my portion of bread and porridge while listening to the conversations around me. I had grown somewhat more accustomed to the room, though I still found myself paying attention to the people who entered and left.
Old habits were difficult to abandon.
Mara seemed more relaxed than usual. She spoke with Elsbeth about something that had happened in the kitchen, exchanged a few words with Lysa, and laughed when Tomas interrupted the conversation to complain about the horse again.
It was strange to see her this way.
Not that she had ever been unfriendly, but most of the time I saw her, she was working. She was helping me dress, explaining the household rules, correcting my mistakes, or making sure I had everything I needed.
Here, among the other servants, she was simply Mara.
A young woman with her own friends, her own concerns, and a family she wanted to visit.
I had known that intellectually, of course. Yet watching her reminded me that I was only one small part of her life.
That was how it should be.
I repeated the thought to myself and finished my breakfast.
When the meal ended, Mara stood and gathered her things.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
"Have a good day."
"I intend to."
She hesitated, then reached out and straightened the collar of my dress.
It was an unnecessary gesture. My collar had been perfectly fine.
"Be good," she added.
I stared at her.
"I'm not five."
"No, you're much too serious for that."
"Mara."
"Ellie."
She grinned at me, then turned before I could think of a suitable reply.
I watched her cross the room and disappear through the doorway.
For a few seconds, I remained where I was.
Then Elsbeth's voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Are you planning to sit there all morning, little one?"
I turned.
Elsbeth stood beside the table, holding a stack of empty bowls against her hip. Her dark hair was tied back, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. There was a faint smear of flour on one wrist.
She looked at me as though she had already decided that I was wasting her time.
I stood at once.
"No."
"Good. Come along, then."
She turned and walked toward the kitchen without checking whether I followed.
I did.
The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the estate.
A large hearth occupied one wall, its fire burning steadily beneath an iron frame. Copper pots hung from hooks above the worktables, and shelves held jars of dried herbs, sacks of flour, bowls, wooden spoons, and all manner of ingredients whose purposes I had yet to learn.
The room smelled of bread, smoke, and something sweet that I couldn't immediately identify.
It was busy, too.
Servants moved between the tables carrying ingredients and dishes. Someone was washing a stack of pots near the back. Another person stood beside the hearth, stirring a large pot while watching the fire.
Everywhere I looked, someone appeared to be doing something important.
Elsbeth set the bowls on a table and pointed toward a clear space beside her.
"Stand there."
I moved to the indicated spot.
She looked at me.
"Now, before we start, what am I supposed to call you?"
I blinked.
For a moment, I wasn't certain I had heard her correctly.
"My name?"
"Unless you have another one you'd prefer me to use."
Her tone was perfectly serious.
I hesitated only briefly.
"Ellie."
"Ellie, then."
She nodded as though we had settled a matter of considerable importance.
"Right. Keep your hands away from that pot, don't touch the knives unless I give you permission, and if I tell you to move, move first and ask questions afterward. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She handed me a small cloth.
"Wipe down that table."
I took the cloth and looked at the table in question.
It was a broad wooden surface with a few crumbs scattered across it and a faint ring of something sticky near one corner.
"Should I use water?"
Elsbeth looked at me.
"What?"
"To clean it. Should I use water?"
She stared for another moment, apparently deciding whether the question deserved an answer.
"Yes, little one. Tables generally come cleaner with water than with wishful thinking."
I couldn't tell whether she was making fun of me.
Judging by her expression, she probably was.
"All right."
I found a small bucket of water nearby, dampened the cloth, and began wiping the surface.
Elsbeth returned to her work.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
I was grateful for that. It gave me time to become familiar with the kitchen without having to maintain a conversation. There was something reassuring about being given a simple task with a clear beginning and end.
Wipe the table.
Remove the crumbs.
Clean the sticky patch.
Put the cloth away.
There were no hidden expectations, no complicated social rules to remember, and no need to wonder whether someone was pretending to be kind for reasons I couldn't understand.
At least, that was what I hoped.
When I finished, I looked toward Elsbeth.
"Is this all right?"
She glanced at the table.
Then she ran her fingers over the surface, inspecting it.
"You missed a spot."
I followed her gaze.
A narrow strip near the edge had escaped my attention.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Clean it."
I dampened the cloth again and wiped the spot.
"There."
Elsbeth inspected it once more.
"Better."
That was all she said.
Oddly, I found the exchange reassuring.
She hadn't raised her voice or made a spectacle of my mistake. She had pointed it out, expected me to correct it, and moved on.
I had encountered people who treated small mistakes as evidence of a person's entire character. Elsbeth seemed content to regard a mistake as a mistake.
Perhaps I was reading too much into it.
I had a habit of doing that whenever someone behaved differently from what I expected.
"Now," she said, handing me a wooden bowl, "sort these."
I looked inside.
The bowl contained a mixture of dried beans and small stones.
I stared at it.
Elsbeth noticed.
"Something wrong?"
"Are these stones?"
"Well spotted."
"Why are they mixed with the beans?"
"Because the person who sorted them before you apparently thought stones were an important ingredient."
I looked at her.
She looked back at me.
After a moment, I decided that asking whether she was serious would accomplish nothing.
I pulled a chair closer to the table and began sorting.
The task was simple, if tedious. I separated the stones from the beans, placing the former in one bowl and the latter in another. The work required little thought, which left my mind free to wander.
I thought about Mara's journey home.
I wondered how far away her family lived and whether she visited them often. I wondered what her home looked like, whether she had siblings, and whether she had always intended to work at the estate.
I realized that I knew very little about her.
That wasn't entirely surprising. Mara had spent more time learning about my needs than telling me about herself, and I had never been particularly good at asking personal questions.
Perhaps I should ask her more when she returned.
The thought felt strangely important.
I was still considering it when Elsbeth's voice cut through my concentration.
"You're putting the good beans in with the stones."
I looked down.
She was right.
Some of the beans had rolled into the wrong bowl while I was thinking about something else.
"Oh."
I reached for them.
Elsbeth sighed.
"If you're going to daydream, at least wait until you've finished the work in front of you."
"I'm sorry."
She gave me a sharp look.
"What did I just tell you about apologizing?"
I closed my mouth.
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
Then I began moving the misplaced beans back into the correct bowl.
Elsbeth returned to her work with a muttered comment about children and their heads being full of clouds.
I wasn't sure whether I should feel offended.
Instead, I found myself suppressing a smile.
There was something oddly comforting about her bluntness.
She didn't appear to expect me to be clever, mysterious, or particularly interesting. As far as she was concerned, I was a child who needed to sort beans without getting distracted.
It was a remarkably uncomplicated way to be regarded.
And, for a little while, I was content to let her think that.
By midmorning, I had learned several things about working in the kitchen.
First, there was always something that needed cleaning.
Second, people could use a remarkable number of bowls in the preparation of a single meal.
Third, Elsbeth had an opinion about nearly everything.
The third discovery was the most impressive.
She had opinions about the quality of flour, the thickness of sliced vegetables, the proper way to stack plates, the amount of water needed to wash a pot, and the competence of a supplier who had apparently delivered a sack of onions that were too small.
She also had opinions about the people who had prepared the ingredients before they reached her kitchen.
Most of these opinions were not flattering.
I listened quietly as she explained which herbs were used for different dishes and where the kitchen stored its supplies. Occasionally, I asked a question when I genuinely needed an answer.
Elsbeth answered without much ceremony.
"That jar is pepper."
"I see."
"No, you don't. That's why you're asking."
I decided that silence was sometimes the better option.
Still, she was a good teacher in her own way.
She explained what I needed to know, demonstrated unfamiliar tasks when necessary, and corrected me when I did something incorrectly. She didn't waste time trying to make every instruction sound pleasant.
It was efficient.
I respected efficiency.
By the time the midday meal was being prepared, I had helped wash vegetables, carry a small basket of clean utensils, and arrange several containers on a shelf.
I had also nearly dropped a bowl.
It slipped slightly in my hands when I tried to move it, and I caught it against my chest before it could fall.
Elsbeth turned at the sound.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
She looked at the bowl, then at me.
"You nearly dropped it."
"But I didn't."
"That isn't the point."
I lowered the bowl onto the table.
She took it from me and set it aside.
"Use both hands when you carry something you can't afford to drop. And don't try to carry more than you can manage just because you think it'll make you faster."
I stared at her.
"I wasn't trying to be faster."
"No?"
"No."
"Then you were trying to impress someone?"
I frowned.
"No."
Elsbeth considered me for a moment.
"Then perhaps you simply weren't paying attention."
I couldn't argue with that.
She picked up another bowl, checked its contents, and placed it on the table. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
"You're small. That means you have to be sensible about what you carry. The world won't become more forgiving just because something is too heavy for you."
The words struck me more sharply than they should have.
For an instant, I was no longer standing in the kitchen.
I was back in the narrow alley behind the market, stumbling over uneven cobblestones while the man who had tried to take me followed close behind.
I remembered the frustration of my own legs refusing to move quickly enough. I remembered how my small hands had struggled to push against him when he caught my arm.
I remembered the carriage, the ropes, and the terrible realization that no amount of adult reasoning could make my body stronger than it was.
The memory passed quickly, but it left an unpleasant tightness in my chest.
Elsbeth was watching me.
"Are you listening?"
I straightened.
"Yes."
"Good. Then use both hands."
She returned to her work.
I picked up the next bowl with both hands.
This time, I carried it carefully.
The kitchen grew busier as the midday meal approached.
Servants came and went, collecting dishes and carrying food toward the dining room. The hearth crackled steadily, and the air became warmer as several pots simmered at once.
Elsbeth seemed to move faster as the room grew more crowded.
She issued instructions without hesitation, sent one servant to fetch more water, corrected another person's arrangement of plates, and somehow managed to keep track of everything happening around her.
I watched her with reluctant admiration.
She had the sort of competence that made difficult work appear simple.
I wondered whether she had always been this way or whether years of practice had taught her to move through the kitchen without wasting a single motion.
Perhaps both.
"Ellie."
I looked up.
Elsbeth was standing beside a table with a basket of vegetables.
"Bring that over here."
I obeyed.
"Not there. Here."
I moved the basket to the spot she indicated.
"Now, take these and wash them. Don't scrub them so hard that you bruise them, and make sure you get the dirt out of the leaves."
I looked into the basket.
There were several bunches of leafy vegetables, some with dirt caught between their stems.
"How many should I wash?"
"All of them."
"All right."
I carried the basket to the washing area and began working.
The task was more difficult than I expected. The leaves were delicate, and the dirt had settled into the folds. I had to be careful not to tear them while still making sure they were clean.
After a few minutes, I began to understand the rhythm of it.
Separate the leaves.
Rinse them.
Check for dirt.
Place the clean ones in the basket.
Repeat.
It was the sort of task that rewarded patience rather than speed.
I found myself enjoying it more than I wanted to admit.
There was something satisfying about doing a job properly. Unlike the larger problems in my life, this was something I could actually solve.
I couldn't undo my death.
I couldn't return to my parents.
I couldn't make myself older or stronger.
But I could wash vegetables without tearing them.
It wasn't much.
For now, it was enough.
When I finished the first basket, I carried it back to Elsbeth.
She glanced at the vegetables.
Then she picked one up and examined its leaves.
"Good."
I waited.
She put it down.
"Do the next basket."
I looked at the empty basket beside her.
"All right."
I turned to leave.
"And Ellie?"
I looked back.
"Don't rush just because you think I'm waiting for you. I'd rather have clean vegetables than a pile of leaves full of dirt."
"I understand."
"Good."
I returned to the washing area.
The second basket was smaller, and I finished it more quickly than the first. When I brought it back, Elsbeth inspected the vegetables and nodded.
"That's better."
I felt a small, ridiculous flicker of pride.
It was only a basket of vegetables.
I knew that.
Yet I had spent much of my life measuring success through things that seemed larger: examinations, assignments, graduation, plans for the future. I had assumed that once I had achieved enough of those things, I would finally feel as though I had accomplished something meaningful.
Instead, I had died before I could decide what to do with my life.
Now, I was standing in a kitchen, pleased that I had washed vegetables correctly.
Perhaps adulthood had always been less glamorous than I remembered.
Or perhaps the circumstances had simply changed what I needed.
Either way, I found that I didn't mind.
After the midday meal, the kitchen became quieter.
Most of the food had been served, and the servants who weren't needed immediately had gone to attend to other duties. The hearth still burned, but the rush of activity had eased enough that I could hear the occasional clatter of dishes from the washing area.
Elsbeth handed me a cloth.
"Help me clear this table."
I did as she asked.
We worked in relative silence, collecting utensils and wiping down the work surfaces. I had begun to anticipate some of her instructions, which seemed to please her more than any amount of conversation would have.
At one point, she handed me a stack of small bowls without looking up.
I caught them with both hands.
"Careful," she said automatically.
"I'm being careful."
"Good. Keep doing that."
I placed the bowls on the shelf.
When I returned, Elsbeth was standing beside a large pot, stirring its contents with a wooden spoon.
"Have you done much work before?" she asked.
The question caught me off guard.
"What kind of work?"
She gave me a look.
"Any kind."
I considered the question.
In my previous life, I had worked on university projects, completed assignments, and held the usual assortment of responsibilities that came with being an adult. I had done enough to know that work could be tedious, exhausting, and occasionally satisfying.
But none of that would make sense to her.
"No," I said. "Not like this."
Elsbeth grunted.
"Thought so."
I wasn't sure what she had expected me to say.
She continued stirring.
"You're not completely hopeless, though."
I blinked.
"Thank you?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I've seen worse."
That was apparently meant as praise.
I decided to accept it.
For a while, we worked without speaking. Then Elsbeth asked another question.
"How old are you, anyway?"
I hesitated.
"Eight."
The answer had become easier to give, even if the number still felt strange.
Elsbeth glanced at me.
"Eight?"
"Yes."
"Hm."
She stirred the pot a few more times.
"You don't talk much for a child."
I went still.
It was a simple observation, delivered without accusation. Even so, I felt the familiar instinct to become guarded.
I had spent a great deal of effort trying to understand how a child my apparent age was expected to behave. I knew that I was too serious, too observant, and probably too careful in the way I spoke.
I couldn't simply stop being myself.
But neither could I afford to let people become suspicious.
"What should I talk about?" I asked.
Elsbeth stopped stirring.
She turned toward me, her expression unreadable.
"Anything."
I looked at her.
"Anything?"
"Yes, anything. Children usually have plenty to say about things nobody else cares about."
I wasn't sure whether she was joking.
"Such as?"
"How they don't like a particular vegetable. How someone took their toy. How the weather is too hot or too cold. How they want something they can't have." She shrugged. "Whatever comes into their heads."
I looked down at the cloth in my hands.
I had no toys to complain about.
I didn't know what kind of weather I preferred in this world, and I certainly wasn't going to complain about the food when I had no idea where my next meal might come from if the estate decided it no longer needed me.
As for wanting things I couldn't have, that was a subject I preferred not to consider.
"I suppose I don't have much to say," I answered.
Elsbeth watched me for a moment.
"That so?"
I nodded.
She returned to stirring the pot.
"Well, you don't have to fill every quiet moment with words. The kitchen is noisy enough as it is."
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
The conversation was over.
Or so I thought.
A few minutes later, Elsbeth spoke again.
"You know, there's nothing wrong with asking for something if you need it."
I looked up.
She was still facing the pot.
"I didn't say there was."
"No, you didn't."
She stirred once, twice, then set the spoon down.
"But you behave as though asking for anything is going to get you into trouble."
I couldn't answer.
For the first time that day, Elsbeth's bluntness felt less like a practical inconvenience and more like someone had reached toward a part of me I had carefully hidden.
She hadn't raised her voice.
She hadn't demanded an explanation.
She had simply noticed.
I was suddenly aware of how little I had spoken throughout the day. How carefully I had followed instructions. How rarely I had asked for help, even when I wasn't sure what I was doing.
It was easier to remain quiet.
Quiet people attracted less attention.
Quiet people were less likely to offend someone, ask the wrong question, or give away something they should have kept to themselves.
Quiet people were easier to overlook.
And being overlooked had once seemed like a useful way to survive.
I looked at the cloth in my hands.
"I don't want to cause trouble."
Elsbeth made a small sound.
"That's sensible. Causing trouble is usually a waste of everyone's time."
I almost smiled.
"But asking a question isn't the same thing as causing trouble," she continued. "Neither is telling someone when you don't understand something. If you keep guessing, you'll eventually get something wrong that matters."
I thought about the bowl I had nearly dropped.
Or the stones mixed with the beans.
Or all the things I still didn't understand about the household.
"I'll remember that," I said.
"You'd better."
She picked up the spoon again.
"And if you're hungry, say so. I can't feed you if I don't know you need feeding."
I stared at her.
The statement was so ordinary that I almost didn't know how to respond.
Hunger had been a constant concern since I arrived in this world. I had learned to accept whatever food was offered, to eat when I had the chance, and not to assume there would always be another meal.
At the auction house, food had arrived through a hatch, and I had learned that even the people responsible for providing it might not care whether I was frightened or alone.
At the estate, I had been fed regularly. Mara had made sure I ate, and the servants' meals had become part of my daily routine.
Yet some part of me still behaved as though asking for more than what I had been given was dangerous.
"I understand," I said quietly.
Elsbeth glanced at me.
For a moment, I thought she might ask another question.
Instead, she merely nodded toward the table.
"Good. Now help me with those bowls."
I moved at once.
I was grateful she had left the matter there.
The afternoon passed more quickly than I expected.
Once the kitchen had been cleaned and the preparations for the evening meal had begun, Elsbeth found me several more tasks. I helped carry a small sack of flour, arrange jars on a shelf, and sort a collection of wooden utensils that had somehow ended up in the wrong place.
I made mistakes.
I put one jar on the wrong shelf and had to move it. I misunderstood an instruction about the utensils and sorted them by size when Elsbeth had wanted them grouped by purpose.
Each time, she corrected me.
Each time, I fixed the problem.
After the second mistake, I found myself bracing for criticism before she even spoke.
Elsbeth noticed.
"What's that face for?"
I looked up.
"What face?"
"The one you're making now."
I relaxed my expression.
"I'm not making a face."
"You look as though you're waiting for me to throw something at you."
I didn't know what to say.
She sighed and put the jar she was holding onto the shelf.
"Listen, little one. If I wanted you gone, I'd tell Mistress Halen you were no use to me. Until then, I'm going to teach you how to do the work properly. That's all."
I stared at her.
She seemed almost annoyed that the matter required explaining.
"Everyone makes mistakes," she added. "Some people make the same mistake ten times, and those people are a nuisance. But if you learn from it, there's no reason to spend the rest of the day looking miserable."
"I don't mean to."
"Then stop doing it."
I lowered my eyes.
It wasn't as simple as she made it sound.
Fear didn't always listen to reason. I could know perfectly well that Elsbeth had no intention of hurting me and still find myself watching her hands, her expression, and the movements of everyone around us.
My body remembered things that my mind wanted to leave behind.
I wondered whether that would ever change.
Perhaps it would.
Perhaps it wouldn't.
For now, I could at least try to listen to what she was saying.
"I'll do better," I said.
Elsbeth gave a short nod.
"That's all anyone can ask."
Then she returned to her work as though she had said nothing particularly important.
I stood there for a moment, watching her.
She wasn't gentle in the way Mara was gentle. She didn't seem interested in offering reassurance simply because someone looked unhappy, and I suspected she would find long conversations about feelings deeply inconvenient.
Yet there was something reassuring about the way she treated mistakes.
She expected me to learn, not to be perfect.
The distinction seemed small.
It wasn't.
I picked up the next jar and placed it on the correct shelf.
Elsbeth glanced over.
"That's right."
This time, I didn't wait for another correction.
I simply continued.
By late afternoon, the kitchen smelled of warm bread and honey.
I noticed it while carrying a basket of clean utensils past the worktable. The scent drifted from the far side of the room, where a tray of small cakes rested beneath a cloth.
I slowed.
The cakes were golden brown, their tops lightly glazed. They were smaller than the bread rolls served at breakfast, and a faint sheen of honey caught the light whenever someone moved the cloth.
They looked delicious.
I realized I was staring and immediately looked away.
It wasn't that I expected Elsbeth to offer me one. The cakes had presumably been prepared for the household, and I had no idea whether servants were allowed to take food outside their allotted meals.
Besides, I had eaten enough that day.
There was no reason to want something sweet simply because it was there.
I carried the basket to the shelf and returned to the table.
Elsbeth was inspecting the tray.
"Those need to cool before anyone touches them," she said to a servant passing nearby. "And don't stack them while they're warm unless you want them sticking together."
The servant nodded and went on with the task.
I resumed wiping the table.
For the next few minutes, I managed to forget about the cakes.
Then Elsbeth called me over.
"Ellie."
I turned.
"Yes?"
She pointed toward a small plate beside the tray.
"Take that."
I looked at the plate.
One of the little cakes sat in the middle.
I stared at it for a moment before looking back at her.
"What for?"
Elsbeth frowned.
"To put on your head, obviously."
I blinked.
She gave me a flat look.
"Eat it, little one."
I glanced at the cake again.
"For me?"
"No, I thought I'd give it to the empty air and see if it enjoyed the taste."
I hesitated.
Elsbeth folded her arms.
"What's the matter now?"
"Am I allowed to have it?"
For a moment, she simply stared at me.
Then she let out a breath through her nose.
"Yes. It's a cake, not a royal treasure." Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
I looked down at the plate.
"I don't want to take something that belongs to someone else."
"Then don't take someone else's. That one is yours."
She nudged the plate a little closer to me.
"There are enough for the household. I made an extra, and I'm not going to stand here arguing with you until supper because you think a small cake is going to ruin everything."
I wasn't entirely sure whether that was the whole truth.
Perhaps there really had been an extra cake. Perhaps she had simply decided that I needed one.
I couldn't tell.
But I could see that she was growing impatient with my hesitation, and I didn't want to turn a simple gesture into an ordeal.
"Thank you," I said.
"Yes, yes. Eat it before it gets cold."
I picked up the plate.
The cake was still slightly warm when I took the first bite.
It was soft, with a delicate sweetness that spread across my tongue. The honey gave it a rich flavor without making it too heavy, and the outer edge had a faint crispness that contrasted with the softer center.
For a moment, I forgot to think.
I simply tasted it.
It was delicious.
Not extraordinary, perhaps. It wasn't the sort of dessert that would have earned a place in a restaurant review or made me reconsider everything I knew about food.
It was a small cake, made by someone who knew her work.
But it was warm.
It was sweet.
And someone had given it to me without demanding anything in return.
I took another bite.
Elsbeth watched me from the corner of her eye.
"Well?"
I looked up.
"Well, what?"
"Is it any good?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
"Good. I wasn't going to let you have a bad one."
I almost laughed.
The sound escaped before I could stop it, small and unexpected.
Elsbeth looked at me.
For a moment, I worried that I had done something wrong.
Then she gave a short, satisfied grunt.
"See? You can smile after all."
My hand stopped halfway to my mouth.
I hadn't realized I was smiling.
The realization made the expression falter, and I quickly lowered my gaze to the cake.
Elsbeth didn't comment further.
She simply turned back to her work.
I finished the last bite slowly, trying to understand why such a small thing had affected me.
It wasn't the cake itself.
I had eaten sweet things before. In my previous life, I had celebrated birthdays with elaborate desserts, bought pastries on the way home from university, and occasionally treated myself to something sweet after a particularly exhausting day.
There had been nothing unusual about any of it.
But those moments had belonged to a life in which I had understood my place in the world.
I had known where I lived, whom I could call, and what I might expect when I woke the following morning.
Here, I was still learning how to exist.
I had no family I could reach, no familiar place to return to, and no certainty about what the future would bring.
Yet Elsbeth had given me a cake.
She hadn't asked me to smile for it. She hadn't asked me to tell her a story or explain why I was so quiet. She hadn't even pretended that she was doing something particularly kind.
She had simply noticed me.
And, for reasons of her own, she had decided that I should have something sweet.
I looked at the empty plate.
A ridiculous warmth settled in my chest.
"Thank you," I said again, more quietly.
Elsbeth was busy arranging the remaining cakes.
"I heard you the first time."
I nodded.
Then I returned the plate to the table and went back to work.
For the rest of the afternoon, the kitchen seemed a little less unfamiliar.
By the time the evening meal was prepared, I was tired.
Not exhausted, exactly, but aware of the day's work in a way I hadn't been before. My feet ached slightly, and my arms felt heavy from carrying bowls and baskets.
It was a strange sort of tiredness.
In my previous life, I had often spent entire days sitting at a desk, staring at a screen, or walking between university buildings. Physical work had been something I did occasionally rather than something that shaped every hour of my day.
Here, even the simplest tasks demanded attention.
I had to remember where things belonged, how to carry them safely, and which instructions mattered most. I had to work around other people, listen when someone spoke, and keep moving even when my thoughts wandered.
It was tiring.
But it was also strangely satisfying.
I had spent the day doing something useful.
That was more than I could say for many of the days I had spent trapped in the auction house, waiting for someone else to decide what would happen to me.
The memory was unwelcome, and I pushed it aside.
Elsbeth was wiping down the last worktable when I finished arranging a stack of bowls.
"That's enough for now," she said. "Go wash your hands."
I obeyed.
When I returned, she was checking a list of ingredients against the jars on the shelves.
"Will I be helping you again tomorrow?" I asked.
Elsbeth looked up.
"Depends on what Mistress Halen decides."
"Oh."
She returned to her list.
"Why? Have you had enough of me already?"
I blinked.
"No."
"Then why ask?"
I hesitated.
I wasn't sure how to explain that I had begun to feel more comfortable working with her. She was demanding, and her way of speaking could be irritating, but I had learned what she expected of me.
That made the kitchen easier to navigate.
I also suspected that I preferred knowing where I stood with her. Elsbeth didn't pretend to be softer than she was. When she was displeased, she said so. When I did something correctly, she acknowledged it and moved on.
There was little room for uncertainty.
"I just wanted to know," I said.
Elsbeth gave me a thoughtful look.
"Well, if you're here tomorrow, don't come in thinking you know everything because you've washed a few vegetables."
"I wouldn't."
"Good. Then perhaps we can make something useful out of you."
I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to be offended.
Judging by the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, I suspected she was teasing me.
"I'll do my best."
"See that you do."
She returned to her work.
I stood there for a moment, then began gathering the things I had been told to put away.
It occurred to me that I hadn't spent the entire day thinking about my circumstances.
I had thought about Mara, of course. I had wondered about her family and whether she was enjoying her time away. I had also found myself thinking about my parents, as I often did when the world became quiet enough for their absence to make itself known.
But there had been other things occupying my attention.
The beans.
The vegetables.
The bowls.
Elsbeth's instructions.
The cake.
For several hours, I had been allowed to exist without constantly examining my own existence.
I hadn't forgotten who I was.
I hadn't stopped missing my parents.
I hadn't somehow become a different person simply because I had spent a day doing ordinary work.
But I had been able to set the larger questions aside.
That seemed like progress.
Small progress, perhaps.
Still, I would take it.
After the evening meal, the servants gradually returned to their own duties or went to rest.
I helped carry a few remaining dishes before Elsbeth finally waved me away.
"Go on. You've done enough for one day."
I hesitated.
"Is there anything else I should do?"
She stared at me.
"Do you want there to be?"
"No."
"Then go."
I nodded.
"Good night, Elsbeth."
She looked mildly surprised that I had bothered to say it.
"Good night, little one. And don't wander into the kitchen tomorrow morning before anyone's lit the hearth. I don't want you tripping over something in the dark."
"I won't."
"See that you don't."
I left before she could find another warning to give me.
The corridors were quieter now. Lamps illuminated the walls, and the sounds of the household had settled into a subdued rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, I heard footsteps and the soft closing of a door.
I walked toward the room I shared with Mara.
For most of the day, I had been too occupied to think much about returning there. Now that the work was finished, I found myself looking forward to it.
Perhaps Mara would already be back.
The thought came so naturally that I almost failed to notice it.
Then I remembered what she had told me that morning.
She was visiting her family.
She wouldn't return until tomorrow.
I slowed.
It was a little strange, realizing that I had been looking forward to seeing someone who wasn't going to be there.
I told myself that it didn't matter.
I could wash, change into my nightdress, and go to bed. The room would be just as comfortable as it had been the previous night, and I had already learned enough about the household to know what I needed to do in the morning.
There was no reason to feel unsettled.
I repeated that thought all the way to the door.
Then I opened it.
And found myself wishing I hadn't expected anyone to be there.
The room was exactly as I had left it that morning.
The beds stood opposite each other, the blankets folded neatly at their feet. Mara's belongings were arranged on her side, and the small collection of things I had accumulated since arriving at the estate remained where I had put them.
Nothing was missing.
Nothing had changed.
Yet the room felt different.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at Mara's empty bed.
It was absurd.
I knew it was absurd.
She had been gone for less than a day. She had told me precisely where she was going and when she would return. There was no reason to worry about her, and no reason to feel as though something was missing simply because she wasn't here.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling.
I closed the door and crossed the room.
After washing and changing, I sat on my bed with the blanket gathered around my legs.
For a while, I did nothing.
I listened to the quiet.
In the past, I had often appreciated being alone. There had been days when I wanted nothing more than to shut my door, ignore the world, and spend a few hours without anyone expecting anything from me.
Even now, I could remember the comfort of returning to my own room after a long day at university.
The familiar furniture.
The quiet.
The knowledge that the world could wait until tomorrow.
I had once taken those things for granted.
Now, sitting in a room that wasn't truly mine, I found myself missing the sound of Mara moving around the other side of it.
I missed the quiet rustle of her clothes as she prepared for bed. I missed the occasional comment she made about something that had happened during the day. I even missed the way she sometimes asked whether I was all right when I clearly wasn't.
It was inconvenient.
I had spent the entire day proving that I could manage without her. Elsbeth had been perfectly capable of giving me work, correcting my mistakes, and making sure I didn't do anything foolish.
I had managed the tasks assigned to me.
I had learned something new.
I had even enjoyed myself.
There was no reason to feel lonely.
And yet I did.
I looked toward Mara's bed again.
Perhaps it was simply because the room had become familiar. After everything that had happened to me, familiarity was valuable. I knew where things were kept, where I could sit without being in anyone's way, and how the room sounded when the household settled down for the night.
Mara was part of that familiarity.
She had been there when I first arrived, uncertain and frightened, with no idea how I was supposed to survive in this world. She had shown me where to sleep, what to wear, and how to navigate the household without drawing unwanted attention.
She had explained the rules without making me feel foolish for not knowing them.
She had read me a story when I could have pretended I was too old to need one.
She had helped me choose a name.
My name.
Ellie.
I had chosen it for myself, and yet Mara had been the first person in this world to accept it without hesitation.
She hadn't asked me to justify the choice or explain why it mattered. She had simply started calling me Ellie.
It was a small thing.
It had meant a great deal.
I lowered my gaze to my hands.
I had spent so long trying to survive that I hadn't noticed when my priorities began to change. At first, all that mattered was finding food, shelter, and a way to avoid being hurt.
Then I had needed to understand the household.
Then I had wanted to learn how to read, partly because knowledge was useful and partly because it gave me something to look forward to.
And somewhere along the way, I had started looking forward to seeing Mara.
Not because I needed her to explain another rule.
Not because I needed her to help me with a task.
Simply because I wanted her there.
The realization made my chest feel tight.
I wasn't sure I liked it.
Depending on someone was dangerous.
I knew that better than most.
The baker had offered me food and shelter, only to drug me and arrange for me to be sold. The men who had taken me away had treated me as an object, something whose value could be measured in coins. At the auction house, strangers had looked at me and decided what I might be worth.
Every time I had begun to believe that someone might help me, I had been reminded that kindness could be a disguise.
It would have been easier to trust no one.
It would have been safer, too, or so I had told myself.
But Mara had never demanded that I trust her.
She had given me space when I needed it and offered help when I didn't know how to ask. She had allowed me to refuse things without making me feel guilty. Even when she worried about me, she didn't insist that I explain every thought that crossed my mind.
She had been patient.
And I had grown accustomed to that patience.
Perhaps too accustomed.
I drew my knees closer and rested my chin on them.
The problem wasn't that I couldn't survive without Mara.
I had survived before I met her.
I had survived the streets, the betrayal, the carriage, and the auction house. I had found ways to observe, adapt, and keep myself alive even when I had almost no control over my circumstances.
I could survive one day without her.
What frightened me was that I had begun to want more than survival.
I wanted to be able to tell someone when something good happened.
I wanted to sit beside another person without wondering what they might want from me.
I wanted to enter a room and know that, even if the world remained uncertain, there was at least one person who would be glad to see me.
And I wanted Mara to be that person.
The thought was both comforting and terrifying.
I pressed my face briefly against my knees.
In my former life, I had understood the value of relationships, at least in theory. I had loved my parents. I had friends. I had people who mattered to me, and I had assumed there would always be more time to tell them so.
There had always been another conversation to have, another meal to share, another day in which I could make up for the things I had neglected.
Then I had died.
I still didn't know what had happened to my parents after the crash. I didn't know whether they had survived, whether they had been told what happened to me, or whether they had been left with the same terrible uncertainty that followed me into this life.
I didn't know whether I would ever see them again.
The questions had no answers.
They never had.
I swallowed and looked toward the window.
Outside, the sky had darkened. A few distant lights glimmered beyond the estate grounds, and the wind moved softly against the glass.
I had chosen the name Ellie because it connected me to my mother.
It was a piece of the life I had lost, something I could carry without having to explain it to anyone else.
But perhaps I had begun carrying other things from that life, too.
The desire to belong somewhere.
The need to hear a familiar voice.
The hope that I might one day wake up without immediately wondering what I would have to endure.
I had thought that accepting a new life meant learning to live without the things I had lost.
Perhaps that wasn't entirely true.
Perhaps it meant learning to live with the loss while still allowing myself to want something more.
I wasn't sure.
I was still trying to understand what it meant to be Ellie.
I was still Alex, too, even if no one in this world knew it. My memories, my thoughts, and the people I had loved remained part of me. Choosing a new name hadn't erased them.
Neither had a day of work in a kitchen.
Neither had a small cake offered by a woman who pretended it was no great matter.
And neither had Mara's absence.
If anything, that absence had made something clearer.
Mara had become important to me.
Not because she had promised to protect me forever. She hadn't.
Not because I believed she could solve every problem I might face. She couldn't.
And not because I had forgotten the danger of trusting another person.
I hadn't.
She had become important because, little by little, she had made this unfamiliar world feel less hostile. She had given me room to breathe, to make mistakes, and to begin discovering what kind of person I might become here.
I had started to depend on her presence.
I had begun to miss her when it wasn't there.
And I was glad she would return tomorrow.
I leaned back against the wall and pulled the blanket over my lap.
The room remained quiet.
For a while, I considered whether I should feel ashamed of the realization. I had always thought of myself as independent, even before my death. I had valued the ability to solve my own problems, to make decisions without relying too heavily on others, and to keep moving when circumstances became difficult.
I still valued those things.
But independence, I was beginning to understand, didn't mean never needing anyone.
It meant being able to stand on my own when I had to.
Perhaps I could do both.
Perhaps I could learn to survive in this world and still allow myself to care about the people who shared it with me.
I didn't have to decide everything tonight.
For once, I let myself accept that.
I looked at Mara's empty bed one last time, then turned down the blanket and settled beneath it.
She would return tomorrow morning.
Until then, I would manage.
But as I closed my eyes, I found myself looking forward to the sound of her voice in the room again.
And that, more than anything else, told me how much had changed.
I had arrived at the estate believing that safety meant finding somewhere I could survive without anyone hurting me.
Now, for the first time, I was beginning to understand that safety could also mean having someone whose absence I noticed.
Someone I wanted to see again.
Someone I was beginning to miss.
I wasn't ready to call that trust.
Not yet.
But it was a beginning.