I woke to the sound of someone moving around beside me.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
The room was dim, the morning light barely making its way through the narrow window. A familiar wooden ceiling stretched above me, and the blanket covering my body felt heavier than it should have. I lay still, listening to the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
Then I remembered.
The estate. The servants' quarters. The narrow bed beside the window.
And Mara.
I turned my head.
She stood near the small chest at the foot of her bed, folding a dark dress and placing it inside. Her brown hair was neatly tied back, and she wore the same simple underdress she usually changed out of before beginning her duties.
She must have noticed me moving, because she glanced over her shoulder.
"Good morning, sleepyhead."
I blinked at her.
"Morning."
"Well, look at that. You're awake before I have to drag you out of bed."
"I wasn't asleep."
"Of course not."
"I was awake."
"Naturally."
Her expression was so solemn that I almost believed she was taking me seriously. Almost.
I sat up, pulling the blanket away from my legs.
Mara turned back to the chest, but I caught the small smile she tried to hide.
It was a strange feeling, watching someone tease me over something so ordinary. There was no demand behind it, no expectation that I would answer correctly, and no punishment waiting if I said something foolish.
It was just a conversation.
A small, meaningless conversation between two people sharing a room.
I found that I didn't dislike it.
Mara finished putting away her dress and reached for her work clothes. As she pulled them over her underdress, she glanced at me again.
"So," she said casually, "did you miss me?"
I stared at her.
The question was delivered with such easy confidence that I suspected she had been waiting for an opportunity to ask it.
"No."
The answer came out much too quickly.
Mara's smile widened.
"No?"
"I managed perfectly well yesterday."
"I didn't ask whether you managed."
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
She had me there.
"I had work," I said at last.
"That isn't an answer either."
"You ask too many questions."
"And you avoid answering them."
She tied her apron around her waist, looking entirely pleased with herself.
I pulled the blanket into my lap and tried to think of a suitable response. Unfortunately, most of the replies that came to mind were either childish or unnecessarily defensive.
Neither would help my dignity.
"I didn't have any problems," I settled on.
Mara regarded me for a moment.
"Good. I'm glad."
Her teasing softened into something more genuine, and that somehow made the exchange harder to endure.
I looked down at the blanket.
"I didn't say I had problems when you were here."
"No, you didn't."
"And I don't need someone watching over me all the time."
"I know."
Her easy agreement left me with nothing else to argue about.
Mara crossed the room and picked up the brush from the small table near my bed.
"Come here. Your hair looks like you've been fighting your pillow."
"I have not."
"Then I suppose the pillow won on its own."
I gave her a flat look.
She only laughed.
I reluctantly moved closer, allowing her to brush the worst of the tangles from my hair. The routine had become familiar over the past several days. At first, I had found it embarrassing to need help with something as simple as getting ready in the morning. Now I mostly disliked how easily Mara could use it as an excuse to tease me.
Mostly.
"There," she said when she finished. "Presentable enough to avoid frightening the other servants."
"You're very kind."
"I do my best."
She set the brush down and checked the fastening on her apron.
We were quiet for a little while.
I watched her gather the few things she needed for the day, then found myself looking at her more closely than I intended.
She had been away for a single day.
That was all.
I had completed my work, eaten my meals, spoken with Elsbeth, and returned to our room without anything going particularly wrong. I had even managed to spend the evening alone without feeling as restless as I might once have expected.
Nothing about the day had been difficult enough to justify the relief I felt at seeing Mara again.
And yet, when I had returned to the room the previous evening, I had noticed her absence.
The empty space beside the window had seemed more obvious than it should have. I had found myself wondering whether she had reached home safely, whether she had enjoyed her time with her family, and whether she would return in the morning as she had promised.
I hadn't liked those thoughts.
Not because there was anything wrong with them, but because they revealed something I hadn't intended to let happen.
I had begun to expect her presence.
That was dangerous, or at least it felt dangerous. Depending on another person meant giving them the opportunity to disappoint me. It meant that their absence could matter.
I had learned what happened when I trusted the wrong person.
The baker's warm smile still existed somewhere in my memory, inseparable from the drugged milk and the knowledge that she had intended to sell me.
I wasn't ready to forget that.
But Mara wasn't the baker.
I knew that.
Knowing it and feeling it were two different things.
"Ellie?"
I looked up.
Mara was watching me with a slight crease between her brows.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"You looked as though you were trying to solve a difficult problem."
"I was thinking."
"That sounds exhausting."
I narrowed my eyes.
She grinned.
"Come on. If we don't get moving, we'll be late for breakfast."
I slipped out of bed and began getting dressed.
For now, that was enough.
The servants' dining room was already lively when we arrived.
The first bell had rung not long before, and the morning meal was being served to those who had finished their earliest duties. The room smelled of porridge, fresh bread, and the faint smoke clinging to everyone's clothes after working near the kitchen fires.
Tomas sat near the far wall, speaking to Joren about something that had apparently gone wrong in the stables. Perrin was eating quickly while reading a small scrap of paper, and Lysa was attempting to persuade Elsbeth to give her another piece of bread.
Elsbeth, predictably, appeared unimpressed.
"You've already had two."
"They were small."
"They were bread, Lysa. Not coins. They don't become more valuable because you cut them in half."
Lysa made a wounded noise.
Mara guided me toward an empty place at the table.
"Good morning," she called to the others.
A few greetings came back.
Elsbeth glanced up as we sat down.
"Ah, the little one survived another day."
"I told you I would," I replied.
"I don't remember asking you to make a promise."
"You implied it."
"I implied no such thing."
Mara sat beside me, already reaching for the bowl being passed along the table.
"How was she yesterday?" she asked.
Elsbeth gave her a look.
"She worked."
"That sounds promising."
"She listened when I told her what to do. Didn't spill anything expensive, didn't set anything on fire, and didn't try to argue with me about every little thing."
"I don't argue about every little thing," I said.
Elsbeth turned her gaze on me.
"Only the things you think are important."
"That isn't the same thing."
"No, it's worse."
Mara laughed into her bowl.
I decided that breakfast would be easier if I concentrated on eating.
Elsbeth returned to her meal, apparently satisfied that she had made her point.
After a moment, she added, "She did well enough. Quiet, though."
"She's always quiet," Mara said.
"Children are supposed to make noise."
"Some children."
"All the ones I've met."
"Perhaps you've been unlucky."
Elsbeth grunted.
I kept my attention on my porridge, but I couldn't quite suppress the faint smile tugging at my mouth.
The exchange reminded me of something I had only recently begun to appreciate: people could disagree without it turning into a contest. They could tease one another, complain, and trade insults without secretly looking for a weakness to exploit.
It wasn't that I had never known such things before.
My former life had been full of them. Friends had argued over trivial matters, my parents had teased one another over dinner, and my university classmates had spent hours complaining about assignments that none of us had wanted to complete.
I had taken those moments for granted.
Now, I found myself noticing them.
Mara nudged my arm lightly.
"What's that smile for?"
I immediately straightened my expression.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"How mysterious."
I returned to my breakfast.
Mara let the matter drop, though I suspected she was still amused.
The conversation at the table drifted toward ordinary concerns. Tomas complained about a horse that had decided to be particularly difficult that morning. Joren argued that the stablemaster should stop rewarding the animal with extra attention every time it misbehaved. Elsbeth declared that horses were smarter than half the people who worked at the estate, which earned a few offended protests.
For a while, I simply listened.
I didn't need to contribute to every conversation. No one seemed to mind when I stayed quiet, and when someone asked me a question, I could answer without feeling that I was stepping into a trap.
It was a small comfort, but a real one.
When breakfast ended, the servants began returning to their duties.
Mara and I left the dining room together, carrying the last of our bowls toward the kitchen.
"Did Elsbeth give you any trouble yesterday?" Mara asked.
"No."
"None at all?"
"She told me I was holding a bowl incorrectly."
"That sounds like Elsbeth."
"She said I was going to drop it."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Then perhaps she was wrong."
I considered that.
"She said the same thing about a tray later."
"And did you drop that?"
"No."
Mara hummed thoughtfully.
"Perhaps she's trying to teach you how to prove her wrong."
"That would be a strange teaching method."
"You're beginning to understand the kitchen."
I gave her a suspicious look.
She laughed and pushed open the door.
The kitchen was already warm, with the morning's work well underway. Elsbeth stood near the long preparation table, directing two other workers while checking a pot simmering over the fire.
When she saw us, she pointed toward a stack of clean bowls.
"Those need putting away. And someone has left the pantry shelves in a state that suggests they were stocked by a family of drunk squirrels."
Mara looked at me.
"That sounds like your work."
"It is not."
"Then you can help me prove the squirrels are innocent."
We spent the next part of the morning carrying dishes, sorting supplies, and helping prepare the kitchen for the midday meal.
The work was ordinary, sometimes tedious, and occasionally more complicated than it looked. I had already learned that knowing how a task ought to be done didn't always mean my small hands could do it efficiently. The source of this chapter is novelping(.)com.
A stack of bowls that seemed easy to carry could become awkward when the weight shifted. A container placed on the wrong shelf could lead to a second trip across the room. A simple request could turn into three separate tasks if I failed to listen carefully enough.
Still, I was improving.
Mara noticed when I completed a task without needing a reminder, though she was sensible enough not to praise every minor success. When I made a mistake, she corrected it. When I did something properly, she moved on.
I found that I preferred it that way.
Praise could be pleasant, but too much of it made me feel as though I were being watched for signs of failure. Ordinary expectations were easier to bear.
By the time the second bell rang, the kitchen was busy enough that there was little opportunity for conversation.
Mara was sent to carry a bundle of clean linen to another part of the house. Before leaving, she turned toward me.
"I'll see you later."
I nodded.
"All right."
She hesitated, then smiled.
"Try not to miss me too much."
I stared at her.
"Mara."
"Yes, Ellie?"
"Go."
She laughed as she left.
Elsbeth, who had been arranging a row of small jars on the preparation table, glanced at me.
"She likes teasing you."
"I've noticed."
"Means she likes you."
I looked at her.
"Does it?"
"Usually."
"That isn't very reassuring."
"Wasn't meant to be."
She handed me a jar.
"Put that on the middle shelf. And don't start thinking so hard about it that you forget where it goes."
I took the jar and did as she asked.
I decided that asking Elsbeth for advice about people was probably unwise.
The day passed without anything unusual happening.
That was something I had begun to appreciate about the estate. Its rules could be restrictive, its work demanding, and its people occasionally difficult, but most days were simply days.
I was given tasks. I completed them. I ate when meals were served. I learned which corridors were busy at particular hours and which servants preferred to work without conversation. I became more familiar with the rhythm of the household, even if I still knew very little about the people who lived beyond the servants' quarters.
The noble family remained distant.
I had yet to meet the lady of the estate, and I had seen the lord only from a distance on one occasion, when he crossed an open courtyard accompanied by two men I assumed were visiting officials. His son remained equally unfamiliar to me.
That suited me well enough.
The less attention I attracted from people with power over my life, the better.
Near midday, I helped carry a small collection of supplies from the kitchen toward the pantry. The work required me to cross one of the administrative corridors, a quieter part of the estate where the walls were made from dark, almost ebony-colored stone.
The stones seemed to absorb the daylight rather than reflect it. Even at the brightest part of the day, the corridor felt cooler than the kitchen, and the heavy wooden doors along one side made the space feel more private.
I had passed through it before, usually with someone else or while carrying out a task that left little time to look around.
Today, I was alone.
The basket in my hands wasn't especially heavy, but I had been instructed to keep the contents arranged carefully. I walked slowly, concentrating on avoiding the uneven places in the floor.
Then I noticed Master Vale.
He stood near one of the office doors, holding a ledger beneath one arm.
That wasn't particularly strange in itself. Vale was the estate steward. Managing records and accounts was part of his work, and I had seen him carrying papers on several occasions.
What caught my attention was the fact that he was standing in this particular corridor with the ledger tucked close against his side, rather than carrying it to the office where I had usually seen him work.
It was a small difference.
Small enough that I would probably have forgotten it if nothing else had happened.
Vale looked up as I approached.
"Ellie."
I stopped immediately.
"Master Vale."
His gaze moved briefly to the basket in my hands.
"Where are you taking those?"
"To the pantry, sir."
"Good. Take them there, please. When you've finished, see whether the clean linen has been returned from the laundry. Mistress Halen may need it before the afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
His manner was entirely ordinary. He didn't appear irritated, nor did he seem particularly concerned that I had come down the corridor.
He had simply given me another task.
I adjusted my grip on the basket and continued toward the pantry.
I had nearly reached the end of the corridor when I heard a woman's voice.
It came from behind the office door near which Vale had been standing. The door wasn't fully closed, leaving a narrow gap through which the sound carried into the hallway.
The woman spoke quietly, but clearly enough for me to hear.
"I trust this will remain between us. My husband has no need to be involved."
I slowed for half a step.
Then I kept walking.
There was no response I could make out. I couldn't tell whether Vale had answered her or whether she had continued speaking. By the time I reached the turn at the end of the corridor, the words had faded into indistinct murmuring.
I didn't stop to listen.
I had no reason to.
The woman could have been discussing household accounts, a private purchase, or some matter that simply didn't concern her husband. I knew almost nothing about the noble family or the responsibilities that came with managing an estate.
There were plenty of reasons someone might want a conversation kept private.
And Vale was the steward. He dealt with matters that servants like me would never be expected to understand.
I carried the basket into the pantry and set it down where it belonged.
For a moment, I stood still, remembering the sentence.
My husband has no need to be involved.
It was an odd thing to say, perhaps. But odd didn't necessarily mean suspicious.
I had learned that much about people.
Sometimes, a harmless explanation was exactly what it appeared to be. Sometimes, a person had a perfectly reasonable reason for keeping something to themselves. And sometimes, people concealed things because the truth would reveal something they would rather others not know.
The difficulty was knowing which situation I was looking at.
I had no way to tell.
Besides, I had work to do.
I checked the basket to make sure nothing had been left behind, then went to find the laundry.
The linen had been returned, and I helped carry the folded bundles to the appropriate storage room. After that, I was sent to assist with a small delivery from the kitchen. By the time the next bell rang, the corridor and the conversation had slipped from the front of my mind.
Not entirely, perhaps.
But enough.
There was no reason to make more of it.
Mara found me later in the afternoon while I was sorting a collection of small household items.
She stopped beside the table and looked down at what I was doing.
"You're getting quicker."
"I've had practice."
"That's generally how it works."
"I thought you were going to say something encouraging."
"I was. You ruined it by answering."
I gave her a look.
She smiled and picked up one of the items I had sorted.
"What's this?"
"A small brass clasp."
"And where does it go?"
I pointed toward the container on the left.
Mara examined it, then returned it to the correct place.
"Good."
I waited.
She looked at me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You look disappointed."
"I thought you might say something encouraging."
She laughed.
"You're learning."
"That isn't encouraging."
"It's the best I can do."
I shook my head, but I was smiling when I returned to my work.
For the next several minutes, Mara helped me finish sorting the items. We talked about nothing important: which tasks remained, whether Elsbeth was likely to complain about the kitchen being short of clean bowls again, and how Tomas had apparently spent part of the morning arguing with a horse that was more stubborn than he was.
Mara seemed to know the story already.
"Did he lose?" I asked.
"According to Tomas, the horse cheated."
"How does a horse cheat?"
"Apparently, by refusing to cooperate."
"That sounds like losing."
"Don't tell him that."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Mara laughed, and I found myself laughing with her.
The sound surprised me.
Not because laughter was unfamiliar, but because it came so easily. I hadn't planned to smile. I hadn't decided that the situation was safe enough to enjoy. For a moment, I had simply forgotten to be cautious.
The realization made me quieter afterward.
Mara noticed, but she didn't ask why.
She only handed me the last item from the pile and told me where it belonged.
I was grateful for that.
By the time the seventh bell rang, I was tired.
My hands ached slightly from carrying things, and my feet had begun to protest the amount of walking required by even the simplest household tasks. The physical limitations of my body remained a constant frustration. I could think through a problem quickly enough, but my small arms and short legs often reminded me that understanding something and doing it were not the same.
Mara seemed to notice my tiredness as we left the work area.
"Long day?"
"Not particularly."
"Your feet disagree."
"My feet are entitled to their own opinions."
"How generous of you to allow it."
I sighed.
She laughed and took my hand briefly to guide me around a group of servants coming the other way. She released it as soon as we had passed them, as naturally as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
I didn't pull away.
That, too, was becoming more ordinary.
We returned to the servants' quarters, washed up, and went to supper. Elsbeth complained about a missing jar, Tomas told the story of his argument with the horse for the third time, and Perrin insisted that the animal had been perfectly reasonable until Tomas had tried to brush it in the wrong direction.
The argument lasted longer than it deserved.
I listened, ate, and occasionally contributed a remark when the conversation offered an opening.
No one seemed to find my quietness strange enough to comment on.
After supper, Mara and I returned to our room.
She set aside her work clothes and began preparing for the evening. I washed my face, changed into my nightdress, and settled on my bed with the small book she had been using to teach me to read.
The book was still difficult.
The letters were familiar now, and I could recognize several simple words, but reading them required concentration. I had to resist the temptation to guess from context instead of looking carefully at the letters themselves.
Mara sat beside me and glanced at the open page.
"Want to practice?"
I nodded.
We spent some time working through the short lines. When I made a mistake, she corrected me. When I hesitated over a word, she waited instead of immediately supplying the answer.
It was a small kindness, but an important one.
I had spent much of my former life learning things because I needed to pass examinations, complete assignments, or prepare for whatever came next. Even when I enjoyed studying, there had usually been some goal waiting at the end of it.
Here, the lessons were different.
I was learning because I wanted to understand the world around me. Every word I recognized was one less thing I would have to ask someone else to explain. Every page made the world a little less unfamiliar.
And because Mara was teaching me, the lessons had become something I looked forward to.
Eventually, she closed the book.
"That's enough for tonight. Your eyes are starting to cross."
"They are not."
"They are."
"I can read another page."
"You can read another page tomorrow."
I frowned at the book.
Mara put it aside before I could argue further.
"Besides, if you tire yourself out, you'll spend tomorrow making mistakes and blaming me for not teaching you properly."
"I wouldn't do that."
"No? Then I suppose I should be grateful."
I gave her a flat look.
She grinned and stood to prepare for bed.
I watched her move around the room, setting her things in their usual places and folding the clothes she would need the following morning. The sight was familiar now, and I found comfort in its predictability.
Then I remembered the previous evening.
The room had felt different without her.
Not frightening, exactly. Just quieter than I had expected. I had finished my work and gone to bed without incident, but I had caught myself listening for sounds that weren't there.
I hadn't realized how much I had grown accustomed to hearing Mara move around the room, or how reassuring it had become to know that someone else was nearby.
I wasn't sure what to do with that realization.
Fortunately, I didn't have to do anything with it just yet.
Mara finished arranging her clothes and sat down on her bed.
"Something on your mind?"
I looked at her.
"No."
She raised an eyebrow.
I sighed.
"Not anything important."
"All right." Find the original chapter at g.com.
She reached for her book, apparently prepared to leave it there.
I looked down at my hands.
There was something I wanted to ask her.
It was a simple question. An ordinary question. There was no reason to be nervous about it.
And yet, I hesitated.
I had spent so long treating questions as potential mistakes that even the harmless ones sometimes felt dangerous. Asking what someone thought, what they wanted, or what they had done could invite attention I wasn't prepared to receive.
But Mara had never made me feel foolish for asking about something I didn't understand.
She had answered my questions, corrected my mistakes, and occasionally teased me for being too serious. She had also allowed me to remain quiet when I didn't feel like talking.
I didn't need to explain why I wanted to ask.
I could simply ask.
"Mara?"
She looked up from her book.
"Yes?"
I rubbed my thumb against the side of my hand.
"How was your day off?"
For a moment, she seemed surprised.
Then her expression softened.
"It was good," she said. "A little tiring, but good."
"Oh."
I looked down again, uncertain how to continue.
Mara closed her book and rested it on her lap.
"I went home to see my family. My mother had decided that I needed to eat enough for three people, as usual."
I glanced up.
"Did you?"
"Eat enough for three people?"
I nodded.
"I tried. I don't think I succeeded."
"That sounds difficult."
"It was. Especially when she kept putting more food on my plate."
I smiled faintly.
Mara leaned back against the wall.
"My younger sister was there, too. She's about your age, actually."
I looked at her more attentively.
"You have a younger sister?"
"One. And she makes enough trouble for three."
"What does she do?"
"Everything she's told not to do."
I considered that.
"That sounds exhausting."
"You have no idea."
There was genuine fondness in Mara's voice, and for the first time, I found myself wondering what she was like when she wasn't at the estate.
Here, she was practical and capable. She knew the rules, understood the household, and seemed able to handle most situations without becoming flustered. Even when she teased me, there was a steadiness beneath it.
But when she spoke about her sister, something changed.
Her expression became more animated. She smiled without seeming to think about it, and the stories came more easily.
It was as though I were seeing a part of her that had existed long before I arrived at the estate.
"What is she like?" I asked.
Mara thought about it.
"Small, stubborn, impatient, and convinced that being told no is a personal insult."
I blinked.
"That sounds familiar."
Her eyes narrowed playfully.
"Are you suggesting you have any of those qualities?"
"No."
"Not even one?"
"Perhaps one."
She laughed.
I found myself smiling again.
"What does she like doing?" I asked.
"At the moment? Anything that involves avoiding chores. She likes stories, though. And she likes trying to help my mother cook, which is unfortunate because she has a habit of getting in the way."
"Does she know how to read?"
"Some. She's still learning."
Mara glanced at the book beside her.
"Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering."
It wasn't entirely true. I had been curious about Mara's sister, but I had also been thinking about how strange it was to hear someone talk about a child my apparent age in such an ordinary way.
A younger sister who disliked chores. A mother who insisted on feeding her daughter too much. Stories, cooking, arguments, and the small frustrations of family life.
There was nothing extraordinary about any of it.
That was what made it difficult to listen to.
I remembered my own mother.
I remembered the way she used to fuss over meals, asking whether I had eaten enough even when I was old enough to prepare my own food. I remembered her teasing me when I became too serious, and the way she could tell when something was troubling me even when I insisted that nothing was wrong.
The memories arrived without warning.
For a moment, I could almost hear her voice.
The feeling was so sharp that I had to look away.
I missed her.
Not simply the idea of having a mother, or the comfort of being cared for, but the particular person she had been. Her habits, her voice, her laughter, and the small, ordinary things I had never thought to remember because I had assumed there would always be another day.
There wouldn't be.
I knew that.
I had known it since the moment I woke in this world, though I had spent much of the time since then trying not to think about it.
Mara's sister was not a replacement for the family I had lost. Mara was not my mother, and I didn't want her to become one. The life I remembered belonged to me, and I wasn't ready to surrender it simply because I had begun to find comfort in another person's presence.
But hearing Mara talk about her family reminded me that affection still existed.
People still went home to see their mothers. Younger sisters still made trouble. Families still argued over meals and worried about one another.
The world had not stopped being ordinary simply because mine had ended.
That thought hurt.
It also comforted me.
"Ellie?"
I realized Mara had stopped speaking.
I looked at her.
"Sorry. What?"
She studied me for a moment, her expression gentle but not intrusive.
"I asked whether you wanted to hear a story about my sister trying to bake a cake."
I blinked.
"Did she ruin it?"
"Magnificently."
I let out a small laugh.
"Then yes."
Mara smiled and began telling me about the time her sister had decided she could prepare a cake without help. Apparently, the girl had misunderstood an instruction, added far too much flour, and then tried to hide the evidence when the result came out resembling a brick.
"She insisted it was supposed to be that way," Mara said. "Said she'd invented a new kind of cake."
"Was it edible?"
"Only if you were very hungry and had no other options."
"Did you eat it?"
"Of course."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
"Because she had worked hard on it, and she looked so proud of herself that I couldn't bear to tell her the truth."
I thought about that.
"Did she find out?"
"Eventually. My mother tried to cut it, and the knife nearly broke."
I laughed.
Not a polite little breath through my nose, but a real laugh that escaped before I could stop it.
Mara looked delighted.
"There it is."
I immediately tried to compose myself.
"What?"
"A laugh. I was beginning to think you didn't know how."
"I know how to laugh."
"Of course you do."
"You keep saying things like that."
"Because you keep giving me opportunities."
I shook my head, but the smile remained.
Mara's expression softened.
"You should do that more often."
I looked away.
"I don't always have a reason to."
"You don't need a reason every time."
I didn't answer.
The words were simple, almost careless, but they stayed with me.
I had spent so much of my time in this world measuring everything by its usefulness. Food meant survival. Shelter meant safety. Information meant protection. Kindness had to be examined for hidden motives, and trust had to be earned slowly enough that I could retreat before it became dangerous.
Even happiness had begun to feel like something I should justify.
But perhaps there were moments when I could simply enjoy myself.
A ridiculous story about a failed cake. A conversation before bed. A person laughing beside me.
Nothing more was required.
Mara yawned and stretched.
"I should sleep before I start telling you stories that make no sense."
"How would I know the difference?"
She looked offended.
"My stories are excellent."
"Of course."
"That was sarcasm."
"I know."
She laughed softly and set her book aside.
We began preparing for bed. I folded my clothes and placed them where they belonged, then climbed beneath my blanket. The room settled into quiet, broken only by the faint sounds of the estate beyond the walls.
Mara extinguished the lamp.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
I lay on my back, looking toward the dim outline of the ceiling. I could hear Mara shifting beneath her own blanket, settling into a comfortable position.
I had wanted to know about her day.
That was all.
It hadn't been difficult once I had asked, and she hadn't treated the question as strange. She had simply answered, sharing a little piece of her life with me.
I wondered whether she would tell me more about her family another time.
The thought came naturally, without the cautious calculation that usually accompanied my interest in other people.
That, more than anything else, surprised me.
I was still afraid of trusting someone too much. I still remembered the baker, the carriage, the auction house, and the terrible helplessness of being treated as something that could be bought and sold.
Those memories hadn't disappeared.
They probably wouldn't disappear for a long time.
But they no longer filled every quiet moment.
There was room for other things now.
A book I wanted to finish. A task I could perform well. A conversation I wanted to continue. A person whose return I had looked forward to, and whose stories I wanted to hear.
I turned onto my side.
"Mara?"
A sleepy sound came from the other bed.
"Hm?"
"Thank you."
There was a brief silence.
"For what?"
I considered giving her a practical answer. For helping me read. For showing me how the household worked. For making sure I knew where I was supposed to go and what I was supposed to do.
All of those things were true.
But they weren't quite what I meant.
"For telling me about your sister."
Mara was quiet for a moment.
Then she answered, her voice warm with sleep.
"You're welcome, Ellie."
I closed my eyes.
I still didn't know what the future held for me. I didn't know how long I would remain at the estate, what sort of life I could build here, or whether I would ever find a way to feel entirely at home in this world.
I didn't know whether the strange sentence I had overheard that afternoon would ever mean anything to me. For now, it was simply a woman's private remark, heard by accident and understood no better than a dozen other things I had encountered since arriving here.
There was no reason to dwell on it.
Tomorrow would bring more work, more lessons, and more opportunities to learn how to live in a world I barely understood.
For tonight, I had a warm bed, a quiet room, and someone nearby who had shared a little piece of her life with me.
I was still Alex in the private corners of my mind, still carrying the memories of the family I had lost. Choosing the name Ellie hadn't erased any of that, and neither had the small comforts I was beginning to find here.
But I was also Ellie.
A girl learning to read. A servant learning her duties. Someone who had begun to laugh again, even if only occasionally.
And perhaps, slowly, someone learning that caring about another person did not have to mean surrendering everything that made me who I was.
I wasn't ready to call it trust.
Not yet.
But when I finally drifted to sleep, I found myself looking forward to the next day.