A few days had passed since Mara had told me about her younger sister. Life at the estate had settled into a comfortable rhythm, and I had grown more accustomed to my duties, the people around me, and the routines that shaped each day.
I still had plenty to learn. I could fold linen without having to redo half the pile, distinguish most of the pantry supplies at a glance, and carry out simple errands without constantly worrying that I would wander into a forbidden corridor. Mistress Halen continued to correct me whenever I made mistakes, but her sharp words no longer made my stomach tighten quite as much as they had in the beginning.
That did not mean I had stopped being careful.
Old habits were difficult to abandon, especially when those habits had once been necessary for survival. I still paid attention to the moods of the people around me, watched where I was going, and thought twice before asking for anything. Trust did not grow simply because a place was safer than the one before it.
Still, there were moments when I forgot to be afraid.
They were small moments. Sharing a meal with Mara. Listening to Elsbeth complain about the kitchen supplies. Watching Tomas argue with a horse that appeared to consider his authority a personal insult. Occasionally, I even found myself looking forward to the following day.
I wasn't certain what to make of that.
For so long, my thoughts had revolved around the same questions: how to survive, how to avoid making mistakes, and how to keep myself from becoming dependent on people who might eventually betray me.
Now, other questions had begun to find their way into my mind.
What lay beyond the estate walls? How far did the roads stretch? What kinds of people lived in the cities I had yet to see? And how much of the world could I learn about before I was old enough to leave this place?
I had no immediate plans to escape. That would have been foolish. I had nowhere to go, no money, and a body that still tired far too easily. Whatever I had been in my former life, I was now a small child in a world I barely understood.
But there was a difference between accepting my circumstances and surrendering my curiosity.
That afternoon, during one of the brief periods when my duties allowed me a little freedom, I made my way to the library.
It had become one of my favorite places in the estate.
The room was quiet without feeling lonely. Tall shelves lined the walls, their dark wood blending with the ebony-colored stonework that characterized the rest of the house. The windows admitted enough light to make reading comfortable during the day, and the heavy curtains softened the occasional noise from the courtyard below.
Unlike the servants' quarters, where someone always seemed to be coming or going, the library offered a rare opportunity to sit without being expected to do something.
I had begun taking advantage of that opportunity whenever I could.
At first, I had chosen books that seemed likely to teach me something practical. Household accounts, simple histories, descriptions of the surrounding region. I wanted to understand the place where I had found myself, particularly the political boundaries and social customs that might one day matter if I ever had to leave the estate.
But practical knowledge was not the only thing worth learning.
Once I had become more comfortable reading, I started exploring whatever caught my attention. A book about distant kingdoms led me to a history of their rulers. A description of a coastal city made me curious about the ships that traveled between its harbors. One reference to a people living beneath the mountains sent me searching for accounts of their settlements.
That was how I had found the travelogue currently resting in my hands.
It had been written by a well-known traveler who had journeyed through several northern kingdoms, recording his observations of their landscapes, customs, trade routes, and inhabitants. The author's writing was sometimes overly dramatic, but I found that I didn't mind. Even his exaggerations gave me clues about what people considered strange or frightening.
More importantly, the book described places I had never seen.
I had opened it to a chapter about a mountain range far to the north. The illustrations showed steep slopes, narrow roads, and a settlement built into the side of a vast mountain. According to the author, the settlement belonged to dwarves, who had carved halls and workshops into the rock itself.
The idea fascinated me.
I had already heard stories about dwarves from Mara. In the tale she had read to me, they were practical, proud, and skilled craftspeople who valued agreements and expected others to honor their terms. I had assumed that the story reflected some truth about how people in this world viewed them, but I hadn't known how much of it was based on reality.
This travelogue offered a little more information.
The author described dwarven merchants trading metalwork, tools, and finely crafted objects with the human settlements below the mountains. He also mentioned that some of their roads were so steep and narrow that travelers had to abandon their carts and continue on foot.
I paused over that passage.
If the settlement was as high up as the illustration suggested, transporting food and other supplies must have been difficult. The author mentioned underground storehouses and water channels, but he did not explain how the settlement managed during long winters or how much trade it depended upon.
Perhaps he had not known.
Or perhaps he had considered those details too ordinary to include.
I turned back a few pages, searching for a description of the surrounding region.
I was so absorbed in the book that I barely noticed the sound of the library door opening.
At first, I assumed it was one of the servants coming to retrieve a volume for someone in the household. I lowered my head and continued reading, expecting whoever had entered to pass by without paying me much attention.
Then I heard the soft click of the door closing.
A moment later, footsteps approached the desk.
I looked up.
A young man stood a short distance away, holding a book beneath one arm. He looked to be around nineteen or twenty, perhaps a little older than I would have guessed at first glance. He was tall, with dark hair neatly arranged away from his face and a composed expression that made it difficult to determine what he was thinking.
His clothes were fine without being ostentatious. The dark fabric was well tailored, and the small clasp at his collar looked expensive, but there was nothing about his appearance that demanded attention.
He moved through the library with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent enough time there to know exactly where everything belonged.
I recognized him before he spoke.
The young master.
I immediately lowered my eyes and inclined my head.
I had been told the rules often enough to remember them. When members of the main family were present, I was expected to show respect. I was not supposed to speak unless spoken to, and I certainly had no reason to draw attention to myself.
I hoped he would simply return his book and leave.
He stopped beside the desk.
For a moment, he said nothing. I could hear the faint rustle of pages as he glanced at the book I had been reading.
"That's quite an unusual choice for someone your age."
I looked up again, uncertain whether he was speaking to me.
His gaze had settled on the travelogue.
"You're reading about the northern mountains?"
I hesitated before answering.
"Yes, young master."
He raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained mild.
"A travelogue, too. I would have expected a story about brave knights or princesses."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that.
Part of me wanted to explain that I had never been particularly interested in stories about knights and princesses, even before I had come to this world. Another part reminded me that the person standing in front of me was a member of the household's ruling family, while I was a servant child who had only recently learned where I was permitted to walk.
So I settled on the simplest answer.
"I'm interested in places I haven't seen."
His expression shifted slightly.
It wasn't surprise exactly, but something close to it. Perhaps he had expected me to be shy or embarrassed. Perhaps he hadn't expected an answer at all.
"Places you haven't seen," he repeated. "That's a reasonable explanation."
He placed the book he had brought onto the desk.
"I take it the mountains have caught your attention?"
I nodded.
"There's a settlement belonging to the dwarves," I explained, pointing toward the illustration. "The author says they've built much of it inside the mountain. I was wondering how they managed to transport everything they needed up there."
He leaned forward slightly to look at the picture.
"That's a good question."
His tone was casual, but he seemed genuinely interested in the subject.
"The settlement is real. The traveler was mostly accurate, though he exaggerated how isolated it was. There are established trading routes through the region. They're difficult to travel, especially in winter, but merchants still make the journey."
I looked at him with renewed interest.
"You know about the settlement?"
"I've read the same book."
He straightened, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
"Though I didn't find it quite as fascinating as you seem to."
There was a teasing quality to his voice, but it wasn't unkind.
I glanced down at the page, suddenly aware that I might have been speaking too freely.
"I'm sorry, young master."
"For what?"
I paused.
"I didn't mean to trouble you."
He regarded me for a moment, then shook his head.
"You haven't troubled me. I asked you a question, and you answered it."
His explanation was so straightforward that I didn't know what to say.
In my former life, I had met people who enjoyed asking questions but disliked receiving answers that challenged their expectations. I had learned to recognize the difference between genuine curiosity and a question asked merely to test someone.
The young master seemed to belong to the first category.
At least, for the moment.
He pulled out the chair opposite me, but did not sit. Instead, he rested one hand against its back and glanced at the open book.
"What have you learned about the settlement so far?"
I considered the question.
"The author says the dwarves have workshops inside the mountain, and that they trade metalwork and tools with the human settlements below. He also mentions storehouses and water channels, but he doesn't explain how they keep enough supplies during winter."
"Ah."
He nodded slowly.
"That's one of the things the author leaves out."
"Does he know?"
"I couldn't say. He might have been told, or he might have decided that the details weren't worth including."
He tapped the edge of the illustration with one finger.
"The dwarves are practical people. They wouldn't build a settlement in a place where they couldn't obtain food and water, not unless they had a very good reason. Their engineers understand the mountains better than most humans understand their own roads."
I considered that.
"Then perhaps they have ways of storing food for a long time."
"Almost certainly. Though I suspect their methods are more complicated than a few cellars filled with grain."
He gave me a thoughtful look.
"Have you ever seen a dwarven-made object?"
I shook my head.
"Not that I know of."
"Then you may have seen one without realizing it. Their work is traded across a great many regions. Good tools, hinges, locks, certain kinds of weapons. Some noble houses pay considerable sums for their craftsmanship."
He paused, as though considering how much to explain.
"Their work tends to last. That is part of its value."
I looked back at the illustration.
It was strange to think that the dwarves from Mara's story were not merely figures in a tale. They were real people, living somewhere beyond the horizon, with their own settlements, customs, and problems.
I had been so occupied with my immediate circumstances that I had barely allowed myself to think about the rest of the world.
Now I found myself wondering what else I had misunderstood.
The elves from Mara's story, for instance. Were they also real? Did they truly live in secluded forests, as the tale had suggested? Were their paths difficult to follow, or was that simply a way of explaining why ordinary travelers rarely met them?
I wanted to ask, but I wasn't certain whether the young master would find the questions childish.
Before I could decide, he glanced at the book again.
"Have you read much about the northern kingdoms?"
"A little."
"And what do you think of the author's account?"
I blinked.
I hadn't expected him to ask my opinion.
"He seems to describe the dangerous parts in greater detail than the ordinary ones."
The young master looked at me more closely.
"What makes you say that?"
I hesitated, trying to find a way to explain my thoughts without sounding presumptuous.
"He spends several pages describing how difficult it was to cross the mountain road during a storm. But when he reaches the settlement, he only gives a short description of how the people live. If someone wanted to understand the settlement itself, rather than simply hear about the journey, there wouldn't be much information."
For a moment, he was silent.
Then he laughed softly.
It was not a loud or mocking laugh. If anything, he seemed amused by the observation.
"That's a fair criticism."
He pulled the chair out and sat down at last.
"The author is a skilled writer, but he has a talent for making difficult journeys sound more dangerous than they probably were. A perilous crossing makes a better story than a detailed account of how merchants arrange their supplies."
"Does that mean his account isn't reliable?"
"Not necessarily. A person can tell the truth and still choose which parts of it to emphasize."
That answer gave me pause.
It was a simple observation, but one that applied to far more than travel writing.
People could describe the same event in entirely different ways without either account being completely false. They could leave out details because they considered them unimportant, because they had forgotten them, or because they did not want others to know.
I had learned that lesson in my former life, though not always comfortably.
"I suppose that's true," I said.
The young master tilted his head.
"You suppose?"
I felt my face grow warm.
"I mean... I agree."
His smile returned.
"You needn't be so worried about finding the perfect answer. We're discussing a book, not conducting an examination."
I lowered my gaze to the page.
"Yes, young master."
There was a brief silence.
"No."
"Nor have I. But I've spoken with merchants who have traveled there. They say the roads are difficult, but the settlement is worth visiting if one can arrange it. The dwarves are particular about who they allow into certain parts of their homes, though. They value privacy, especially around their workshops."
"Would they allow someone to visit if they weren't a merchant?"
"That would depend on the person, the circumstances, and whether the dwarves had any reason to welcome them."
He spoke as though the answer were obvious.
I found that reassuring.
The world did not have to be divided into places where everyone was friendly and places where everyone was dangerous. People could have their own rules and reasons for following them. They could be cautious without being cruel, and welcoming without being foolish.
It was a more complicated world than I had first imagined.
I looked at the illustration again.
"I wonder what it would be like to see a place like that."
"Cold, I imagine."
I glanced up.
He had said it with such a straight face that I almost missed the joke.
Then he continued, "Very cold, with narrow roads, expensive lodging, and food that costs twice as much as it should because the merchants have to carry it halfway up a mountain."
I couldn't help it.
A small laugh escaped me.
The sound surprised me enough that I immediately fell silent.
It had been a while since I had laughed without thinking about it first. Even during the happier moments I had shared with Mara or the other servants, there was usually some part of my mind standing apart, reminding me to be careful.
This time, I had simply found something amusing.
The young master noticed my reaction, but he didn't comment on it.
Instead, he glanced toward the window.
"The weather is kinder down here, at least. You can read about the mountains without having to climb them."
"That seems sensible."
"One of the advantages of books."
He rose from his chair and reached for the volume he had brought.
"I should let you return to your reading. I came to return this and find something else before I have to attend to my other work."
I nodded and began to close my book, thinking that the conversation was over.
Then he paused.
"By the way, what is your name?"
For a moment, I simply stared at him.
It was such an ordinary question. I had answered it many times since choosing my name, and yet hearing it from him made me suddenly aware of the circumstances in which I had chosen it.
Ellie.
A name my mother had once wanted to give me in another life.
I felt a small ache in my chest, but it passed before it could become anything more.
"Ellie, young master."
"Ellie," he repeated, as though committing it to memory. "A pleasant name."
"Thank you."
He tucked the book beneath his arm, then seemed to remember something.
"My name is Adrian."
I immediately lowered my head.
"Yes, young master."
He regarded me with a faintly amused expression.
"That's what you should call me in public, of course. In front of the household, you should address me as young master, as you've been taught. But if we're alone in the library, you may use my name if you like."
I wasn't certain how to respond.
He continued before I could find an answer.
"Just don't make a habit of using it in front of the others. People can be rather particular about these things, and I would prefer not to create unnecessary confusion."
"I understand."
I bowed my head again.
"Thank you for telling me, young master."
"You're welcome."
He gave me a small nod, then turned toward the shelves.
I watched him from the corner of my eye as he returned the book he had brought to its proper place and began examining the titles nearby. He seemed to know the collection well, running his fingers along the spines until he found something that interested him.
After a moment, he pulled out a thick volume and opened it to inspect the contents.
He looked like someone choosing a book for himself, not someone performing a duty for the household.
That was an oddly comforting thought.
I had known, of course, that the noble family possessed a library. I had seen Adrian's parents from a distance on a few occasions, though I had never spoken to them. They were people whose presence altered the behavior of everyone around them. Servants stood straighter, voices became quieter, and even ordinary tasks seemed to acquire a certain importance.
Adrian belonged to that world.
Yet, for the short time we had spoken, he had seemed less like a distant figure of authority and more like a young man who enjoyed discussing things he had read.
The distinction mattered.
He had not asked where I came from, why I had been bought at the auction house, or why a child my age was reading a travelogue instead of a storybook.
He had simply spoken to me.
Perhaps that was not remarkable to him. Perhaps he treated everyone with the same casual courtesy when circumstances allowed it.
I had no way of knowing.
Eventually, Adrian closed the book he had chosen and turned toward the door.
"Enjoy your reading, Ellie."
I rose from my chair and bowed my head.
"Thank you, young master."
He left the library without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a few seconds, I remained standing beside the desk, looking at the space he had occupied.
Then I slowly sat down again.
I opened the travelogue to the page where I had left off, but my attention wandered back to the conversation.
I had spoken to a member of the noble family.
Not because I had been summoned, not because I had made a mistake, and not because someone had needed to correct my behavior. He had approached me because he was curious about the book I was reading, and we had talked about it.
That was all.
There was no hidden meaning I needed to uncover, no debt I needed to repay, and no reason to assume that his friendliness would become a problem later.
I reminded myself of that last point twice.
It was tempting to search for danger in every unexpected kindness. The baker had taught me how easily a person could make safety seem real when it served their interests. I had no intention of forgetting that lesson.
But caution did not require me to decide that everyone was waiting for an opportunity to hurt me.
Perhaps I could simply accept that I had experienced a pleasant conversation.
Nothing more.
I returned to the book.
For the next several minutes, I read about the mountain roads, the merchants who traveled them, and the difficulties of transporting goods through the passes. I found a reference to a seasonal market near the foot of the mountain and made a mental note to look for a map of the region later.
The details were fascinating.
Still, every so often, my thoughts drifted back to Adrian's observation about the author's account.
A person could tell the truth and still choose which parts of it to emphasize.
It seemed like a useful thing to remember.
I wondered how much of the world I would eventually learn to understand, and how much would remain hidden simply because I had never thought to ask the right questions.
For the first time in a long while, that uncertainty felt less like a threat and more like an invitation.
There was still so much I didn't know.
But I was beginning to enjoy discovering it.
The rest of the day passed without anything particularly remarkable happening.
I finished my reading break when I heard the bell that marked the end of the allotted period, returned the travelogue to its place, and went back to my duties.
Mistress Halen had a list of supplies that needed checking, and I spent part of the afternoon helping to organize the pantry. Elsbeth complained that someone had delivered a sack of flour that was heavier than the previous one, although I suspected the flour itself had not changed. Tomas passed through the courtyard carrying a bundle of equipment, and I heard him mutter something about a horse that had apparently learned to undo its own stable latch.
The ordinary rhythm of the estate continued around me.
I found that I liked it more than I had expected.
There was comfort in knowing what would happen next. Meals arrived at roughly the same times, tasks followed a familiar order, and the people around me had begun to feel less like strangers whose behavior I needed to study and more like individuals with habits I could recognize.
Elsbeth was blunt enough to make her opinions clear without much effort. Mistress Halen expected competence and rarely praised anyone for doing what she considered their duty. Tomas complained about the horses as though they were stubborn colleagues rather than animals. And Mara had developed the habit of checking whether I had eaten enough whenever we sat together.
None of them knew who I had been before.
They knew me as Ellie, the quiet child who had arrived at the estate after being purchased at the Hall of Ledgers. They knew I worked carefully, asked few questions, and sometimes looked at ordinary things as though they were more complicated than they appeared.
That was the version of me they had met.
I was still learning how to live as that person.
By the time the seventh bell sounded, my feet ached a little, and I was looking forward to supper. I finished the last small task assigned to me, returned the items I had been carrying, and made my way toward the servants' dining room.
Mara was already there.
She sat near the end of the table with a bowl in front of her, listening as Elsbeth described a disagreement she had had with one of the kitchen suppliers. When Mara noticed me approaching, she shifted her bowl to make room.
"Long day?"
"Not especially."
"That's good. I was beginning to think Mistress Halen had discovered some new way to keep you working until the bells stopped ringing."
I sat down beside her.
"She hasn't."
"Then we should be grateful for small mercies."
I gave her a faint smile.
Mara returned it, then turned her attention back to Elsbeth's story.
I listened while I ate, occasionally joining in when someone asked me a question. The conversation moved from the kitchen supplies to the weather, then to a complaint about a loose hinge in one of the storage rooms. It was the kind of discussion I would once have considered meaningless.
Now I found myself enjoying it.
Perhaps ordinary conversations were not meaningless at all. Perhaps they were one of the ways people built a life together, one small exchange at a time.
When supper was finished, Mara and I cleared our dishes and returned to our room.
The corridor was quieter than it had been earlier. A few servants were still moving between the rooms, but most had begun settling down for the night. The lamps cast warm circles of light along the dark stone walls, leaving the spaces between them in shadow.
Mara walked beside me, talking about a small repair that needed doing on one of her dresses. I listened and offered a suggestion when she asked whether a certain stitch might hold.
By the time we reached our room, I had almost forgotten that I wanted to tell her about Adrian.
Almost.
Mara pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Well," she said, setting aside the things she had carried from the dining room, "another day survived."
"That seems to be the general pattern."
She turned toward me, one eyebrow raised.
"Was that a joke?"
"I think so."
"Careful. Keep that up and people might start thinking you're cheerful."
I looked away before she could see my smile.
Mara laughed quietly and began preparing for the night. She moved around the room with the ease of someone who had occupied it for years, putting away a few belongings and checking that everything she needed for the morning was within reach.
I watched her for a moment, then decided to speak.
"Mara?"
"Hm?"
"I met someone in the library today."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Someone?"
"The young master."
Her movements paused.
Not dramatically, but enough that I noticed.
"Adrian?"
I nodded.
Mara turned to face me properly.
"All right. What happened?"
"Nothing bad."
"That's reassuring. I'd prefer not to have to explain to Mistress Halen why you managed to offend someone important while reading a book."
"I didn't offend him."
"Good. Then tell me what happened."
I sat on the edge of my bed while Mara settled into her usual place nearby. She had taken off her work apron and loosened her hair, and she looked more relaxed than she had during the day. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
I began with the library.
I told her how I had been reading the travelogue about the northern mountains when Adrian came in to return a book and choose another. I explained that he had noticed what I was reading and asked me about the dwarven settlement.
Mara listened without interrupting, though I noticed a small smile appear when I described his surprise at finding a child interested in a travelogue.
"He asked you about the book?"
"Yes."
"And you talked about the settlement?"
"Yes."
"And nothing else?"
I considered that.
"He asked whether I had been there. I told him I hadn't. He said he had spoken to merchants who had visited it."
Mara nodded.
"That sounds like Adrian."
I looked at her.
"You know him well?"
"Not personally. I've seen him around the estate, of course. And I've heard enough about him from the other servants to know a little about his habits."
"What kind of habits?"
"The ordinary sort, mostly. He spends a fair amount of time studying, and he reads more than some people think is necessary. Occasionally, he asks questions about things that other people would rather leave alone."
That sounded familiar.
"What kind of things?"
Mara gave a small shrug.
"It depends. Books, accounts, trade, the condition of the roads. Things like that. He's the young master, so he'll eventually have responsibilities that require him to know more than the average person."
I thought about his comments regarding the mountain settlement.
"He seemed to know a great deal about the dwarves."
"Then perhaps he's read about them."
"He said he had read the same book."
Mara smiled.
"There you are, then."
I frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you found something interesting to read, and it happened to be a book he had read too. You talked about it. There's nothing particularly strange about that."
"I didn't say it was strange."
"No, but you've been thinking about it since you came through the door."
I opened my mouth to object, then closed it again.
Mara's smile widened.
"Am I wrong?"
I looked down at my hands.
"No."
"Thought so."
She reached for a brush and began working it through her hair.
"So, what is it that's bothering you?"
"Nothing is bothering me."
"Ellie."
I sighed.
"It's just that I didn't expect him to talk to me."
"Why not?"
"Because he's the young master."
Mara considered that for a moment.
"That's true. But being the young master doesn't mean he can't speak to the people who work in his home."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I looked at her.
She wasn't teasing me now. Her voice was gentle, but there was a practical seriousness beneath it.
"There's a difference between respecting someone's position and assuming they're so far above you that an ordinary conversation becomes impossible," she said. "You should remember the rules, of course. They're there for a reason. But if someone speaks to you politely, you don't have to assume you've done something wrong simply because they chose to speak to you."
I thought about that.
It was easy enough to understand in theory.
Putting it into practice was another matter.
In my former life, I had been an adult. I had been able to speak to people without having to consider whether my age, appearance, or position made my words inappropriate. I had still needed to observe social expectations, of course, but I had possessed a degree of independence that I no longer had.
Here, every interaction carried an imbalance I couldn't ignore.
Adrian could speak to me because he wanted to. I could answer him, but only within the limits permitted by the household. Even if he was kind, the difference between us remained.
Mara seemed to understand at least part of what I was thinking.
"You don't need to become familiar with him," she added. "And you certainly shouldn't assume that a pleasant conversation means you're friends. He's a member of the family, and you're a servant. There are boundaries."
"I understand."
"But boundaries aren't the same as hostility."
I looked up at her.
She met my gaze calmly.
"You can be respectful without being frightened of every word you say."
I let that settle in my mind.
Perhaps that was the lesson I needed to learn.
Not that I should trust everyone. Not that I should stop being careful. Only that caution did not have to turn every ordinary interaction into something threatening.
I had spent so long expecting kindness to come with a price that I sometimes struggled to accept it when there was no obvious demand attached.
Adrian had asked me about a book.
He had listened to my answers.
He had introduced himself and explained how I should address him in different circumstances.
Then he had returned his finished book, selected another, and left.
It was an ordinary encounter.
Perhaps I could allow it to remain one.
"There was something else," I said.
Mara waited.
"He told me his name."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Did he?"
"He said I could use it when we were alone in the library. But in public, I still had to address him as young master."
Mara nodded thoughtfully.
"That sounds sensible."
"Does it?"
"Of course. He's giving you permission to speak more casually in a private setting, but he doesn't want you to forget the rules when other people are present. It avoids confusion."
I hadn't thought about it that way.
"I was surprised he offered."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I suppose I expected him to be more formal."
Mara gave a small shrug.
"People can be different in private than they are in public. That doesn't necessarily mean they're pretending in either situation. Sometimes, they simply behave according to what's expected of them."
I remembered Adrian's calm manner, the faint amusement in his voice, and the way he had spoken about the author's account of the mountains.
He had seemed comfortable in the library, comfortable with the books, and comfortable discussing things he found interesting.
Perhaps that was all there was to it.
"Do you think I should use his name if I see him there again?" I asked.
"If you're alone with him and he has given you permission, I don't see why not. But you don't have to use it simply because you can."
That was a relief.
I had been wondering whether his offer was something I was expected to accept, like an instruction disguised as a kindness. Mara's answer made it sound simpler.
I could choose.
It was a small choice, but I appreciated it.
"I think I'll keep calling him young master for now," I said.
Mara smiled.
"Then that's what you should do."
She put the brush aside and reached for the nightdress she had laid out earlier.
"Besides, I suspect you'll have plenty of time to decide what you think of him. You're not going to learn everything about someone from one conversation in the library."
"I know."
"Good. Because if you start trying to understand every person in this house after a single conversation, you'll never get any sleep."
I looked at her.
"Is that what you do?"
"Certainly not. I have a very sensible habit of deciding that most people are more troublesome than they're worth."
I laughed softly.
"That doesn't sound very sensible."
"It has served me well."
She said it with such confidence that I couldn't tell whether she was joking.
Then she smiled, and I realized that she was probably doing both.
We began preparing for bed.
I folded my clothes and placed them where I could find them in the morning. Mara checked that the lamp was secure and that the door was properly closed. The familiar little tasks gradually quieted the conversation, leaving us with the comfortable silence that had become part of our evenings.
As I changed into my nightdress, my thoughts returned to the library.
I remembered the illustration of the mountain settlement, the narrow roads winding up its slopes, and the dwarves who had built their homes within the rock. I thought about the merchants who traveled there, the trade routes connecting distant communities, and the countless places that existed beyond the walls of the estate.
For a long time, I had thought of the world beyond those walls as something I needed to reach in order to be free.
Now, I was beginning to understand that there was more to it than distance.
The world was full of things I didn't know. People I had never met. Customs I hadn't encountered. Places that existed whether I ever reached them or not.
I wanted to learn about them.
Not because knowing more would necessarily help me escape, though it might someday. Not because I needed to find a way to return to the life I had lost, though the thought of my former family still hurt more than I could easily explain.
I wanted to learn because I was curious.
The realization was simple, but it mattered.
For the first time since my death, I could remember being interested in something without immediately asking myself how it might affect my survival.
I was still Alex in the quiet corners of my mind, carrying memories of a life that no one here could understand. I was still a child in a world where I had little control over my circumstances.
But I was also Ellie.
And Ellie, it seemed, was allowed to be curious.
I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over myself.
Mara extinguished the lamp after making sure I had everything I needed. The room settled into darkness, broken only by a thin line of moonlight slipping through the curtains.
"Good night, Ellie," she murmured.
"Good night, Mara."
I lay quietly, listening as she settled into her own bed.
My thoughts drifted once more to Adrian.
I wondered what book he had chosen.
Then I wondered what I would read the next time I visited the library.
The questions were small, ordinary things. They had no urgent answers, and I didn't need to find them before morning.
For once, I allowed myself to leave them unanswered.
Tomorrow would bring more duties, more lessons, and perhaps another opportunity to learn something new. I would still need to be careful. I would still need to remember the boundaries that shaped my life here.
But I didn't have to spend the entire night preparing for every possible difficulty.
I could simply rest.
As sleep began to pull me under, I found myself thinking that perhaps this was another part of learning to live again: not forgetting the past, not pretending the world was safe, but slowly making room for things that had nothing to do with fear.
A book.
A conversation.
A question about a distant mountain.
They were small things, but they belonged to me.