I woke to the unpleasant discovery that my blanket had apparently developed a personal grudge against me.
One corner had slipped off the bed during the night, while the rest had somehow wound itself around my legs. When I tried to sit up, the blanket tightened around my knees and pulled me sideways. I caught myself against the mattress before I could fall, then stared down at the tangled mess with the sort of quiet resentment usually reserved for particularly unreasonable people.
For a moment, I considered simply lying back down and pretending the problem did not exist.
It was tempting.
Unfortunately, the first bell would ring soon, and I had already learned that the household was not particularly sympathetic toward people who arrived late because they had lost a battle with their bedding.
I began working one leg free.
The blanket tightened.
I stopped and looked at it.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
“Having trouble?”
I froze.
Mara stood beside her bed, already dressed for the day. Her brown hair was tied back neatly, and she had one hand resting against the wooden bedpost. Judging by the expression on her face, she had been watching me for some time.
I slowly turned my head toward her.
“No.”
Her eyes dropped to the blanket.
“Of course not.”
“I was just getting up.”
“An impressive struggle for someone who claims to be doing something so simple.”
“I wasn't struggling.”
“Then I suppose the blanket has decided to restrain you for its own amusement.”
I looked down at the offending fabric, then back at her.
“Perhaps it has.”
That answer seemed to surprise her. Her expression shifted for a moment before the familiar smile returned.
“Oh? So now the blanket is responsible?”
“I'm merely acknowledging the evidence.”
“What evidence?”
I gestured toward my legs.
“This.”
Mara pressed her lips together, attempting to maintain a serious expression. She failed almost immediately, releasing a small laugh.
I would have liked to be offended. A few weeks ago, I might have been. I would have withdrawn into silence, embarrassed that someone had caught me doing something so childish, and spent the rest of the morning wondering whether I had made a fool of myself.
Instead, I found myself fighting a smile of my own.
It was an absurd situation. I had survived a car crash, woken in another world, been nearly abducted, drugged, transported against my will, and sold at an auction.
Yet apparently, I was still vulnerable to the treacherous nature of a blanket.
There was something almost insulting about that.
“Would you like some help?” Mara asked.
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Entirely.”
“Very well. I'll leave you to your battle.”
She turned toward the small chest where she kept some of her belongings.
I worked my leg free at last, only to discover that the other was caught beneath the blanket's remaining folds. After several seconds of careful tugging, I managed to escape and sat upright, my hair falling across my face.
Mara glanced back.
“Did you win?”
I brushed my hair aside.
“The battle is over.”
“And the victor?”
I looked at the blanket.
“Undetermined.”
That earned another laugh.
I couldn't help smiling this time.
It was a small thing, hardly worth remembering. Two people in a modest bedroom, one teasing the other over an untidy bed. There was no danger, no threat, no demand that I prove my usefulness or convince someone that I deserved to remain where I was.
For those few moments, I was simply a girl who had slept badly and tangled herself in a blanket.
The realization was comforting enough that I didn't want to examine it too closely.
Mara collected her things and glanced at me again.
“Come along, then. If you intend to defeat your bedding every morning, we'll have to start waking you earlier.”
“I would rather negotiate a peace treaty.”
“Then you should probably begin by making your bed properly.”
I stared at her.
She smiled sweetly.
“Good morning, Ellie.”
I sighed and pushed the blanket aside.
“Good morning, Mara.”
She was still smiling when we left the room.
For once, I didn't mind.
The corridors were already filling with the quiet movement of servants preparing for the day. Somewhere below us, a door opened and closed. Footsteps echoed against the dark stone, and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the passage leading toward the kitchens.
The estate was familiar enough now that I no longer needed to think about every turn. I knew which staircase brought us to the main floor, which corridor led toward the servants' quarters, and where I should stand if I needed to let someone carrying a heavy basket pass.
I still paid attention.
That habit had not faded, nor was I certain I wanted it to. Knowing where I was, who was nearby, and what might be expected of me had become part of the way I kept myself safe.
But the estate no longer felt like a maze designed to confuse me.
It was beginning to feel like a place where I could learn my way around.
Mara walked beside me, occasionally greeting another servant as we passed. I answered the greetings directed at me, keeping my voice quiet but no longer forcing myself to remain completely silent.
When we entered the servants' eating room, the usual morning activity was already underway.
A few people were finishing their breakfast. Others were still settling at the long wooden tables, speaking in low voices as they ate. The room smelled of bread, porridge, and something savory that had probably come from the kitchen's morning preparations.
I collected my portion and followed Mara toward a familiar place.
Tomas was already seated at the table.
At first, I thought he was simply tired. He had one elbow resting beside his bowl and was looking down at the food in front of him. His shoulders seemed heavier than usual, and he barely reacted when someone across the table made a joke about a cart that had refused to cooperate the previous afternoon.
That alone was unusual.
Tomas was not the loudest person among the servants, but he generally had something to say. Even when he was busy, he tended to respond to questions with a dry remark or a complaint about some horse behaving as though it owned the stable.
This morning, he seemed to have forgotten that he possessed a voice.
I sat down beside Mara and glanced at him again.
“Is something wrong with Tomas?” I asked quietly.
Mara followed my gaze.
Her expression softened.
“One of the horses is ill.”
I looked back at him.
“Seriously ill?”
“They don't know yet. It wasn't eating properly yesterday, and this morning it was still sluggish. Tomas has been looking after it.”
I considered that.
“Does he care for all the horses himself?”
“He helps care for them. He's responsible for the stables, but there are others who work there, too.” She paused before adding, “He gets attached to them.”
I looked at Tomas again.
That explained more than I expected.
During the horse ride, he had spoken about the animals with the easy familiarity of someone who knew each of their habits. He had complained about one being stubborn and another being overly fond of attention. At the time, I had assumed that was simply the way stable workers talked about their animals.
Perhaps it was more than that.
“Has this happened before?” I asked.
“Horses get sick sometimes. It doesn't mean the worst will happen.” Mara picked up her spoon. “But Tomas takes it hard when one of them suffers. He knows them well.”
I understood that better than I wanted to admit.
When someone cared about an animal, knowing that illness was a natural part of life did little to make watching it suffer easier.
I had spent my former life believing that understanding a problem and accepting it were two separate things. I had never found a reason to abandon that belief.
“Can they do anything for it?” I asked.
“They're trying.”
Mara's answer was simple, but there was no dismissiveness in it.
I nodded and began eating.
For the rest of breakfast, I found myself glancing toward Tomas more often than I intended.
He eventually stood, leaving part of his food untouched.
“Going back to the stables?” someone asked him.
“Yes.”
“Don't forget to eat something yourself.”
Tomas gave a distracted grunt that might have been an answer.
He left the room.
I watched the doorway for a moment after he had gone.
Then I returned to my breakfast, though my appetite had diminished somewhat.
I remembered how I had felt when Mara first brought me into the kitchen and gave me food without demanding anything in return. I remembered the suspicion with which I had accepted it, the fear that kindness was simply another way of making me vulnerable.
And I remembered Tomas catching me before I fell, then helping me onto a horse when he had no particular reason to do so.
He had tried to give me a pleasant afternoon because I seemed unhappy.
He had not asked for anything in return.
Now something was troubling him, and I found myself wondering whether there was anything I could do.
The thought was uncomfortable.
I wasn't a veterinarian. I had no experience caring for horses, and my knowledge of medicine in this world was practically nonexistent. Even in my previous life, I hadn't possessed any special understanding of animal illnesses.
I was a child in an unfamiliar world, working in a household where I still had much to learn.
There were limits to what I could reasonably offer.
Still, asking questions wouldn't hurt.
At least, I hoped it wouldn't.
When breakfast ended, I followed Mara toward the day's duties.
I tried to put the matter out of my mind.
I didn't entirely succeed.
The morning passed without anything particularly unusual happening.
I helped fold and sort linens, then carried a small stack to the storage room. After that, I assisted with arranging several household supplies under the supervision of another servant.
My tasks were simple enough, but I had learned that simple work could become difficult when done carelessly. A misplaced item might inconvenience someone later. A poorly folded sheet could be rejected and sent back for correction. Even the smallest mistakes had a way of consuming time that other people did not have to spare.
I did my best to avoid making them.
Still, my thoughts kept returning to the stables.
I wondered what was wrong with the horse. I wondered whether Tomas had discovered anything. I wondered whether the animal was eating yet.
Each time I caught myself thinking about it, I tried to redirect my attention to the work in front of me.
There was little point worrying about something I couldn't change.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
Near the middle of the morning, I was sent to deliver a small bundle of clean cloths to a storage area closer to the stable yard. The route took me through a side passage and out into the courtyard, where the air smelled of damp stone and hay.
I completed the delivery and returned the empty basket.
Then I hesitated.
The stable entrance was visible across the yard.
I could have gone back to my duties. Nobody had asked me to check on Tomas, and I had no particular reason to visit him. There was no guarantee he would appreciate an interruption, especially if he was busy caring for the horse.
But I had a short break before my next task.
I could at least ask how things were going.
That was a reasonable explanation, I decided.
It was also a convenient one.
I crossed the yard and approached the stable.
The familiar sounds reached me before I entered: the soft shifting of hooves against straw, the creak of leather, the occasional snort from one of the horses. A man near the far stall was speaking quietly as he worked.
The air inside was warmer than outside, carrying the smell of hay, wood, and animals.
Tomas stood beside a stall near the middle of the stable.
He was examining a horse with a dark brown coat. The animal stood with its head lowered, its ears moving sluggishly at the sound of nearby activity. Tomas ran one hand along its neck while the other rested against the stall door.
He looked up when he heard my footsteps.
“Ah. The new girl.”
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning.” He glanced toward the horse, then back at me. “Come to inspect my work?”
“No.”
“Good. I wasn't prepared for an inspection.”
There was a trace of his usual dry humor in his voice, but it was faint. His attention returned to the horse almost immediately.
I moved a little closer, stopping outside the stall.
“Is it feeling any better?”
“Not much.”
He spoke without looking at me, his hand continuing to move slowly over the horse's neck.
“It drank a little earlier, but it hasn't eaten properly. Still sluggish.”
I studied the animal.
I knew enough to recognize that it didn't look well. Its head hung lower than I would have expected, and it seemed less responsive to the activity around it than the other horses.
Beyond that, I couldn't tell much.
“What do you think is wrong with it?” I asked.
“If I knew, I'd be doing something about it.”
The answer was sharper than his earlier greeting, though not directed at me so much as at the situation itself.
He seemed to realize that a moment later.
“Sorry, little one. Didn't mean that to come out the way it did.”
“It's all right.”
Tomas sighed and rested his hand against the stall door.
“I've checked it over as best I can. No obvious injury. Nothing caught in its hoof. It hasn't been worked harder than usual, and it had its normal feed yesterday.”
He looked at the horse again.
“Could still be any number of things. Animals can't tell you where it hurts.”
I nodded slowly.
That was true enough, though I had no idea how much it narrowed the possibilities.
“Has it been like this since yesterday?”
“Yesterday afternoon, it started eating less. This morning, it was worse.”
“Did it seem normal before that?”
“As far as I could tell.”
He picked up a small handful of hay and held it out. The horse sniffed at it, then turned its head away.
Tomas's mouth tightened.
“Stubborn creature,” he muttered. “Usually, you'd have to fight it to stop it eating.”
The horse flicked an ear at him.
“Don't look at me like that,” Tomas told it. “You know perfectly well I'm trying to help.”
I almost smiled.
Even now, he spoke to the animal as though it were a difficult member of the household who had chosen to become uncooperative.
Then the horse shifted its weight, and Tomas's expression changed again.
The worry was unmistakable.
I remembered the day he had helped me ride. He had made jokes about the horse's personality, reassured me when I was nervous, and encouraged me to enjoy myself.
It was strange how easily I had remembered that afternoon.
Perhaps because it had been one of the first times since my arrival that I had done something without being afraid of what might happen afterward.
I looked at the horse.
“Have you changed anything?” I asked.
Tomas glanced at me.
“What do you mean?”
“Anything in its stall? Its feed? Where it sleeps?”
“No. Not that I can think of.”
He considered the question for a moment, then shook his head.
“Same bedding. Same feed. Same routine. I've checked the stall, too. Nothing obvious there.”
“Have any of the other horses been ill?”
“Not so far.”
I frowned slightly.
That didn't tell me much. One sick animal could have any number of explanations. If the horse had eaten something unusual, had an infection, or suffered from an internal problem, the other animals might remain perfectly healthy.
I wasn't going to pretend otherwise.
“Do you think it's something it ate?” I asked.
“Could be. But the feed is the same as always, and the others are fine.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I've been over it more times than I care to admit.”
I fell quiet.
Tomas had already done what I would have expected a responsible stablemaster to do. He had examined the animal, checked its surroundings, considered its feed, and compared its behavior with its usual routine.
I couldn't offer him a diagnosis.
But perhaps there was another question worth asking.
“What about the water?”
Tomas stopped moving.
For a moment, the only sound between us was the soft shifting of the horse in its stall.
“The water?” he repeated.
I immediately wondered whether I had said something foolish.
“Not that I've noticed.”
He looked toward the troughs along the stable wall.
“We draw water from the same supply we've used for years. It's brought in every morning and kept in the usual containers. We clean the troughs regularly.”
“Does it look different?”
“No. Why?”
I hesitated.
I needed to be careful. I had no evidence that the water was involved. The idea had come from looking at the things Tomas had already checked, not from any special insight into the horse's condition.
“I don't know if it matters,” I said. “I was just wondering whether something could be wrong with it even if it looks normal.”
Tomas studied me.
I continued before his expression could make me lose my nerve.
“If the feed is the same, and the stall is the same, and the horse hasn't been doing anything different, then perhaps it could be something else it takes in. The water is one possibility, isn't it?”
He didn't answer immediately.
I could feel myself becoming more uncomfortable with every passing second.
Perhaps I should have kept quiet. Perhaps the suggestion was so obvious that he had already considered it and dismissed it. Perhaps I had made myself look foolish by raising a possibility without knowing anything about the animal.
I forced myself to remain still.
“I don't mean that it must be the water,” I added. “I only thought it might be worth checking.”
Tomas looked toward the water trough again.
Then he turned back to the horse.
“That's not a bad question.”
I blinked.
“It isn't?”
“No.”
He rubbed his chin, thinking.
“I've checked the containers and the troughs. The water looks clear, and there's nothing unusual about the smell. But that doesn't tell me everything about where it comes from.”
He looked toward the stable entrance, as though he could see the route by which the water reached the estate.
“The supply doesn't begin here. If something happened before it reached us, I wouldn't necessarily know.”
My stomach tightened.
I hadn't expected him to take the idea so seriously.
“You should probably tell someone,” I said.
“I intend to.”
He gave me a brief, thoughtful look.
“Master Vale needs to know. If there's even a chance that the water is the problem, we can't afford to ignore it.”
I nodded.
That seemed sensible.
It also meant that my small question was about to become something larger than I had intended.
Tomas stepped away from the stall and called to another stable worker, asking him to keep an eye on the horse while he went to report the matter. Before leaving, he checked that the animal had fresh water within reach and adjusted the hay so it wouldn't obstruct the stall.
Then he turned back to me.
“Thank you, little one.”
The words caught me off guard.
“For what?”
“For making me think about something I hadn't looked at closely enough.”
I felt heat rise into my cheeks.
“I didn't do anything.”
“You asked a question. Sometimes that's enough to make a person look again.”
He gave the horse one last glance.
“Now, I need to speak with the steward. You should get back to your duties before someone starts wondering where you've gone.”
I nodded quickly.
“Yes.”
I turned toward the stable entrance.
“Ellie.”
I stopped and looked back.
Tomas was watching me.
“It's Ellie, isn't it? Mara told me you chose that name for yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Well, Ellie. Thank you.”
I wasn't sure what to say to that.
So I gave him a small nod and left.
Outside, the courtyard seemed brighter than before, though the sky had not changed. I crossed it slowly, thinking about what I had just done.
I had asked a question.
That was all.
A question about water, prompted by a sick horse and a stablemaster who had already checked the obvious things.
It shouldn't have mattered so much.
Yet I could not shake the feeling that I had stepped onto unfamiliar ground.
Until now, I had tried to survive by observing, listening, and keeping my thoughts to myself. It had been safer to be quiet. Safer to avoid drawing attention to the fact that I often thought about things differently from the people around me.
I had told myself that helping others was a good thing.
I still believed that.
But I was beginning to understand that helping could make people look at you more closely.
And being looked at closely was something I had spent a long time trying to avoid.
The rest of the morning passed slowly.
I returned to my duties and tried to concentrate on them, but my thoughts kept drifting toward the conversation in the stable.
Would Vale think my suggestion was sensible?
Would he think it was foolish?
Would he wonder why a child who had only recently arrived at the estate had thought to question the water supply?
The last possibility bothered me most.
I could explain my reasoning. I could say that Tomas had checked the feed and the stall, and that I had wondered whether the water might be another possibility. There was nothing particularly strange about asking questions.
At least, there shouldn't have been.
But the way I approached problems came from a life I could not explain to anyone here. I had spent years learning to observe situations, consider alternatives, and look for explanations beyond the first one that came to mind.
Those habits were ordinary to me.
They might not be ordinary to a child.
I tried to remind myself that people had different experiences. Some children learned to think carefully because they had to. Some grew up with responsibilities that forced them to pay attention to things other children could ignore.
That was the explanation I would give if anyone asked.
It was plausible.
It was also true, in its own way.
My life before the estate had not been gentle, and the circumstances that brought me here had taught me to watch for dangers even when I didn't want to.
I had learned to ask questions because failing to notice something could have consequences.
That didn't mean I needed to tell anyone the whole story.
By the time the next task was finished, I had repeated those thoughts enough times that they almost sounded convincing.
Almost.
Then, just as I was carrying a small stack of folded cloths toward the storage room, another servant approached me.
“Ellie?”
I stopped.
“Yes?”
“Master Vale would like to speak with you.”
For a moment, I forgot how to move.
The servant continued as though she had merely told me that someone needed a basket carried upstairs.
“You'll find him in his office. Go when you've finished putting those away.”
“Oh.”
I tightened my grip on the cloths.
“All right.”
She went on her way.
I stood in the corridor, staring at the stack in my arms.
So it had happened.
I had drawn attention to myself after all.
I finished putting away the cloths, making certain they were arranged properly before I left. There was no reason to rush, and hurrying would only make it more obvious that I was nervous.
At least, that was what I told myself.
When I reached the corridor leading to Vale's office, I stopped outside the door.
I had seen him several times since arriving at the estate. He was a calm, practical man who seemed to spend much of his time dealing with household matters. He had never been unkind to me, but neither had he given me reason to think of him as someone I could approach casually.
He was the steward.
I was a child who had been purchased to work in his household.
That difference was difficult to forget.
I raised my hand and knocked.
“Come in.”
I opened the door.
Vale sat behind a wooden desk covered with ledgers, loose papers, and a small collection of writing implements. A narrow window let in enough daylight to illuminate the room without making it particularly bright. Shelves lined one wall, filled with records and books whose titles I couldn't read from the doorway.
He looked up from the document in front of him.
“Ellie. Thank you for coming. Close the door, please.”
I did as he asked.
“Come here.”
I approached the desk and stopped at a respectful distance.
Vale set down his pen.
“Do you know why I've asked to speak with you?”
My stomach tightened.
“I thought it might be about the horse, sir.”
His eyes rested on me for a moment.
“It is.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
“You may sit.”
I climbed into the chair and placed my hands together in my lap.
Vale regarded me with the same calm expression he usually wore when speaking to the servants. I couldn't tell whether he was displeased, curious, or merely tired.
That uncertainty was worse than if he had looked angry.
“Tomas tells me you suggested that we examine the water supply,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me why.”
I had known the question was coming.
Knowing that did not make it easier to answer.
I looked down at my hands for a moment, arranging my thoughts before I spoke.
“Tomas told me that the horse had been unwell since yesterday. He said he'd checked its feed and stall, and that nothing seemed unusual. I asked whether anything else had changed.”
“And he told you about the water?”
“Not at first. I asked him about it.”
Vale leaned back slightly.
“Why?”
There it was.
I could not simply say that it had occurred to me because I was used to looking for other possible causes. That answer was honest, but it would invite more questions.
I needed to give him a reason that was sensible without making it sound as though I had some special knowledge.
“Because the horse eats and drinks every day,” I said carefully. “If its feed hasn't changed and there's nothing wrong with its stall, I thought it might be worth checking whether something else it consumes could be affecting it.”
Vale was silent.
I resisted the urge to fill that silence with more explanations.
He glanced down at one of the papers on his desk, though I couldn't tell whether he was reading it or simply considering what I had said.
“Did you see anything wrong with the water?”
“No, sir.”
“Did it smell unusual? Was it discolored?”
“No. I didn't check it closely enough to know.”
“Then you have no reason to believe the water is responsible.”
The words were matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
Still, I felt my shoulders stiffen.
“No, sir. I don't know whether it is. I only thought it might be worth checking.”
Vale studied me again.
I wondered whether he could see how carefully I was choosing my words.
Perhaps he could.
If he did, he gave no indication of it.
“You understand that an animal becoming ill doesn't necessarily mean there is something wrong with its water.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you understand that there are many possible explanations for illness?”
“Yes.”
“Then why suggest it?”
The question was simple.
My answer needed to be simple, too.
“Because I couldn't think of a reason not to check, sir.”
I paused, then added, “If it isn't the water, at least someone will know that it probably isn't the water. But if it is, and nobody checks, the horse might get worse.”
I regretted the final sentence almost as soon as I spoke it.
It sounded too confident.
Too much like I was telling him what he ought to do.
I lowered my eyes.
“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to tell anyone what to do.”
Vale remained silent for another moment.
Then he said, “You have nothing to apologize for. You raised a possibility. That is not the same as giving an order.”
I looked up cautiously.
He had not smiled, but neither did he appear annoyed.
“Tomas is responsible for the horses,” he continued. “He knows their habits better than most people in this household. If he believes your suggestion is worth considering, I see no reason to dismiss it without examination.”
I felt a little of the tension leave my chest.
Only a little.
“Thank you, sir.”
“However, I want you to understand something. We cannot draw conclusions from a single possibility. The water may be perfectly safe. The horse may be suffering from an entirely different problem.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If the water supply is involved, we will need to determine where the problem begins before we can decide what to do about it.”
He picked up his pen, turned it between his fingers, then set it down again.
“I will arrange for the water supply to be examined properly. We will check the containers here and trace the source as far as necessary. Until we know more, the stable will take precautions.”
I nodded.
The investigation was real now.
Not merely an idea Tomas and I had discussed in the stable, but something the steward of the estate had decided to pursue.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I found myself wondering how many people would become involved, how many questions they would ask, and whether anyone would remember that the suggestion had come from me.
Vale's voice drew me back to the conversation.
“One more question, Ellie.”
I looked up.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you noticed anything else unusual around the stables? Anything that might be relevant?”
I thought carefully before answering.
“No, sir. I only spoke with Tomas, and he told me what he had already checked.”
“You did not notice anything yourself?”
“No.”
He watched me for another moment, then nodded.
“Very well. If you remember anything that might be useful, tell Tomas or bring it to me. Do not attempt to investigate the matter yourself.”
I blinked.
“I won't, sir.”
“Good. This is a matter for the people responsible for the estate. You have done enough by raising the possibility.”
There was no threat in his words, only a practical boundary.
Even so, I felt an unexpected wave of relief.
I had no desire to investigate the water supply. I had no idea how to do so, and I had certainly not intended to become involved in anything beyond asking Tomas a question.
“I understand,” I said.
Vale returned to the papers on his desk.
“You may go.”
I climbed down from the chair.
“Thank you for speaking with me, sir.”
He gave a brief nod.
I turned toward the door, opened it, and stepped back into the corridor.
Only when the door had closed behind me did I realize how tightly I had been holding my hands together.
I slowly loosened them.
The conversation had gone well. Vale had not accused me of anything, and he had not demanded to know where I had learned to think the way I did. He had listened to my explanation, accepted it as reasonable, and decided to investigate.
By every practical measure, I had nothing to complain about.
Yet I couldn't shake the uneasiness that had settled inside me.
Vale had noticed me.
Perhaps only briefly. Perhaps he would forget the conversation by the end of the day. He had more important matters to manage than the reasoning of a young servant.
But he had called me into his office and asked me to explain myself.
I had stood before him trying to make an ordinary thought sound like an ordinary thought.
That was the part that troubled me.
I didn't want to spend my life hiding every useful observation behind an excuse. I didn't want to pretend that I was foolish merely because people might find my intelligence unusual.
But I also didn't want to give anyone a reason to look too closely at me.
I had already lost too much.
My old life was gone. My parents were gone, as far as I knew. The name I had carried for years now belonged to memories that no one in this world could understand.
Ellie was the name I had chosen to carry forward.
I wanted to make a life here, however uncertain that life might be.
I wanted to be able to help people without fearing that every act of kindness would expose something I couldn't explain.
Was that too much to ask?
I took a slow breath and began walking back toward the servants' quarters.
There was still work to do.
Whatever happened with the horse, the water, or Vale's investigation, the household would continue its routines. The bells would ring. Meals would be prepared. The linens would need folding.
And I would have to continue being Ellie.
For now, that was enough.
Or it would have to be.
By the time the seventh bell rang, I was exhausted.
Not from the work itself. My tasks had been ordinary, and nothing particularly difficult had been asked of me. The tiredness came from spending the day trying not to think about the conversation with Vale.
Every time I remembered it, I found another detail to worry over.
Had I answered too quickly?
Had I sounded too certain?
Should I have said less?
Would it have been better to pretend that I had only repeated something Tomas had mentioned?
Each possibility led to another, and none brought me any closer to a useful conclusion.
I was relieved when the day's duties finally ended.
Mara found me near the servants' corridor, carrying a small bundle of folded cloths back toward the storage room.
“You look as though you've been arguing with someone all afternoon,” she remarked.
I looked at her.
“Have I?”
“Not aloud.”
“That would be a strange thing to do.”
“Would it? I've known people who could argue with themselves for hours.”
I almost smiled.
“Perhaps they had good reasons.”
“Perhaps.” She took one end of the bundle from me. “Come on. I'll help you put those away.”
We carried the cloths to the storage room together. Once everything was in its proper place, we returned to our room to prepare for the evening.
Our routine had become familiar.
Mara changed out of her work clothes and folded them neatly. I washed my hands and face, then changed into the simple clothes I wore when I no longer needed to move about the estate. We took turns using the small washbasin, making certain that we left the room in order for the next morning.
The ordinary nature of it all should have been comforting.
Instead, I found myself waiting for the right moment to speak.
Mara noticed.
She always seemed to notice more than I wanted her to.
“You've been quiet since we finished work,” she said as she loosened her hair. “Is something bothering you?”
I hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
She glanced at me.
“That usually means yes.”
I sat on the edge of my bed and looked down at my hands.
“I went to see Tomas this morning.”
“I know. I saw you coming back from the stable yard.”
I looked up.
“You did?”
“Yes. I was carrying a basket to the kitchen.” She began brushing her hair. “I assumed you had gone to ask about the horse.”
“That was why I went.”
“And?”
I drew a breath.
“I suggested that he check the water.”
Mara's brushing slowed.
“The water?”
I nodded.
I explained what had happened in the stable, how Tomas had checked the horse's feed and stall, and how I had asked whether anything else might have changed. I told her that the water had seemed like another possibility, and that Tomas had decided to report it to Vale.
Then I told her about the conversation in the office.
I described the questions Vale had asked, the way I had tried to explain my reasoning, and the decision to investigate the water supply formally.
Mara listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she set the brush down beside her bed.
“And that's what's been bothering you?”
I stared at her.
“Isn't that enough?”
She considered the question.
“It sounds like Vale handled it reasonably.”
“He did.”
“And Tomas listened to your suggestion.”
“Yes.”
“And now they're going to check whether the water is safe.”
“Yes.”
Mara tilted her head slightly.
“Then I don't see that you've done anything wrong.”
I let out a quiet breath.
“That's not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Her answer was gentle enough that I looked away again.
I struggled to find the words.
“I didn't intend for any of this to happen. I only wanted to see whether Tomas was all right. He helped me before, and I thought I might be able to help him.”
“I understand.”
“But now Vale has spoken to me, and he's going to investigate the water because I suggested it. I don't even know whether I'm right.”
“That doesn't mean you shouldn't have asked.”
I frowned.
“What if it turns out to be nothing?”
“Then they'll have checked, and they'll know more than they did before.”
“And what if it isn't nothing?”
“Then it was a good thing that someone asked the question.”
I looked at her.
Mara held my gaze for a moment before continuing.
“Ellie, you didn't order anyone to do anything. You didn't tell Tomas that you knew what was wrong with the horse. You asked whether something else might be worth checking. He thought it was a reasonable question, and he took it to Vale.”
She paused.
“That's how these things are supposed to work.”
I wanted to believe her.
Part of me did.
But another part kept returning to the same thought: I had been noticed.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I just don't like being called into an office and asked to explain myself.”
Mara's expression softened.
“No. I imagine you don't.”
She didn't tell me that I was being silly. She didn't ask why the conversation had frightened me more than it seemed to warrant.
For that, I was grateful.
I had no intention of telling her everything about my past. I couldn't. Even if I tried, I wouldn't know where to begin explaining a life that had ended in a world she had never seen.
But I could tell her this much.
“I don't want people to start paying attention to me for the wrong reasons.”
Mara was quiet for a moment.
“Being noticed isn't always a bad thing,” she said eventually. “But I understand why you might prefer to keep your head down.”
I looked at her.
She folded her hands in her lap.
“When I was younger, I thought the best way to avoid trouble was to make myself as useful and unobtrusive as possible. Do what was asked. Don't complain. Don't make mistakes. If nobody had a reason to notice me, then nobody would have a reason to be angry with me.”
She gave a small, rueful smile.
“It took me a while to learn that people can still find reasons to be angry, even when you've done everything right.”
I listened carefully.
“I don't mean that you should go looking for attention,” she continued. “There's nothing wrong with being cautious. But you can't spend every day worrying that someone might notice you doing something well.”
I lowered my eyes.
“It's not that simple.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn't.”
That answer surprised me more than a lecture would have.
Mara didn't pretend that my fear could be solved by deciding not to be afraid. She didn't tell me that everything would work out, or that nobody would ever hurt me again.
She knew better than to make promises she couldn't keep.
Instead, she reached over and gently squeezed my shoulder.
“You tried to help someone who was worried about an animal he cares for. That's a good thing, Ellie. You don't need to be ashamed of it.”
I swallowed.
“I wasn't trying to be clever.”
“I know.”
“I didn't want anyone to think I was claiming to know something I didn't.”
“Then you did the right thing by explaining that you weren't certain.”
She gave my shoulder another gentle squeeze before letting go.
“You're allowed to ask questions. You're allowed to notice things. And you're allowed to be wrong sometimes.”
I stared at the floor.
The words were simple.
Perhaps that was why they hurt.
For so long, I had treated mistakes as dangers to be avoided at any cost. I had learned to measure every action against the possibility of what might happen if it went wrong.
Sometimes that caution had protected me.
Other times, it had made even the smallest decision feel like a test I could not afford to fail.
I had thought that being careful enough would eventually make me safe.
But safety had never been quite so simple.
The baker had offered me food and shelter, and I had believed that accepting them might lead to security. Instead, I had nearly been sold to someone else.
Mara had offered me kindness, and I had spent days looking for the hidden price.
Tomas had helped me enjoy an afternoon, and I had begun to wonder whether I could repay that kindness.
Now I had tried to help him in return, and the result had been a conversation with the steward.
None of those things meant that I had made a mistake.
They simply meant that the world was more complicated than I wanted it to be.
“I suppose I should be glad that Vale took the suggestion seriously,” I said at last.
“You should be.”
“And that Tomas didn't think I was being foolish.”
“He probably would have told you if he did.”
I looked at her.
Mara smiled.
“Tomas isn't particularly good at hiding his opinions.”
That brought a small laugh out of me.
“No,” I admitted. “He isn't.”
“And if Vale thought your suggestion was ridiculous, he could have dismissed it. Instead, he's going to investigate.”
I nodded slowly.
She was right.
I didn't have to interpret every uncertain situation as a threat. Sometimes a person could listen to me, consider what I had said, and decide that it was worth taking seriously.
That possibility was still unfamiliar.
Perhaps it would remain unfamiliar for a while.
But I could try to let it exist.
Mara rose from her bed and began preparing for sleep.
“You've had a long day,” she said. “Try not to spend the entire evening arguing with yourself about it.”
“I'll do my best.”
“Good. And if the blanket tries to attack you again, I expect you to defend yourself more effectively.”
I stared at her.
“Are you going to keep bringing that up?”
“Absolutely.”
“I thought you were offering me comfort.”
“I am. This is part of it.”
I shook my head, but I couldn't quite suppress my smile.
Mara looked pleased with herself.
Then she turned down the lamp, leaving the room in a soft, muted glow.
I settled beneath my blanket, making certain to arrange it carefully around my legs before lying down.
Mara noticed.
She said nothing.
I was grateful for that.
For a while, we sat in the quiet, each occupied with our own thoughts. The sounds of the estate gradually faded as the servants finished their evening routines. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed, followed by the soft echo of footsteps.
Eventually, Mara climbed into her own bed.
“Good night, Ellie.”
“Good night.”
I lay on my side, looking toward the narrow window.
Tomorrow, Vale's investigation would begin in earnest. People would check the water containers and trace the supply. They would look for explanations, and perhaps they would discover that the horse's illness had nothing to do with the water at all.
Or perhaps they would find something wrong.
I couldn't know.
I had asked a question, and now other people would decide what to do with it.
That should have been enough.
Yet I found myself thinking about how easily the situation had grown beyond my control. I had wanted to do something kind for Tomas, to offer a small measure of the consideration he had shown me.
Instead, I had placed myself in front of Master Vale and tried to explain why I had thought of a possibility that might never prove true.
I had been careful.
I had chosen my words.
I had given him a reasonable explanation.
Still, the experience had left me uneasy.
Perhaps Mara was right. Perhaps I needed to learn that being noticed wasn't always dangerous.
But learning that would take time.
I closed my eyes and listened to the quiet breathing from the other bed.
For now, I had a room to sleep in, a person who would listen when I was troubled, and a place where I could admit that something frightened me without having to explain every reason why.
That mattered more than I could easily say.
I thought of Tomas standing beside the sick horse, his hand resting against its neck. I thought of the concern in his face and the way he had thanked me for asking a question.
I hoped the horse would recover.
I hoped Vale would discover what was wrong, if anything was wrong at all.
And I hoped that, whatever happened next, I would learn how to help without feeling that I had put myself in danger simply by caring.
I wasn't there yet.
But perhaps I didn't need to learn everything at once.
Tomorrow would bring its own tasks, its own questions, and perhaps another small mistake to correct. The household would continue, and I would continue with it.
I would fold the linens, carry the supplies, answer when someone called my name, and try to remember that I was allowed to be more than the frightened child who had arrived at the estate.
I was Ellie now.
Not because I had forgotten Alex, or because my former life mattered any less.
But because I was still here, trying to make something of the life I had been given.
And today, for all my worries, I had done something that might help someone else.
I could hold on to that.