Walk. Head level. Shoulders back. Do not limp. If you limp, they notice. If they notice, they ask. If they ask, they blame.
The market thinned as dusk settled in. Lanterns flickered on one by one, bathing the street in warm gold that did absolutely nothing to make it feel warm.
"Evening, Elodie," the baker's wife called as I passed.
I offered a small, perfectly measured nod. "Good evening, ma'am."
Polite. Mild. Harmless.
Two children tore past me, chasing a wooden hoop. I stepped aside just enough to avoid a collision.
Ah, youth. So free. So unaware.
I adjusted my sleeve so the tear was less obvious. It was salvageable. I've mended worse. I've mended fabric that looked like it had fought in a war and lost.
The Harrington estate gates came into view—tall iron bars polished so well they reflected the dying sunlight like a blade.
Home.
How charming.
The manor loomed beyond, pale stone and tall windows glowing gold from within. Music drifted faintly from the upper floors. Laughter too. Crystal clinking against crystal.
Ah yes. The sound of people who have never cleaned their own boots.
I slipped through the servant's side gate.
Thomas, one of the carriage boys, was leading a horse toward the stable. He glanced at my scraped knee, then at my face.
"Back from market?" he asked carefully.
"Yes."
He opened his mouth like he might say something else. He did not.
Good choice, Thomas. Inside, the air turned cooler, heavier. Stone corridors swallowed the last of the daylight.
Mrs Alder stood near the back hall, ledger in hand, spectacles low on her nose.
"You're late," she said.
"My apologies. There was a delay at the market."
Her gaze flicked to my sleeve. Paused.
Judged.
I met her eyes calmly.
Go on. Ask. I dare you.
She didn't.
"See that you're presentable by morning."
"Of course."
Of course.
Always of course.
I moved down the back staircase, footsteps silent from long practice. The laughter upstairs grew louder for a moment as a door opened somewhere, then dulled again when it shut.
My quarters waited at the end of the lower corridor.
Calling it "quarters" was generous. It was a stone box with opinions. The door stuck, as usual. I shoved it open with my shoulder.
The room greeted me with its usual chill. Narrow cot. One crate. A wash basin. A single hook on the wall for my uniform.
Cold, but workable.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a second.
Silence.
Good.
I peeled off the damaged sleeve carefully, inspecting the scratches. Annoying. Messy. Not catastrophic.
"I've had worse," I muttered to the empty room.
Technically true.
I knelt by the basin and poured water from the small pitcher I'd saved. The first splash over the cuts stung sharply.
I hissed.
"Unbelievable," I whispered.
I scrubbed gently, jaw tight, watching diluted red swirl into the drain.
There. Clean.
From beneath my crate, I retrieved my small tin—my private collection of survival tools. Cloth strips. A sliver of soap. Crushed marigold wrapped in paper.
I pressed the marigold into the worst scrape on my knee.
Look at me. Practicing self-care. How scandalous.
As I wrapped my forearm neatly, I exhaled slowly.
And, annoyingly—my mind replayed him.
Baxton.
The way he crouched like approaching a feral cat. Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely inaccurate.
"I won't hurt you," he'd said.
Bold claim from a boy who looks startled by his own shadow.
But he hadn't looked away.
That was... new.
Most people avoided eye contact. It's easier that way. If you don't see it, you don't have to think about it.
He'd seen.
And then he'd fussed over scratches like I was made of glass.
I tightened the knot on the bandage.
"I am not delicate," I informed the empty room.
The room, wisely, did not argue.
I stood, crossed to the door, and wedged folded cloth along the bottom to block the draft. Efficient. Precise. Then I folded my blanket double and placed the warmed brick—acquired earlier from the laundry room boilers—at the foot of my cot.
Cold room. Warm strategies.
I sat on the edge of the bed and flexed my fingers.
"You count the stalks before you cut them."
I hadn't meant to say that aloud earlier.
I notice things.
That's how you survive.
He stacks heavier baskets to the left so they don't tip. Counts under his breath. Double-checks his bolts before handing them over.
Quiet boy.
Watchful boy.
Foolish boy.
Interfering.
I lay back on the thin pillow and stared at the ceiling.
"They watch who interferes," I'd told him.
And they do.
That wasn't drama. That was fact.
Still.
He'd stepped forward anyway.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the blanket up.
"Idiot," I murmured.
A pause.
"...Kind idiot."
Upstairs, laughter burst again, bright and careless.
Down here, the stone held its chill.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow I would polish silver until I could see my reflection in it.
Tomorrow I would move quietly.
Tomorrow I would be unremarkable.
But tonight?
I allowed myself one traitorous thought.
His eyes had been soft.
Which was inconvenient.
Very inconvenient.