Her bedroom is dark, finally. Clara found some dusty, less-than-moth-eaten drapes in storage somewhere and hung them over the windows, their worn edges betraying the warm daylight beyond. Pericene shifts in her bed, enjoying her light nap before it's disturbed.

She is grateful for it, truly. After her last lesson with the Baroness, the rest of the palm has been spent avoiding the furor of the head maid and her closest staff, who spend every moment they can spare searching for Baroness Corheart's missing riding crop and accusing the girl with their eyes or words.

Most recently, there have been unexpected searches of her room, and of all the rooms around hers, at all hours of the day and night. The only result has been frustrated ladies swiping dust from their hands and a restless child.

A knock at her door rouses Pericene as quickly as a kick would, though not out of fear. Of all the people in the manor, Clara is the only one who actually knocks before entering.

"Come in!"

Her best friend enters, pushing a wobbly cart laden with food.

"Good news, my Lady, the kitchen over-ordered on supplies, so we can serve up a little feast this afternoon!"

The food is moved over to a small table pushed up against the far wall from Pericene's bed, a rough square with an equally rough single chair for it. Not that she would complain about the hard work Clara put into procuring the furniture, especially since it's suited for her size.

Being taller than most door frames means most of Pericene's time is spent trying not to break things meant for someone between half and three-quarters her height and weight, and that upper limit will shrink all the more as she continues to grow. It wouldn't be so bad if Count Bregant cared to accommodate his only daughter, but her size is not the only reason he dislikes even looking at her.

Dried sausages, hard cheese, bread and crackers, fresh water and, somehow, a glass of red wine that doesn't smell like vinegar are set on the table as Pericene takes her seat, the hewn wood creaking under her. Even seated, she's taller than Clara's full height.

"Clara, where did you get the wine?"

"Oh, some of the wash girls were sharing a bottle after lunch, they offered me a glass and I thought to bring it for you." The maid smiles, her ice-blue curls just short enough to frame her dimples while evading any attempt to control them.

"I don't even turn ten for another half year. Father-... his Lordship would be very upset to find you've brought me this."

"If his Lordship were in any mood to care about what few good things you do have, my Lady, I'm certain we wouldn't have to steal away to the dusty corners of his manor to have a meal in peace."

Pericene eyes Clara warily. The words are dangerous, no matter how true, because both their livelihoods depend on the Count's relative mercy. A mercy already threatened by the absence of a particular leather-bound stick from the possessions of a particular tutor. She wishes she could have had a normal childhood with a normal family.

Deciding to leave it alone, the noble in name alone starts devouring the food. Even if it's made entirely of dried stores, missing the various tasty greens Pericene only gets to see once or twice per year, it's good for her empty belly and it vanishes as enthusiastically as a high-quality steak.

Clara collects the empty plates and water glass while her Lady stares down the untouched wine.

"It's not a necessity, my Lady. I'll rid you of it if you wish," the maid offers, hands fidgeting in their usual polite position at the front of her apron. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Pericene sighs, picking up the goblet between her thumb and second finger. It's pewter, and would easily collapse if she squeezed hard enough, but that would be worse than simply tossing the cup from a window and claiming one of the staff must have dropped it. The Count's precious property exists above her as much as his living staff.

Which would fly about as well as a dropped sword, truth be told. Without trying to taste it, she downs the wine in a single gulp and hands the goblet to Clara. The red's dryness sticks to the back of her tongue and throat for a few moments, but it's gone by the time Pericene feels its faint warmth spreading from her stomach.

"What time is it?"

"Two hours until dinner, my Lady."

"I'm going for a walk."

"Of course, my Lady," Clara says, bowing. "I will prepare your cloak."

The patrolled grounds around Bregant Manor are large, especially for a Count's family residence. The main building is a notable carriage ride from its exterior gates, and the grounds around it from that central location extend nearly a day's ride in every direction.

This expanse of private nature, absent strangers and familiar faces alike, is the truest sanctuary Pericene knows. As much as she loves Clara, the maid has some mild tendencies that bother her a bit. She would never admit it, but being alone, outside of that awful manor, is the only fulfilling happiness she's found in this life.

Of the many features the grounds include, half a dozen lakes and ponds are scattered about, fed by streams or born of wellsprings from which those streams flow. According to the home text, a collection of historical changes and renovations made by past heads of house titled "Bregant, Built," there used to only be one vast lake, but an early Duke had hired earth casters to create islands for privacy dotted across it.

As the title moved on, others added more islands, land bridges between them, and eventually, mere months before a scandal which caused the house to be demoted and nearly smited from existence by the throne, the lake was formally divided into its present, smaller pieces.

The effort involved included now dozens upon dozens of perfect little plateaus and hovels and grassy lawn by the mile for relaxation, picnics, or sports. Pericene finds the lot of it curated to death, however much she enjoys the cool air which hugs the largest bodies of water year-round, and tends to avoid it all for the sake of seeing something not carefully, intentionally shaped by human hands.

Today is an avoidance day, and she accidentally finds herself in line of sight to the front gate, though plenty of trees are still obscuring her. The deep green cloak holds shadow and light in equal measures to the greenery around it, and a flat black mask over Pericene's face hides the pale moon of her countenance in the shadows of her cowl.

She's fully turned and started to walk away when a voice she doesn't know calls out.

"Oi, you there! Halt, in the name of the Count!"

The words make Pericene flinch, but she stops. Better to get caught now and explain, and take whatever punishment the guards dole out for supposed trespassers who turn out to be unwanted daughters, than to flee and be caught later. It's not as if the majority of the staff don't know about her cloak. Count Bregant had insisted upon it and the mask ever since she failed to perform magic in front of his guests.

The footsteps slow as the guard draws near, and Pericene turns around slowly with her hands visible, to show she isn't armed. A tactic she learned two years prior when another guard had nearly taken his blade to her while panic made her words fail. This guard is far more slight, and wears an expression of cautious awe.

"My name is Kryx, I’m a gate guard for Count Bregant. Could you remove your mask and cowl, so we can have a chat?"

"S-sorry," Pericene offers, shaking her head. "I-I'm not allowed."

Caution is quickly replaced by understanding, and the girl feels her heart sink. New or not, this guard must have heard of her. Nobody ever hears good things.

"You must be the young lady of the house, then! Sorry to bother you about that, I didn’t realize who I was speaking to. It's barely my third day, please forgive the discourtesy."

It's Pericene's turn for confusion to command her expression. For once, she's glad to have the mask.

"Ri-right. I-I should probably g-go…" she says, turning to leave again.

"Ah, my Lady, if I may?"

She cranes her neck around to find the guard has stepped much closer, a hand extended out, and immediately flinches away with a yelp, tripping over herself in her fear. Before Pericene can throw up her hands to fully cower, the guard is by her side, a gentle grip on her shoulder and wrist keeping her from fully hitting the ground.

"Sorry, sorry! I'm so sorry, my Lady! There was a mere spider, I didn't think it would frighten you so, they are meek creatures."

The voice is gentle, but it takes a much longer time for her terror to fade enough to risk looking at the guard again.

The sneer she is expecting, along with the glint of predatory glee behind eyes upturned in anticipation, don't exist on the guard's face. Instead, her eyebrows are arched toward a center of wrinkles over eyes that only show concern and a mouth somewhere close to a frown.

"My Lady?" she asks again, leaning in a little more. She searches Pericene's face for a moment, then smiles, the expression gentle for once.

"I-I don't-... I'm fine, please l-leave me alone!"

Jerking away from the unfamiliar touch, Pericene scrambles to her feet and flees into the trees.