A few hours later, Elira stood on a wooden stool, reaching for a forgotten jar wedged behind a sack of dried beans. Her arms ached, her skirts were dust-smudged, and her braid had come half loose from all the bending and hauling. She placed the jar with its brothers and looked around once more to be sure there was nothing else hiding. The pantry now smelled faintly of vinegar, lemon oil, and hard-won pride. She stepped down, wiped a smear of grime from her cheek, and admired the order she’d carved from the clutter. Everything in its place. For now.

Matron Cindrel leaned on the doorframe with a mug of something steaming in her hands. “I was going to say thank you, but you look like someone who doesn’t need the praise—just the proof.”

“I’ll take both,” Elira said, stretching out her back. “Thank me anyway.”

“Thank you,” Cindrel said with a quiet laugh. “You’ve done more in two hours than the twins did in three weeks. Not that I’ll tell them that.”

Elira grabbed the bundle of torn clothing Cindrel had left near the pantry door earlier. “I’ll take this with me—might as well be useful while I’m sitting still.”

“Good.” Cindrel took a slow sip from her mug. “Come back in three days? I’ll work out a schedule for you, introduce you to the little ones. You’ll like the girls. The boys are louder.”

“I’m sometimes found of loud,” Elira said and smiled. “Three days. In the morning.”

Cindrel gave a satisfied nod. Elira crossed to the back door, bundle under one arm, and paused before stepping out. “Cindrel.” The matron looked up. “Thank you. For not asking too many questions.”

Cindrel gave a knowing smile. “You won't answer anyway.” 

Elira nodded and slipped out. By the time she circled back to the main entrance of the orphanage, the light had begun to soften into late-afternoon gold. The city felt warmer, quieter. She wasn’t sure if it was her own internal calmness that made her feel the change in the air.

Sorrel stood at the gate. She wasn’t leaning, this time. She was waiting. A little neater, with a new ribbon in her hair and a steady look in her eye. Elira adjusted the bundle of mending under her arm and approached, quiet and deliberate.

“You came,” she said.

Sorrel didn’t flinch. “I want a better future, even if it’s a dangerous one.”

Elira nodded once. “Then let’s begin.”

The two walked forward and headed to the black lacquered carriage which gleamed where it waited near the orphanage gate. The brass fittings polished, the family crest discreetly carved near the door. The driver stood tall and still, hands clasped behind his back, a picture of proper deference—until his gaze fell on Sorrel. His brow knitted immediately.

“My lady,” he greeted Elira with a bow. “I hadn’t been informed you were taking company.”

“She’s with me,” Elira said, not breaking stride.

The driver moved subtly into the path. “If I may, my lady—”

Elira stopped in front of him. Her voice didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. “You may not. If you ever forget who gives the orders in this house, you’ll find yourself brushing stables with the junior grooms. Am I clear?”

A pause. The man dipped his head. “Yes, Lady Wyncrest.”

She turned to Sorrel. “Get in.”

Sorrel cast a smirking glance at the man, then climbed up and into the dark interior of the carriage. Elira followed and shut the door behind them with a firm click. Inside, Elira settled back against the velvet cushions and took a slow breath. Sorrel sat across from her, arms folded, eyes alert. Not defensive, exactly—more like a stray waiting to see if the hand that fed her also struck.

“I meant what I said,” Elira began. “This house you’re entering—it’s dangerous.”

Sorrel’s brows lifted slightly. “Dangerous how? Spiders in the beds? Cooks with sharp knives?”

Elira gave a dry laugh. “If only. What I mean is that it’s poisoned—quietly, thoroughly, and from within.” She tapped a finger against her knee, slow and thoughtful. “The Wyncrests are a fractured family, all wearing polite smiles and holding knives behind their backs. My siblings, well at least my brother, see me as a complication. My father sees me as ornamental at best. And the servants? Half of them would sell gossip for a sliver of silver, the other half are too terrified to speak above a whisper.”

Sorrel’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re just… living in that?”

“I’m surviving it,” Elira said calmly. “But I won’t keep surviving forever. I plan to change it. Quietly. Deliberately. And I need eyes that aren’t already bought or biased.”

“Which is where I come in.”

“Exactly.” Elira leaned forward slightly. “You’ll sleep in the servants’ quarters—a private room. All of our staff are granted one unless they request otherwise. I want you there because I need you hearing things. Gossip. Whispers. Frustrations. Praise. Anything that crosses the lips of staff when they think no one’s listening. You’ll dine with them—unless you’re summoned to dine with me. And you’ll report everything you learn.”

“And if they catch on to me?” Sorrel asked, arms still folded.

“Then you lie,” Elira replied. “Cleverly. Or you tell them just enough truth to keep suspicion low. You’ve survived the streets—this will feel like theatre in comparison.”

Sorrel’s smirk flickered back. “I’ve never been much of an actress.”

“You don’t have to be,” Elira said. “Just pay attention. And stay loyal.”

A brief silence passed between them, the wheels thudding softly beneath their words.

“I’m also going to need someone to run errands from time to time,” Elira added. “To places I’d rather not be seen. You’ll know when the task matters because I’ll ask you myself. If you do well, I’ll trust you with more.”

“More pay?” Sorrel asked with a tilt of her head.

“One gold per month, to start,” Elira said without missing a beat. “More if you prove useful. Uniforms will be given to you when we arrive. You’ll be expected to maintain a standard of dress but not act like a puppet. I chose you for your mind, not your posture.”

Sorrel paused, processing it all. Her voice was quieter when she finally asked, “Why me?”

Elira didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “Because you didn’t flinch when I offered you a way out. You stared me down like I was danger, not deliverance—and still stepped forward. That’s the kind of person I need.”

Sorrel’s expression softened just slightly. “Fair enough.”

“And,” Elira added, with a hint of humor returning to her tone, “because I’ve grown tired of being surrounded by cowards.”

They lapsed into silence again, but it was easier now—settled, not strained.

After a few moments, Sorrel asked, “So what’s the end of all this? What are you trying to do?”

Elira gave her a measured look. “Something I won’t survive if I do it alone. Something that we won’t survive if we take the wrong step.”

Sorrel didn’t press. She just nodded. She accepted the danger and understood the underlying desperation Elira had.

The carriage rolled on from there in silence. Finally, they pulled through the gates of Wyncrest Manor with a soft crunch of gravel, evening light catching along the sharp stone lines of the estate. Ivy crawled dutifully up the outer walls, and the windows glimmered with cold, polished perfection.

Sorrel leaned slightly forward as they approached, eyes sweeping over the grand facade, the statues lining the walkway, the tall hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives. She gave no open reaction, but Elira caught the slight narrowing of her eyes—wary, calculating. That was good. When the carriage drew to a stop, the door opened before the driver could reach it. Elira stepped down first, smoothing her skirts with practiced grace though she was sure that her appearance did her no favors.

The butler, Elston, stood waiting at the base of the stairs, his spine as straight as the mansion’s front columns. “Lady Wyncrest,” he said with a courteous bow. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Elston,” she said with a warm, practiced smile. “Would you be so kind as to ask Madam Grell to meet me in my chambers?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Sorrel, but his tone remained smooth. “Of course, my lady.”

Elira offered a small nod, then turned to Sorrel. “Come along.”

She led the girl up the steps and through the massive entry doors. The front hall opened like a cathedral—polished marble, arching ceilings, and portraits of grim-faced ancestors lining the walls. Candles burned in elegant sconces, their light muted by the heavy hush of wealth. Elira’s heels clicked softly as she led Sorrel up the staircase and toward her room.

“Don’t speak to anyone unless they speak to you first,” she said in a tone quieter than before, gentler. “And if you can’t manage polite, manage quiet.”

Sorrel didn’t respond, but she stayed close and alert. They entered Elira’s room, shutting the door behind them. Elira crossed the room and set a bundle of clothing on the desk. She turned toward Sorrel with a faint smile. “You’ll be expected to knock before entering from now on. Even if I’ve asked for you.”

A knock came at the chamber door just as she finished the sentence.

“Enter,” Elira called, her voice now shaped by the gentle cadence she used in the house.

Madam Grell stepped in like a blade sheathed in velvet—tall, tight-laced, and watching Sorrel with the sort of composure that made judgment feel polite.

“My lady,” she said with a bow of her head.

“Thank you for coming, Madam Grell,” Elira said, all courtesy. “This is Sorrel. She’ll be assisting me in my personal errands and small tasks. For now, I’d like her trained in basic household etiquette, servant structure, and duties. I know you’ll have the best person for that.”

Grell’s mouth twitched—something between restraint and resentment—but her tone remained respectful. “Of course, Lady Wyncrest. Shall I assume a week to begin with?”

“I imagine a week, perhaps two, depending on how quickly she learns.” Elira turned toward Sorrel and smiled gently. “You’ll be in good hands.”

“And her uniform, my lady?” Grell asked with an arched brow.

“Yes, please arrange the usual sets,” Elira replied, glancing briefly at Sorrel’s worn boots. “Also, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to request a few maids sent to me tomorrow evening before bed. Ones who know their way around a needle and thread. I’ve brought back some mending and could use the help. The task shouldn’t be more than a couple hours with the right help. Go ahead and take the bag to be washed first. The maids you send can bring it back.”

Grell hesitated, just slightly. “Of course, my lady. I’ll send the appropriate girls. I’ll also send in a maid to fix you a bath. It would seem you got up to quite a lot at the orphanage.”

“Thank you,” Elira said sweetly. “And Madam Grell—I know this is an unusual request. But I trust your judgment. I’m sure you’ll make something of her.”

Grell turned her attention to Sorrel with a polite nod that barely masked her distaste. “Come with me, then.”

Elira gave Sorrel a last glance. “You’ll return to me the morning after your training ends. Understood?”

“Understood,” Sorrel replied evenly.

Elira nodded, hands folded before her like a proper lady of the house. “Off you go, then.”

She waited until the door closed behind them before letting her shoulders relax, just slightly. Alone again in her room, Elira stepped to the window, watching the orange-streaked sky fade above the distant rooftops. The city looked softer from this height—like a sleeping beast, beautiful and dangerous.

Her arms ached. Her sleeves were dust-smeared, her skirts stained at the hem. The braid she’d hastily secured that morning now hung loose, with wisps clinging to her temple and neck. She could still smell the pantry—citrus, oil, and old stone clinging to her skin. A knock tapped at the door bringing her back to the moment.

“Yes?” she said, slipping instinctively into the gentle, proper tone expected of Lady Elira Wyncrest.

The door opened to reveal a maid—a slim girl with mouse-brown hair and a respectful, unreadable expression. She curtsied with quiet grace, arms full of neatly folded towels. “Shall I prepare your bath, my lady?”

“Yes, please,” Elira said, with a small smile. “Lavender, if it’s still available.”

The maid bowed her head and slipped into the adjoining washroom. Soon the gentle sound of running water and clinking porcelain filled the air. Elira moved to her vanity, unpinning her braid with slow, deliberate fingers. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulder, damp with sweat and faintly tangled. She didn’t rush—everything was about rhythm, about appearance. The maid returned a few minutes later. “Your bath is ready, my lady. Shall I assist?”

Elira hesitated just long enough to seem modest, then nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She’d was putting extra effort into this act as she had chosen to do everything herself only this morning. Behind the changing screen, she let the girl undress her, folding the soiled gown and chemise without question or comment. The grime of her hard work was obvious—but the girl didn’t ask, and Elira didn’t explain. That was how it worked.

The bathing room shimmered with steam and candlelight, lavender curling through the air like a whisper. The maid helped her into the tub, guiding her as though she were made of glass. Elira sank into the warmth with a soundless exhale, the water stinging slightly against raw palms and sore knees.

The maid worked in silence—gentle, thorough. Soap to skin, cloth to shoulder, fingers through hair. She rinsed away sweat, scrubbed dust from her calves and elbows, massaged lavender oil into her scalp with efficient care. Elira sat still, eyes half-lidded. She didn’t need the help but she accepted it.

When the bath was finished, the maid offered her a towel and helped her step out, drying her feet with reverent precision. She wrapped her in soft linen, then helped her into a clean nightgown—white, with modest lace at the cuffs and collar.

The maid moved toward the vanity again and picked up the silver-handled brush. “Shall I, my lady?”

Elira nodded and sat. “Please.”

The brushing began slowly, the bristles pulling through damp strands in long, practiced strokes. It was almost soothing, this quiet ritual—like being polished back into something soft and untouchable. She watched herself in the mirror, expression serene. She looked as though she hadn’t scrubbed a pantry floor that afternoon. As though she wasn’t planning to dismantle everything behind these walls.

“Will that be all, my lady?” the maid asked when the last stroke was done, laying the brush gently down.

“Yes,” Elira murmured. “Thank you.”

The girl curtsied and left with barely a whisper of sound. Elira remained seated for a moment, eyes fixed on the mirror—watching the mask she wore melt away as she relished the time alone. Then she turned down the lamps, slipped into bed, and let her limbs sink into the cool sheets. Tomorrow she would wield needles and thread. Some day, she’d wield sharper tools.