Nella had started young in House Varissen.

The keep was all she'd ever known, and she had served under three barons now. First there was old Gerlan Varissen, drunk more often than sober, but still mean enough when it counted. Then came Edric's brother, who lasted only a handful of years before dying to bandits or to poison, depending on which story you chose to believe.

And now Edric himself, stern and watchful, clinging to the title like it still meant something.

That was the way of the Varissens. Barons of the Western Ridge, sworn to the crown, but too small to matter most years, unless the mines happened to yield something worth fighting over. They held on to their land and their name because they had nothing else left.

Nella sometimes thought her whole life had been spent waiting for sickly little nobles to die. It wasn't a cruel thought, just the simple truth of her station.

You cleaned their sheets when they coughed up blood. You spooned broth into their mouths when they couldn't lift their heads. You watched their mothers weep. Then you washed the little bodies and helped carry them down to the crypt when the bells tolled.

That was how it went. That was how it had always gone.

And she supposed it would go the same with this one, the Ashveil boy.

Cael Varissen, they all called him, but she'd heard enough whispers among the laundry women to know that wasn't quite right. Varissen only by his father. Ashveil by his blood.

And Ashveil blood, everyone agreed, was bad luck.

Tonight she carried a basin of warm water and a clean cloth down the servants' hall. She kept her head down, though she caught the steward glancing at her as she passed. Nella quickened her step.

It was after supper, and most of the servants were off dicing in the corner or gossiping in the kitchen. But as usual, Nella was left to see to the boy.

The door to his room was shut.

She knocked anyway.

No answer.

With a sigh, she nudged it open with her hip, careful not to spill the basin.

He sat at the foot of his bed, the faint outline of that strange locket pressing through his tunic. He always wore it. Never let her touch it either, not even when she helped him change after a fever.

Nella set the basin on the little table, dipped the cloth in the water, and wrung it out.

"Don't you ever sleep, young master?" she asked lightly.

Cael glanced at her, then back to his hands. "Not really."

She frowned at that, not the words, but the tone: flat, like he already knew she wouldn't approve.

"Well, you ought to. Lord Edric doesn't like seeing his heirs come to table looking half-dead. Best not to give him another reason to bark. Or so the kitchen girls say," she added quickly when his eyes flicked up.

The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but close enough for her to notice.

She settled on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. He didn't resist. It was light and cold in hers, startlingly frail, a boy's hand in shape only.

She dabbed gently at the burn on his knuckles.

"You're lucky it wasn't worse," she muttered.

"It didn't feel lucky."

That sharp answer startled her.

"No, I suppose it didn't," she allowed. "Still. It's just a burn. You'll live. Plenty of young lords make more fuss over less."

His lips pressed together.

"I hear what the others say," he murmured finally.

There was no need to ask what he meant. She'd heard it too, the mutters in the halls, the predictions of how long he'd last.

Matilde didn't flinch. She finished smoothing the salve over his knuckles before answering.

"Servants talk," she said at last. "Not to be cruel most of the time but because talk keeps us alive. We notice who's falling, who's climbing, who might marry whom, which cousin has the lord's ear, which steward cheats the house, which heir drinks too much. If you listen long enough, you learn more than most lords ever care to."

She crouched so her face was level with his.

"And what I see here is someone out of place… but not hopeless."

His eyes flickered at that.

He gave her a look too old for his age and she knew exactly what he meant.

The aunts whispering in the corners. The uncles at supper. The squires behind his back in the yard.

"The Ashveil boy won't last another winter. Poor creature. Better for the house if he just went quietly."

Nella felt her cheeks heat, she drew her hand back.

"They don't mean anything by it," she said after a moment. "Servants and nobles alike. Folk talk because it keeps them busy. About you, about the baron, about the Ridge. That's all."

He tilted his head slightly at that, still watching her.

Nella lowered her voice, leaning closer.

"So take care, young master. It's not only this household that rumors fly around. Beyond these walls, the Ridge and farther, there are folk with sharper eyes and quicker tongues than any here."

"What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"I mean," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "If you keep drawing eyes the way you do, sneaking down to the tower at night, slipping into your mother's room when no one's watching, wearing that pendant like it's a crown. Someone will notice and not everyone will be as quiet as me about it."

He stiffened at that, but didn't speak.

Good. He was listening.

She dipped the cloth back into the basin and wrung it out.

"You ever hear the saying," she muttered, more to herself now, "Ashveil blood's a lure for both wolves and crows?"

His head jerked up at that.

"Aye," she said, meeting his eyes. "That's what they say. Folk want it, your name, your blood, even knowing it's cursed. So you'd better keep your head down till you're strong enough to fend for yourself."

She dabbed his hand one last time, then stood.

"Do you believe it's cursed?" he asked quietly.

That made her pause.

After a long moment she said: "Doesn't matter what I believe, does it? Look around you. Everyone else does."

She gathered up the basin and cloth and started toward the door.

Before she left, she glanced back at him still sitting there on the bed, fingers curled lightly around that locket under his shirt.

"You keep listening more than you speak," she said softly. "That's good. But don't listen too hard. You might start hearing things that aren't there, maybe even seeing them. Just like your mother."

She left him in the quiet, closing the door behind her.

Down in the kitchen, she dumped the water into the drain and hung the cloth to dry.

The other servants were still at their dice, but they fell quiet when she passed.

Everyone knew she was the one who tended the boy.

Everyone pitied her for it.

But they pitied him more.

She poured herself a cup of weak ale and sat by the hearth.

If the boy lived, she thought, it would be a miracle.

But if he did, if he managed to survive this house, this family, and his cursed blood, then everyone here would regret pitying him.

That much she was sure of.

...

Later that night, as she passed his door again on her way to her pallet, she stopped.

For a moment she thought she heard… something.

She didn't linger.

Just muttered under her breath:

"Don't let your blood drag you down, boy. Live. If not for yourself, then for your mother."

Then she went to bed.

***

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