The sky was overcast with heavy gray clouds, promising to burst into a downpour at any minute. The Rosenthal carriage had been standing by the driveway for some time already, yet Azalea still could not resolve to step out.

A woman bearing a covered basket in her hands, from which the tops of fresh carrots and onions protruded, paused, looking with surprise upon the luxurious carriage and the unexpected guests. Passing by, she set the basket near the threshold of a modest house and set about rummaging through her pockets in search of a key.

Gathering her courage, Azalea pushed open the door and stepped out onto the damp earth. She still hesitated, struggling to comprehend why she had arrived here at all.

“I beg your pardon,” she pronounced quietly, drawing the woman's attention. “Are you... the spouse of Berthold Moonforest? The neighbors suggested there was no one at home, therefore I was already preparing to depart.”

Clarissa turned sharply at the unfamiliar voice, examining the luxuriously dressed girl at the threshold of her home with astonishment.

Azalea Rosenthal froze in place, as though struck by lightning. The color of her eyes, her fair hair, the soft oval of her face... This woman was achingly, frighteningly similar to her deceased mother. From this resemblance, Azalea's breath caught, and a bitter, malicious smirk froze upon her lips.

“What a... perverse and wicked jest,” she whispered, looking upon her deceased father's wife, who looked back at her as if from the past. “I am Azalea Rosenthal. Your spouse's daughter.”

Out of surprise, Clarissa dropped the key from her trembling hands. With a frightened gasp, she picked it up hastily, unlocked the door with a jerk, and attempted to hide in the darkness of the corridor, slamming the panel shut directly in front of the stunned Azalea's nose.

Yet merely a few seconds passed before the lock clicked again, and the door opened ajar.

“I beg your pardon... I was simply... frightened,” Clarissa pronounced guiltily, stuttering and not daring to raise her eyes. “I did not... did not wish to offend you at all. W-why did you... come?”

The patter of small feet was heard behind the woman's back, and from behind her skirts peeked two fair-haired twin boys. One of them sniffled, clearly suffering from a runny nose. Both examined the stranger with fright and curiosity, hiding behind their mother.

Azalea took into her hands a cracked cup containing that murky beverage named tea here, and raised it lightly to her lips. The house was furnished exceedingly modestly, almost poorly. The twins continued to peek at her with undisguised curiosity from the ajar door of their room. The younger, who was named Bartholomew, wiped his nose noisily with his sleeve yet again, while Berthold, the elder of the boys, immediately tugged his brother's arm strictly.

“T-this is all... that we c-can offer you,” Clarissa pronounced guiltily, wringing her hands.

“There is no necessity for more. I did not come here for the sake of a meal at all,” Azalea set the cup aside carefully, smiling for a second at her own memories regarding the harsh past once spent in the borderlands. “Yesterday I was informed that Berthold Moonforest is dead.”

The younger of the twins opened his mouth slightly in surprise, not yet comprehending the meaning of adult words to the very end, yet clearly embarrassed that this luxurious lady was speaking of his name.

“Y-yes, I have already traveled for the identification... attested to his death,” Clarissa spoke softly, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I was told that he m-must be buried. B-but if I do this upon my savings... the boys and I will be left with absolutely n-no money for food. My wages will not be paid out soon, and there remains... a mere drop of coins,” she lowered her gaze, desperately ashamed of her poverty.

Azalea rose from her seat silently and approached the boys unhurriedly.

“It is good nonetheless that you resemble your mama,” she smiled softly and ruffled both their tousled hair in passing. “She seems to be very kind.”

The twins, flattered by the attention, nodded importantly and contentedly.

“My assistant said that you work as a seamstress in a workshop. You are quite good at it, are you not?”

Clarissa even grew flustered from surprise, not realizing immediately what the guest was driving at.

“I-I am primarily responsible for e-embroidering complex patterns upon fabric...” from severe agitation, her stuttering became more noticeable.

Azalea stepped to the table and clinked a heavy leather pouch dully, lowering it onto the worn wooden surface.

“Here is more than enough for the funeral, for a good cold remedy for Bartholomew, and there shall even remain some left over.”

“N-no! I-I cannot a-accept this!” Clarissa protested frightfully, retreating a step.

“Take it. I give this money not to you, but to your children,” Azalea tossed back adamantly.

She had already turned around, heading toward the exit, but froze for a moment at the threshold, looking upon the rainy grayness beyond the window, and added quietly:

“On the border with the Eastern Empire, my family possesses a vacant estate. If you should wish to hide from your past life, I shall aid you in relocating there. Or I could offer you work here, in the capital - a good seamstress will prove highly useful to our house right now,” she turned around and smiled warmly. “When you resolve, be sure to come to the Auction House and convey to the guards that Lady Rosenthal is expecting you.”

In parting, she waved her hand lightly to the boys, and they, in return, smiled joyfully from ear to ear and waved back.

Azalea stepped over the threshold, and the first heavy, cold drops of the commencing downpour had already begun to break from the heavens.

Azalea sat inside the carriage, slammed the door shut, and stared detachedly into the window murky with rain. Ophelia, seated opposite, observed her mistress in silence, unwittingly sharing the heavy, oppressive silence into which she had dissolved.

However, this fragile moment of melancholy was suddenly severed. A large black raven flew swiftly into the slightly opened window of the carriage, flapped its wings heavily, and, emitting a sharp, demanding croak, settled unceremoniously right upon the mistress's lap.

With a customary movement, Azalea deftly unclasped a tiny metallic case from the bird's leg, extracted a thick leaf rolled into a tube from therein, and immediately ran her finger affectionately over the smooth feathers on the raven's head.

Skimming her eyes fleetingly over the lines, she sighed heavily. Then she squeezed the note lightly in her fist, and it instantaneously turned into a gray, burnt-smelling ash that the draft immediately blew away.

“You appear anxious, milady. Has His Grace truly sent foul tidings?” Ophelia inquired cautiously.

“Very much so, Ophelia. Dallion is riding to Werner in order to aid me,” Azalea closed her eyes wearily, continuing to stroke the raven absently upon its black head. “It appears we shall now have one headache more.”