The first thing Helena noticed was the wrongness of the bed.

It was too wide. Too soft. Too white. A softness that threatened to devour her whole.

She woke up on a bed too kind to her presence. Too clean for her body.

Helena stretched her aching limbs, reaching into her last memory; the carriage trip. Raymond had been speaking about a contract she’d have to sign if she was willing to work at the Ossveil manor. He talked about rules while her mind drifted.

Then, black.

She had no way of telling how long she’d been unconscious, or where this place was. But Raymond wouldn’t have traded her off, she thought. Not after speaking with Lana.

The memory of Lana stung deep in her chest. She didn’t want to feel indebted to her kindness, yet she was grateful.

But kindness always comes with a cost.

Helena got up, wincing. She smoothed the blankets, making sure no trace of her remained, then moved to the arched window. Dark velvet curtains framed the outside world. The day was clear, and a soft shroud of snow covered the grass. At least a day must have passed.

She turned her gaze to the room, strange to its polish, to its pureness—to the untouched.

She, who was none of those, felt like a moth in a room meant for butterflies.

Helena stood close to the window, making sure the only thing she touched—because she couldn’t fight gravity and couldn’t fly—was the floor. And yet, she balanced on the balls of her feet, unwilling to fully step onto the worn crimson rug.

The door swung open.

Helena jolted, bracing herself, her body tensing for whatever might step through.

A girl entered, flinching at the sight of her by the window. It took her a breath to gather herself.

“You’ve been quite sick, you know? You shouldn’t be walking around, especially not barefoot. Come, I’ve brought breakfast.”

She set a tray by the bed and waited while Helena, slow and wary, slipped back under the blankets.

“I’m Becka. Raymond’s second daughter. I heard your name’s Helena. Can I call you Hella? You were so sick, like really sick! I thought you’d die! Mum said you have to rest,” she said, fluffing the pillows and setting the food on the little table.

A bowl of soup, a piece of bread, and a cup of fresh water greeted Helena.

“I know… it’s depressing, right? I wanted to bring you something better, but Mother and that quack—I mean, the doctor, said it has to be light for a few days. But…”

Becka pulled a folded handkerchief from her skirt pocket and unwrapped it like it held a secret.

“…I brought you these.”

Her smile reached her eyes, curving them like half-moons. In her palm sat two thick chocolate cookies.

Helena’s gaze dropped from Becka to the cookies.

Her breath hitched. She remembered those. Chocolate cookies. In the convent, the children used to snuggle some from the High Nun’s jar. They used to break them into tiny pieces, sharing them in whispers. But she, isolated and shunned, never got her share.

Helena’s lips twitched. Her mouth parted, but Becka, too eager to wait, shoved the cookie in.

“Eat it quickly,” she said as she ate the other. “I have to go get mum and that quack—I mean, the doctor.”

Helena’s eyes widened, the sweetness spread in her mouth. Rich, gooey, wrong. Her stomach turned, yet she slowly chewed it.

“I’m fine…” she said.

I don’t need a doctor. I need to work, is what she meant to say, but Becka cut her off.

“No, you’re not! Do you know how terrifying it was to see Papa come with you, unconscious, in his arms? You slept for three days! That quack—I mean, the doctor, even said you could’ve lost your toes from frostbite! And, and…”

Becka pursed her lips, staring down at her hands. Helena looked at the soup, pretending not to notice the drops building in the young girl’s eyes.

“…I’ll go get mum.”

The door closed as she slipped through it, swallowing her cheerful voice into silence.

Helena’s breath grew shallow. She rose from the bed, smoothing the blankets and arranging the pillows. She placed the food back on the tray, then knelt beside the bed, her eyes fixed on the rug.

What if they ask me to pay for the treatment? What if I start with a debt? How… How many months would I have to work without pay?

She looked at her hands. She didn’t mean to be caught sick. Not now, not when she had found a job for the winter.

When the door opened again, the silence stretched. A middle-aged woman with chestnut hair and big eyes flinched when she saw Helena. Beside her, a short man with a bulging belly and a long beard cleared his throat.

“Child… what are you doing? C’mon up to the bed. Up, up.”

The woman rushed to her side and gently helped her up.

“I’m Aidin Garath, Lord Raymond’s wife. And this is Doctor Johannes.”

Helena stared, then dropped her gaze to her hands.

The air clung to her lungs like ashes. She waited for the words that would dismiss her from the mansion… or worse, condemn her to work off a debt.

“Well…”

The doctor cleared his throat.

“You fainted from a high fever. You’re dehydrated, anemic, and hypothermic. And you’re clearly under intense stress… your hair’s becoming white. Say… why didn’t you tell Lord Raymond?”

A pause, brittle but heavy.

Helena’s mind was still immersed in Aidin’s hands that helped her up—soft and warm. She felt incongruent with that kind of treatment.

“I don’t know…” she said at last. “I felt a small headache, but nothing more.”

The two adults traded glances she couldn’t read, but they felt like condemnation.

“About the marks… no, never mind. Tell me”—Johannes shifted his weight, looking at his small casebook—“Lord Raymond says you used to live in a convent. Did they give you anything? Clothes, money, food? How did you reach Ossveil?”

Helena opened her mouth, but at that moment, the door swung open. Becka entered.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, slipping to the window.

Aidin sent her a glare.

“I… left the convent about a week ago. I was allowed to take only what belonged to me, and… I reached the village crossing the woods… on foot.”

Helena’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

The silence thinned. A small gasp came from the window.

“Did you sleep in the wild?” Aidin asked.

She nodded, squirming beneath the questions, the fabric, the stares—everything felt too much.

“I wanted… I wanted to reach the closest village fast, and the woods are…”

The fastest shortcut.

“What did you eat?” Aidin asked. Her jaw was tight, a vein pulsing at her temple.

Helena flinched.

“I-I know how to distinguish edible grass. Sleeping wasn’t a problem… I mostly walked. And even found a stream, broke the ice and drank. It was cold, but…”

Her voice faltered, her face flushed. She didn’t know what she’d said to make their eyes widen; their bodies go still.

A soft sound came from the window. Becka, sniffling.

Heat crept up Helena’s skin. Her words came out like a spit.

“I didn’t contract any wild illnesses. I promise. You can test me.”

“Stop.”

Aidin’s voice cracked through the room. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling like someone defeated.

“We are not… We…”

The room was silent except for Becka’s sobs.

Helena’s gaze fell to her fingers, twisting the edge of the blanket.

“I’m fine,” she said at last. “I can work.”

Her voice was thin, desperate, the kind that only surfaces when someone’s standing on the edge of a risk.

“I’m not sick. I’m clean.”

“We know,” Johannes said. “I’m a doctor, remember? I know your condition. And I know you can’t work right now.”

Helena swallowed dry. She bit her lip, brazing herself for them to kick her out.

“I promise you,” said Aidin. Her voice was warm. “No one is kicking you out, child. We’re just trying to make sure you’re healthy.”

Helena’s head snapped up. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

“You will rest. Here. Until you’re better. Your work will start after you’re back to health. It’s only natural, child.”

“…I don’t have money.”

Aidin sighed. Long, exasperated.

“We’ll not charge you for the treatment, nor deduct it from your pay. I promise.”

Helena’s eyes dropped to her hands again. Her thoughts churned with suspicion.

“Anyway. Absolute rest for the next few days. That’s final.”

Johannes and Aidin left shortly after. Their last words landed like a death sentence.

If I can’t work… what can I do? She felt alien to their care. She felt… unfitting.

I should leave this place. This place…

This place feels wrong.

“You have to finish your food.”

Becka came closer, cutting Helena’s trail of thoughts. She placed the soup back on the small table over Helena’s lap and sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. She watched as Helena picked up the spoon and scooped a bit of broth.

“You eat like we’re giving you poison.”

Helena flinched but said nothing. She couldn’t deny her suspicions. Her gaze flicked to Becka’s face—chestnut hair like her mother’s, small nose, pretty lips, cat-like eyes puffy from crying. She looked young. Helena liked that.

In truth, Helena liked children. By the time she roamed the convent freely, she was too old to play. And though the other children feared her at first, they began to like her when she shielded them from the nuns’ whims.

The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

“How old are you anyway?” Becka asked. “I’m seventeen. Yeah, yeah, I know. I look younger. Everyone says I look fifteen. That I should be more ‘mature’ like Laloid. She’s my older sister. I have a baby brother too, Ruel. Do you have siblings? Ah, sorry.”

Becka rattled on while Helena ate. She asked questions without waiting for answers and wandered onto whatever topic she pleased.

“Do you like the cold? I hate it. Winter drags on forever here. I wish I could go south! My friend Tea says their summers last as long as our winters; can you imagine? Ugh, I can’t wait for summer. I’m going swimming with my friends! You like summer? You can come if you like, but don’t tell my father or Laloid! She’d kick my arse.”

Her words chirped like a sparrow’s. But they grew thin. Her fingers began fidgeting with her skirt.

“Were you… really kicked out with nothing but that tattered dress?”

Helena nodded, spooning more soup.

Becka’s eyes shimmered again. Helena stiffened. She didn’t like children crying.

“It’s fine,” she said. Her voice was soothing. “It’s not that bad. Of course, I couldn’t take what wasn’t mine.”

But her words only made Becka cry harder. She threw herself into Helena’s arms, who barely held the bowl of soup from falling and staining the bed.

“How could they! Those bad, damn, mother fu—mum says I shouldn’t cuss but!”

Becka wailed and Helena sat frozen, arms half-raised, bowl trembling in her grip.

She couldn’t understand why Becka cried. For her, at that.

“They sent you in this cold with that rag of a dress and no money! You could’ve died!”

For a long while, Becka sobbed in her arms, cursing the convent, ranting about cold winters and promising to bring her the prettiest dresses.

Helena didn’t move. She only listened. Saying she wouldn’t have died would’ve made it worse.

If anything, if I’d felt like I was dying, I could’ve just taken some of my blood…

She sat in silence, letting the girl cry.

Wondering why anyone would cry for a stranger.

Why would anyone ever cry for her?