Chapter 3: The Shard and the Shadow
I looked at her. Usually in a cheap story, the heroine would beat her villainous maid, or bribe her to switch sides, but I didn't care about any of that.
Maybe it was the fever, burning hot behind my eyes. Maybe I really had gone insane.
I was scrawny, tiny, short, so many words to describe the thing they called Hannah Bennington. At fourteen, I stood less than 140 centimeters, my bones sharp under skin stretched thin by hunger.
Sheila was an adult, twenty years old, a solid 165 centimeters of brute, bitter muscle. She should have been married years ago, had it not been for her family's debt—stuck choosing between marrying a dirty old man for a dowry, or working her cheap ass to the bone in this godforsaken county.
I walked closer.
Her eyes widened.
"What are you doing?" she snapped, taking a step back.
"Are you crazy? Have you really gone insane?" The questions spilled out, frantic, as her left arm tensed at her side, ready to strike, ready to put the little rat back in its place. My head throbbed, my neck felt like it would snap with every step, but I didn't stop.
"You are too tall."
The words were quiet, breathless, out before I could think. She reared back her hand, and I drove my boot hard into the soft spot above her ankle.
It wasn't strength that took her down. It was surprise. The shock of the tiny, meek girl she'd tormented for years suddenly baring her teeth, her eyes cold and empty, no trace of the usual fear.
A yelp tore from her throat. Her balance shattered. She crashed to her knees, the impact sending a jolt through the floorboards, dust puffing up around us.
I didn't hesitate. My left hand fisted in her dirty moss-colored hair, yanking her head back so hard her neck arched, her face tilted up to mine. My right hand drew back, and I slapped her.
Once, hard, the crack echoing in the tiny room, stinging my palm. I did it again. And again. And again. And again. Five times total, my hand coming down fast and furious, each blow leaving a red mark blooming on her freckled cheek.
Her struggles grew weaker, her whimpers turning to gasps, until she was slumped against me, her body trembling.
I let go of her hair just long enough to snatch a sharp shard of the broken vase from the floor, its edge glinting, sharp enough to slice skin like butter. I curled my fingers around it, the glass digging into my palm, as I leaned down, my voice a low, lethal snarl that cut through her sobs.
"Tell me, Sheila," I said, "what's my name?"
A wild, dizzy thought flickered through my fever-addled brain, Am I going to die? It didn't feel like a question of if the fever would take me. It felt like a question of whether I'd take someone with me first.
Sheila's eyes went wide as saucers, fixed on the shard of glass in my hand. All the bravado, all the cruelty, drained out of her in an instant. She crumpled, tears streaming down her swollen cheeks, her voice a high, trembling yelp. "I'm sorry, I beg you, sorry, Hannah! I will not do it again! I swear it!"
I pressed the glass harder against her jaw, cold and sharp against her skin. "What did you do, Sheila?" My voice was ice, no trace of the girl who used to cower in the stables. "Tell me what you have done."
"Everything, everything the countess told me!" she wailed, her words coming out in a crooked, gasping rush. "She said to starve you, to leave you in the snow, to let that quack do what he wanted, she said no one would care if you disappeared! I'm sorry, Hannah, I'm sorry, I had no choice, my family's debt—"
I didn't listen to the rest. I didn't care about her excuses, her debt, her fear. All I cared about was the fire burning in my chest, the feral, unnameable urge to make them all see me, to make them all remember me.
I didn't stop to think where the will came from, where this sudden, brutal strength had surfaced from.
I just tightened my grip on her mossy hair, yanking her to her feet so hard she stumbled, and dragged her out of my room. The shard of glass stayed pressed to her jaw, a silent threat.
Her boots scraped against the stone corridors, her sobs echoing through the quiet castle, but I didn't slow down.
I dragged her past the tapestries, past the closed doors of the servants' quarters, past the staircase where Kael had tripped me just days ago.
I dragged her straight toward the heart of the mansion, the great hall's dining chamber, the room where the Bennington family gathered every night for supper.
The room where crystal chandeliers hung, where silver platters were piled high with food, where I had never once been allowed to sit.
The room where they would all see me.
The room where the reckoning would start.
The frayed rag I'd curled up with last night clung to my shoulders like a second skin, and my bare feet burned against the cold stone floors, cut raw by splinters and frost.
The bump on my head, left by Kael's little "prank" three days, oh maybe four days prior now, throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a dull, relentless ache that matched the fire in my veins. But I didn't flinch.
I didn't falter. I just dragged Sheila forward, her hair still fisted in my left hand, the shard of glass pressed tight to her jaw.
The scent hit me first: warm bread, honey-glazed fruit, roasted meat, fragrances I'd only ever smelled from the stables, drifting on the wind when the family dined.
Then came the noise: Layla's high, trilling laughter, Kael's lazy chuckle, Stephanie's soft, tinkling voice. It was the sound of a family, their family, happy, content, oblivious to the girl they'd left to rot in a drafty room.
The noise died the second I stepped over the threshold of the dining chamber.
Silence slammed down, thick and heavy. Every head turned.
Every fork froze mid-air. Layla's smile dropped off her face like a mask. Kael's laughter choked off in his throat.
Stephanie's lips parted, her eyes widening as she took me in—my bare feet, my tattered clothes, the bump on my head, the shard of glass in my hand, and Sheila, whimpering and half-dragged, her face swollen and streaked with tears.
The quiet stretched on, long enough that I could hear the crackle of the fire in the hearth, long enough that I could see the way Stephanie's nose wrinkled—disgust, pure and simple. Then Layla giggled, a sharp, cruel sound that cut through the hush.
"What kind of behavior is this?" she trilled, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands under her chin. "Mocking Mother now, are you? How brave."
Stephanie's lips twitched into a crooked, cheerful smile, her eyes glinting with malice as she looked at me.
"Hahaha, my dear," she purred, dabbing at her lips with a linen napkin, "I think she really is insane now. What a pity."
The count didn't look up. He just sliced through a piece of meat, his knife scraping against the plate, his jaw set in a hard line. He didn't glance at me, didn't glance at Sheila.
He didn't care. But when Layla snickered again, he finally spoke, his voice gruff and annoyed, like we were nothing more than a fly buzzing at his elbow.
"What is wrong with you all?" he snapped, stabbing his fork into the meat.
"This is a meal, not a spectacle. Sit down, or get out."
I didn't move. I just tightened my grip on Sheila's hair, forcing her to stand straighter, forcing her to face the family that had ordered her to hurt me.
I looked at the count, at his cold eyes, his stiff posture, his face that held not a single trace of warmth for me, and opened my mouth.
My voice was odd, rough from the fever and the screaming, but it was loud enough to fill the room, loud enough to make every head snap back to me.
"Count Bennington," I said.
The name felt like ash on my tongue. I refused to call him father, refused to taint that word with this dirty, useless, child-making piece of shit who'd let his daughter starve, let her be beaten, let her be left to die in the snow.
The count froze. His knife stilled mid-air. He finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine, my sapphire eyes, bright and wild and unbroken, and for the first time in my life, I saw a flicker of something in them.
Not love. Not regret.
Surprise.
Speechless.
"I think she really is insane now. What a pity. I heard from Doctor Philips you attacked him with a vase, and now you drag this poor maid here, half-beaten? What ever possessed you?"
I didn't bother with pleasantries, didn't soften my words for the sake of decorum. I laid it out cold, clear, unflinching: how Sheila had left me to freeze in the snow, how she'd stood by while the quack loomed over my bed.
The words hung in the air, sharp and unignorable, but before the count could speak, the room erupted.
Layla shrieked that I was lying, a liar and a madwoman; Kael jeered that I'd probably begged for the quack's attention, that I was just bitter no one wanted me. The brawl of their voices swallowed the room, loud and ugly and familiar.
I let go of Sheila's hair then, shoving her hard enough that she stumbled and crashed to the stone floor at Stephanie's feet.
I didn't spare the sniveling maid a glance, didn't acknowledge the siblings' taunts or Stephanie's icy sneers. My eyes locked on the count.
His surprise was subtle, nothing more than a flicker in his cold gaze, a fraction of a second where his fork stilled, where his posture tightened. No gasp, no shout, just a tiny, fleeting crack in the mask of indifference he wore so well.
"Anyway," I said, my voice flat, empty of any emotion, no anger, no fear, no plea. "I would like to request a private meeting. Count Bennington."
Stephanie scoffed, a sharp, rude sound that cut through the noise.
"A private meeting? With you? Whatever for, to beg for scraps? To whine about your poor, miserable life?" She laughed, a cold, tinkling sound, and Layla and Kael joined in, their mocking cackles bouncing off the walls.
I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on the count, my tone steady as I lifted the tattered edge of my rag cloak in a clumsy, mocking imitation of a noble curtsy.
"I will find you after your breakfast," I said. "Please grant me this little wish, one you have never heard me voice since I was three years old."
The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then I turned on my heel and walked out, my bare feet slapping against the stone.
Behind me, the mocking erupted again, Layla's shrill jeers, Kael's crude jokes, Stephanie's cutting remarks, but I didn't hear them. I only heard the count's silence, the way his gaze had lingered on me for a heartbeat too long.
I didn't return to my cold, drafty room. I veered toward the kitchen, the scent of warm bread growing stronger with every step. The servants and cooks were bustling—kneading dough, stirring pots, polishing silver, but they all froze when they saw me.
Eyes darted to my bare feet, my tattered clothes, the faint smudge of blood on my palm from the vase shard.
They looked at me like I was something dirty, something to be avoided, but no one dared to approach, not after they'd peeked through the dining chamber doors and seen me drag Sheila there, wild and unbroken.
I didn't care. I walked straight to the bread basket on the counter, grabbed a crusty baguette still warm from the oven, and snatched a crisp red apple from a bowl of fruit. The cook opened his mouth, like he was going to protest, but one look at my face, at the cold, empty fire in my eyes, and he clamped his jaw shut.
I turned and left the kitchen, the bread and apple clutched tight in my hand, and walked back to my room, to wait. To plan. To let the fire in my chest burn hotter, brighter, until the reckoning finally came.
The baguette was warm, soft, the crust crumbling between my teeth, the first thing that hadn't tasted like stale despair or mold in months. The apple was crisp, sweet juice bursting on my tongue, and I ate slowly, savoring every bite like it was a feast fit for a queen.
With each mouthful, I felt a spark of something, strength, maybe, or just the stubborn refusal to starve any longer, coiling in my chest.
I sat on the edge of my rickety bed, the crumbs scattered at my feet, and let my mind sort through the chaos. The quack's words, Sheila's sobs, the count's flicker of surprise, all of it whirled together, sharp and bright, and I began to plan.
There was no presentable attire to be found, my dresses were all tattered, stained, too small, frayed at the cuffs and hem, but I tugged on the least threadbare one, a faded gray thing that had once been my mother's, and smoothed the wrinkles as best I could. The fever still burned behind my eyes, a dull throb, but it didn't cloud my thoughts, not anymore.
I found a scrap of parchment tucked under my desk, yellowed and thin, and a nub of charcoal Stephanie had thrown at me once for "wasting paper." With shaking hands, I wrote furiously. My handwriting was messy, slanted from the fever, but it was mine. Every stroke was a declaration that I wouldn't be erased.
When the parchment was full, I rolled it up tight and tucked it into my sleeve.
Then I rummaged through the quack's discarded satchel, the one he'd left behind in his mad scramble to escape, and pulled out a handful of dried herbs.
I recognized them from my experience, a faint, distant memory: herbs that would lower a fever, dull the pain, steady the hands.
They were bitter, acrid, when I chewed them, the taste clinging to my tongue like iron, but I swallowed hard, letting the rough leaves scrape down my throat.
The bitter taste lingered as I stood, adjusting the gray dress one last time, and walked out of my room. My bare feet still ached, the bump on my head still throbbed, but my steps were steady.
I knew where I was going, the count's solar, the small, wood-paneled room at the end of the west corridor, where he spent his days poring over ledgers and maps, where no one but his attendants were allowed to enter.
The door was closed, a heavy oak thing with the Bennington crest carved into the wood. A young attendant stood guard in front of it, his back straight, his uniform crisp and clean, nothing like my ragged dress. He blinked when he saw me, his eyes flicking over my bare feet, my messy hair, the faint smudge of charcoal on my fingers.
"Is the count inside?"
'Weird way to call her own father', he thought, his lips twitching with unspoken judgment. I could see it in his eyes, the same pity, the same dismissal everyone else had always given me. 'Must be because she slipped and fell down the stairs a few days ago', he added silently, his gaze darting to the bump on my head.
He didn't say any of it out loud. He just cleared his throat, turned to the door, and rapped his knuckles against the wood three times, sharp, formal, deferential.
"Your Lordship?" his voice carried through the door, smooth and polished.
"Hannah Bennington has arrived, requesting your audience."
A beat of silence. Then, a low, gruff voice, the count's voice, drifted through the wood.
"Let her in."