The fog of fever lifted entirely on the seventh day, leaving my head clear as the winter sky outside my window.
No more dizzy spells, no more trembling hands, just a steady, slow thrum of strength returning to my bones, fed by warm soup and Doctor Hale's tonic, by sleep that didn't end in nightmares of empty larders and freezing haylofts.
I'd not stepped foot outside the bounds of this silk-draped room since waking here; every moment was spent curled by the hearth, letting the fire seep into my marrow, letting my body mend the years of neglect carved into it.
In my past life, I'd been soft desk bound, coffee fueled, my only exertion the walk from the bus stop to the office.
Weakness had been my constant companion then, too, just of a different kind: the weakness of a woman who'd let fear and loneliness chain her to a life she hated.
Now, as I pressed a palm to my ribs and felt the faint, firm curve of muscle returning, a thought unspooled in my mind sharp, bright, unbidden.
Adventurer.
The word tasted like iron and honey on my tongue. I was too thin, too slow, too unused to anything beyond scrubbing floors and hiding in corners—but this was a world of rebirth, of second chances. A fantasy world, I was certain of it now.
No ordinary realm let a soul burn out in loneliness and wake up in the body of a wronged noble girl. If magic could twist fate this way, then anything was possible.
I could learn to wield a blade, i could stop being the victim, the shadow, the forgotten Bennington. I could be something more.
But first, I needed information.
If this was a book—a story I'd once flipped through, late at night, when the office work had piled too high—then knowing the plot, the players, the hidden twists could be my greatest weapon.
Even if it wasn't, the sharp, practical mind I'd honed as a 27 year old worker budgeting ledgers, tracking deadlines, seeing the numbers no one else bothered to count would serve me now. I needed to map this world, this manor, this family's rot from the inside out.
I swung my legs over the edge of the goose down bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug, and crossed to the vanity table pushed against the wall.
The wood was polished to a mirror shine, the surface clear save for a stack of crisp, cream colored paper thicker, smoother than any I'd ever touched and a silver inkwell, its surface etched with the Bennington stag. Beside it lay a quill, its feather soft as silk, no frayed edges, no dried ink crusted on the nib.
A sharp, bitter ache twisted in my chest. For years, I'd scrawled notes on scraps of discarded parchment, using charred sticks or the nub of a pencil Stephanie had thrown at me in a rage.
I'd hidden those scraps in the cracks of my larder room walls, afraid even that small act of possession would be taken from me.
Now, here was luxury waste, to a girl who'd once gone a week on nothing but moldy bread and rainwater laid out for me like it was nothing. The contrast was a slap to the face, a reminder of all I'd been denied.
I sat anyway, pulling the paper toward me, uncorking the inkwell with a steady hand. The quill glided across the page, no resistance, no smudges.
I began to write, not with the messy, slanted script of my fevered renunciation, but with the neat, precise lines I'd used in my past life's spreadsheets.
I titled the page Hannah Bennington: Ledger of Stolen Years.
I started at three years old—the first memory I had of scrubbing the dining hall floors until my knees bled, of Stephanie's cold voice telling me I was a burden who earned her keep by working.
I listed every chore: scouring pots until my fingers cracked, mending Kael's torn tunics until my eyes blurred, hauling buckets of water from the well at dawn when the other maids still slept. I noted the hours sunup to sundown, no breaks, no days off and compared them to the wages the count paid his lowest servants, a sum I'd overheard the steward mention once.
I deducted the cost of the moldy bread I'd been fed, the tattered rags I'd worn, the straw pallet I'd slept on in the larder scraping the bottom of the barrel for numbers, for proof, for a way to quantify the theft of my childhood.
The numbers stacked up, cold and unforgiving. By the time I was done, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold.
I'd filled three pages, my hand steady, my heart colder than the winter wind outside. This was no mere list it was a weapon. A reckoning written in ink and rage.
I rolled the pages tight, tucking them into the waistband of my dress, beneath the layers of fabric where no one would think to look. Then I stood, my resolve hardening into something sharp and unbreakable. There was one more thing I neededmy only treasure, the one thing Stephanie and her brats had never managed to take from me.
I slipped out of the room, my bare feet silent on the stone corridor. The manor was quiet this time of day, the servants retreating to their quarters for supper, the family holed up in the dining hall. But whispers followed me as I walked—faint, hissing things, carried on the draft that snaked through the walls.
"Is that her?"
"The count's forgotten daughter."
"He moved her to the children's wing. Gave her silk sheets and warm soup."
"Countess will have her head for this."
I didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge them. Their words were water off a duck's back now, meaningless noise in the face of what I planned. I walked past the closed doors of Kael and Layla's old rooms, past the tapestries that depicted the Bennington legacy as something noble and bright, past the staircase where Kael had tripped me just weeks ago. I walked until I reached the end of the east corridor, where the stone walls turned cold and damp, where the air smelled of mildew and rats.
My old room. The larder.
The door was ajar, hanging off its hinges Stephanie had never bothered to repair it, not for a room that housed nothing but a forgotten girl and a pile of moldy sacks. I pushed it open, the wood scraping against the stone floor, and stepped inside. The room was exactly as I'd left it: a small, windowless box, the walls lined with shelves of turnips and potatoes, a straw pallet in the corner, a rusted bucket in the center.
I dropped to my knees beside the pallet, my fingers brushing the rough wooden floorboards. I'd hidden it here, three years ago, after Kael had torn the pendant from my neck and tried to melt it down for scrap. I'd pried up the loose floorboard with a shard of broken pottery, buried the pendant deep beneath it, and replaced the board so carefully no one would ever guess it was loose.
My fingers found the edge of the board, prising it up with a soft crack. Beneath it lay a small hole, filled with dust and spiderwebs. I reached in, my heart pounding, and my fingers closed around something cold and smooth.
I pulled it out, brushing the dust away. The pendant glinted in the faint light filtering through the door, a small, silver disk, its surface etched with a pattern I'd never been able to identify. It wasn't a Bennington crest.
It wasn't any symbol I'd ever seen in the manor's tapestries or books. Just a winding, intricate design like a maze, or a spell, or a map to something I didn't yet understand. On the back, a single word was carved into the silver, worn almost smooth by time: Beatrice.
My mother's name.
The count had told me once, in a rare moment of kindness before Stephanie had poisoned his mind against me, that Beatrice had been a woman from a far-off land, with hair like sunlight and eyes like sapphires.
That she'd brought the pendant with her when she'd married him, that it had been her most prized possession. That she'd pressed it into my hand on her deathbed, whispering that it would keep me safe.
I'd never understood what she'd meant. Not then. But now, as I clutched the pendant in my palm, feeling its warmth seep into my skin, I knew. This was more than a trinket. It was a key. To my mother's past. To the truth of who I was. To the power that Stephanie had spent years trying to snuff out.
I slipped the pendant around my neck, tucking it beneath my dress, where it rested against my heart. A quiet, fierce joy bloomed in my chest—bright, hot, unquenchable.
I tucked the pendant securely beneath the neckline of my dress and stepped back out into the corridor, the rolled ledger still pressed firm against my waist. My next step was clear: I would go to the count's solar, present the ledger to him, and force him to confront the debt his family owed me.
But when I reached the west corridor, the attendant who'd let me in before was standing guard outside the oak door, his posture stiff and formal. He bowed his head when he saw me, his expression wary.
"Miss Bennington," he said, his voice low. "The count is not here. He departed at dawn for an outing to the northern estates—matters of tenant disputes and crop yields, he said. He will not return until the morrow at the earliest."
A flicker of frustration tightened my jaw, but I nodded, masking the irritation with a calm nod. "I see. Thank you for telling me."
I turned on my heel, the stone cool beneath my feet, and began the walk back to the children's wing. The manor was quieter now, the last of the servant's footsteps fading into the distance, the only sound the distant creak of a floorboard and the wind howling outside the leaded windows. I was halfway down the corridor when I heard it—a slow, deliberate tread, boots clicking against the stone, too heavy to be a servant's.
I looked up.
William stood at the end of the hall, his broad shoulders framed by the archway of the library door. At eighteen, soon to be nineteen, he was the spitting image of the count same storm gray eyes, same sharp jawline, same tall, imposing stature that made even the steward shrink back when he spoke.
He was dressed in a tailored wool coat of deep blue, a silver stag brooch pinned to his lapel, his boots polished to a shine that reflected the torchlight flickering on the walls. He was the official heir to the Bennington title, the son Stephanie doted on, the boy who'd been given every privilege I'd been denied.
Like his father, he had never laid a hand on me. Never mocked me to my face, never locked me in the larder, never let the quack near me with his wandering hands. But he had seen everything.
He had watched Kael trip me down the stairs when I was seven, watched Stephanie slap me for spilling a goblet of wine at dinner, watched the servants starve me for days when I'd dared to ask for a crust of bread. And every time, he had turned away. Walked right past me, his face a mask of indifference, like I was no more than a speck of dust on his polished boots.
He stopped a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over me my faded gray dress, my bare feet, the faint smudge of ink on my fingers and his lips tightened into a thin line. His voice was cold, sharp, the tone of a nobleman addressing a servant who'd overstepped her bounds.
"Can you not walk around without causing trouble?" he said, his words cutting through the quiet. "First the scene in the dining hall, then skulking about the larder like a thief. Stop bringing shame to this family."
Once, those words would have made me flinch. Made me drop my gaze, mumble an apology, scurry away like the mouse they all thought I was. Once, I would have called him big brother, my voice trembling with the desperate hope that he might finally see me, finally care.
But that girl was gone.
I lifted my chin, my sapphire eyes locking with his storm-gray ones, and didn't look away. I was small next to him, barely reaching his shoulder, my bones still thin from years of starvation, my feet sore from the cold stone. But when I spoke, my voice was calm, steady, no trace of fear or pleading in it.
"I understand," I said.
William blinked. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but I saw it, the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he'd expected me to cry, to beg, to run. He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something else, something harsher, but I reached into my waistband and pulled out the rolled ledger. I held it out to him, the paper crisp in my hand.
"I will remove myself as a disgrace to this family," I said, my tone even, "if you pay me the debt this family owes me."
William stared at the ledger, then at me. His brow furrowed, confusion crossing his face, confusion, not anger, not disgust, like he couldn't fathom what I was talking about. He reached out, his fingers brushing mine as he took the rolled paper, and unrolled it. His eyes scanned the neat, precise lines of writing, the columns of numbers, the title scrawled at the top in my steady hand.
I watched as his confusion deepened. William was no fool, he'd been trained since childhood to read ledgers, to manage the estate's finances, to understand even the most complicated accounts. But this? This was something else entirely. A record of every chore, every hour, every scrap of moldy bread, every tattered rag, all quantified into a cold, unforgiving sum.
He flipped the pages, his fingers moving faster now, his storm-gray eyes widening a fraction. When he reached the last page, the one with the final number scrawled in bold ink at the bottom, he froze.
"What is this?" he said, his voice sharper now, the calm facade cracking. He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing. "Two hundred and fifty gold? What nonsense is this?"
I held my breath. I knew Stephanie would tear this ledger to shreds if she saw it. Knew the count would laugh it off as the rantings of a mad girl.
But William? William was a man who understood numbers. Who believed in debts and accounts, in balances and payments. And if he refused? If he turned me away, or worse, showed this to Stephanie? I would be in danger,sold to a slave trader, locked away forever, or worse. But it was a risk I had to take. It was the only way out.
"It is my right," I said, my voice unwavering. I didn't flinch when he took a step closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me.
"I am not part of this family, but I spent my entire childhood—from the age of three until now—working unpaid for this household. I scrubbed your floors, mended your clothes, hauled your water, worked longer hours than any servant in this manor,
and was given nothing in return but moldy bread and a straw pallet in the larder. This is the sum I am owed, calculated by the minimum wage your father pays his lowest servants, minus the cost of the meager scraps I was forced to survive on."
William's jaw tightened, his expression hardening into a grim line. He glanced back down at the ledger, his eyes darting over the numbers again, as if he could will them to make less sense. When he spoke, his voice was colder, edged with disbelief.
"Were you not assigned an allowance?" he asked, the question sharp, almost accusatory.
"Father provides for all members of this household. What do you mean you worked here? You were a daughter of the house, not a servant."
The words hung in the air, bitter and absurd. I let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. It was a laugh that held no joy, only the weight of years of unspoken truth.
"Well, Young Master Bennington," I said, my voice calm but laced with a sharp, cutting edge, "I might be small, but I have a memory like a steel trap. I remember every dawn I hauled water before the servants even rose.
Every night I mended Kael's tunics until my eyes blurred. Every scrap of moldy bread I was thrown like a bone to a dog. Do you truly think, if I'd been given an allowance
if I'd been treated like a daughter, I would be wearing this tattered rag? Do you think I would have slept in a larder with the rats? Do you think I would have collapsed in your father's solar, half dead from malnutrition and exhaustion?"
I paused, my sapphire eyes never leaving his storm gray ones, and let the words sink in. Let him see the truth of it, the truth he'd turned away from for years.
William's face darkened. He rolled the ledger up tight, his knuckles white with the force of his grip, and stared at me for a long, tense moment. For a second, I thought he would snap,
would tear the ledger to shreds, would shout at me, would have the servants drag me back to the larder and lock me away forever. But then he sighed, a deep, weary sound that sounded too much like the count's, and his shoulders relaxed fractionally.
"We will talk about this later," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.
"I will relay everything to Father when he returns. Now go back to your room. I will send a servant to bring you proper shoes and a warm cloak. And do not wander the corridors again until I send for you."
The words were a command, not a request. But there was no anger in them. No disgust. Just a quiet, reluctant acknowledgment,of the ledger, of the debt, of me.
I nodded, my expression impassive. "Very well."
I turned and walked away, my bare feet silent on the stone floor, the pendant warm against my chest. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could feel his eyes on my back,confused, wary, maybe even a little guilty,and for the first time in my life, I didn't care.
I was one step closer to freedom. One step closer to the truth.
And nothing,not William, not Stephanie, not the count,was going to stop me.
By the time I'd settled back onto the silk cushions of my bed, the tap of knuckles on the door pulled me from my thoughts. Two maids stood in the threshold, their arms laden with parcels and a heavy iron-bound chest. The air around them hummed with quiet, spiteful whispers,
"Think she'll know how to wear silk?" "Gold for a rat in rags, what a farce",that they made no effort to muffle.
Without a word, they set the chest on the floor with a clunk and laid out the rest: a gown of sky-blue silk stitched with silver thread, leather boots lined with fur, a tray of jewelry glinting with pearls and small gemstones.
One of them flipped open the chest lid, revealing stacks of gold coins that glinted in the candlelight far more than the 250 I'd demanded.
"From Young Master William," the senior maid said, her tone sharp with disdain. "He said to give you these… comforts while we wait for the count's return."
I didn't bother with pleasantries. "Set everything on the vanity," I said, my voice cold and even. "Then go fetch me a tray of dinner,nothing fancy, just bread and stew. And close the door on your way out."
The maids' sneers grew bolder as they obeyed, their whispers loud enough to sting as they retreated:
"Acting like a lady now"
"Won't last a week".
The door clicked shut behind them, and the room fell silent.
I crossed to the chest, my fingers brushing the cool gold coins. There had to be twenty thousand in total,enough to buy a small farm, a horse, a new life far from the manor.
But the sight of it didn't stir joy. Only a sick, heavy feeling of hypocrisy. This was charity, not payment. A bandage over a wound that had festered for years.
I counted out exactly 250 gold pieces, tucking them into a small leather pouch I'd hidden beneath my mattress. The rest I left in the chest, the silk gown and jewelry untouched on the vanity. None of it was mine,not really. None of it would erase the years of cold nights and empty stomachs.
I called for another maid, a quiet girl with a scar across her cheek, when she arrived, I nodded at the silk gown.
"Take this, and the jewelry, back to the storeroom," I said. "Tell the steward they're to be returned to William's chambers. Then bring me something practical,a hunting tunic, sturdy breeches, a cloak of plain wool. Something I can move in."
The maid's eyes widened, but she didn't question it, Bennington servants learned to obey quickly. She gathered the silk and jewels, her arms full, and slipped out the door. I heard her muttering to the other maids in the corridor as she went:
"Said she doesn't want the silk, wants hunting clothes, can you believe it?"
"Mad as a hare, that one".
I didn't care. Let them whisper. Let them think me mad.
The 250 gold in my pouch was not charity. It was payment, for every dawn hauling water, every night mending tunics, every scrap of moldy bread. It was the first step out of the manor, the first brick in the foundation of the life I would build for myself.
And when I left, I would not be wearing silk. I would be wearing clothes fit for an adventurer. Fit for someone who was finally, finally free.