The rain hadn't stopped in three days.
It drummed against the rotting shingles of the Marwood cottage like impatient fingers tapping a table. Inside, the hearth lay cold. The last of the firewood had been used the previous night, and what little warmth remained in the house came from worn blankets and layered coats passed down through generations.
Elowen Marwood sat at the wooden kitchen table, hands clasped tightly in prayer. Her lips moved in silence, but her thoughts were loud. Her stomach growled beneath the folds of her faded gray dress, yet she didn't pray for food.
She prayed for strength.
Across the room, her younger brother coughed in his sleep, curled into their mother's frail arms. The old woman had stopped speaking of hope days ago. Fever had taken up residence in her bones, and even the village doctor, with all his tinctures and charms, had said he could do nothing more.
They needed coal. They needed medicine. They needed bread.
But what Elowen had was faith.
"Lord, You see us," she whispered. "If this is the valley, walk with me. I will not curse You for our suffering. Just help me see the next step."
The sound of the front door creaking open interrupted her prayer. She stood quickly, reaching for the worn poker near the hearth, expecting the wind to have forced it open.
Instead, a figure stepped inside, dripping from head to toe.
"Elowen!" a breathless voice called.
She blinked in surprise. It was Margaret Holloway, her childhood friend. Her auburn hair was soaked beneath a hood, and she looked pale and anxious.
"Margaret? What are you doing here? You'll catch your death!"
"Not if I help you avoid yours first," Margaret said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "I heard what happened. Mrs. Croll said your father—"
"Passed three nights ago," Elowen said gently, voice firm to keep from breaking. "Mama's taken ill since. We've done our best."
Margaret reached into her satchel and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. She placed it on the table. Bread.
Elowen stared at it as though it were a treasure.
"It isn't much," Margaret whispered. "But you need something in your stomach before you faint from standing."
"You're kind," Elowen said. She didn't move toward the bread. Instead, she offered Margaret a stool.
Margaret sat but did not look comforted.
"I have news. A job opportunity."
Elowen's heart skipped.
"At Blackthorne Manor," Margaret continued.
The name caused a hush in the room. Even the fireless hearth seemed to grow colder.
"You work there?" Elowen asked.
Margaret nodded. "For three months now. In the east wing. Housekeeping."
"But I heard rumors—"
"There are always rumors. Yes, Lord Aramis Blackthorne is... peculiar. Private. Unnerving, even. But the pay is generous. Your own room, warm meals, even coin to send home."
Elowen hesitated. She had heard tales. That the Lord of Blackthorne Manor had a gaze like midnight, and a voice that could charm wolves to sleep. That the women who worked for him never stayed long. That he watched them too closely. Spoke too sweetly.
But her brother's cough echoed again.
"I don't trust men like him," Elowen said, quietly.
"You don't have to trust him. Just take the position. Work. Earn. Leave when you're able."
She looked at her hands, calloused from laundry and scrubbing, trembling now from exhaustion and hunger.
"Will I be safe?"
Margaret hesitated. "Safe enough. Just keep to yourself. And keep your faith."
Elowen exhaled. Her faith. Yes, that was something no man—not even Lord Aramis Blackthorne—could take from her.
"When do I start?"
"Tomorrow morning. I can take you there."
Elowen finally reached for the bread, broke it in half, and placed one piece in Margaret's hand. "You saved me today. Let me at least share it with you."
They ate in silence, the storm still raging outside. When Margaret left, Elowen stood at the threshold, watching her disappear into the mist. The road ahead was no longer just muddy and cold. It was unknown. Dangerous, even.
But so was staying.
She looked to the heavens through the gray sky.
"If this is the door You've opened, Lord... I'll walk through it. But go with me. Please."
Behind her, her mother stirred in sleep. The coughs quieted for a moment.
Elowen closed the door and began to pack.
---
At the edge of the Blackthorne estate, Lord Aramis stood by the tall glass window, watching the storm over the moor. Lightning cracked the sky.
He turned to his steward. "The girl arrives tomorrow?"
"Yes, my lord. The Holloway girl made the arrangements."
A smirk touched Aramis's lips, cruel and beautiful.
"Elowen Marwood..."
He spoke her name like a taste on his tongue.
"Let's see if her purity is as unshakable as they say."
The storm swallowed the manor once more.