Chapter 7: An Apple, a Granny, and a Glimmer of Hope
The sun hung bright and young over the city's cobblestone streets, gilding the edges of wooden stalls heaped with turnips and loaves of crusty bread, when Hannah slipped her fingers into the pouch at her waist.
The coins clinked softly, leftovers from the stable boy's payment, saved and hidden away like a secret: two crumpled silver pieces, and 249 gold coin, and for the first time in her life, the weight of them felt like freedom, not a reminder of the chores she'd traded for them.
She'd left Bess tethered in a quiet alley, the mare's nostrils flaring at the scent of roasting nuts from a nearby cart, and set off with a list she'd scratched onto a scrap of parchment: a sturdy wool tunic for the road, a simple linen sleeping gown for cold nights, a pair of boots that fit, a pouch of dried venison to last the first few days.
The count's manor had never given her more than hand-me-downs—rags, really, stitched together so many times they lost their original color—and the thought of choosing something for herself made her hands shake as she approached a tailor's stall strung with bolts of coarse fabric.
The tailor, a woman with a scar slashing her left eyebrow and calloused fingers from years of stitching, eyed her warily at first, then softened when Hannah laid the silver pieces on the counter, neat and deliberate.
"A tunic, miss? Wool, for the road?" she asked, holding up a bolt of dull brown cloth that looked thick enough to ward off wind.
Hannah's gaze flicked to the silver in her palm, then back to the tailor.
"And the linen sleeping gown, the plain one," she said, her voice quiet but steady.
"But your asking price is two silver and a copper for both. I've only got these two silver pieces. No more." She pushed the coins forward, her throat tight with the fear of being turned away, these were her most valuable coins, meant to carry her through the first week of her flight.
The tailor's lips twitched, and she leaned against the stall, studying Hannah, her matted hair, the faint bruise on her jaw, the way she held herself like she was used to being told no.
"That won't cover the thread and labor for the gown, girl," she said, but there was no bite to it.
Hannah's shoulders tensed.
She'd watched the kitchen maids bargain at the market a hundred times, had memorized their tricks even though she'd never been allowed to speak for herself.
"The gown's cut from scrap linen, no dye, no fancy stitching," she said, nodding at the folded pile of plain sleeping gowns behind the counter.
"And the tunic's a standard pattern—you've got a dozen of them already cut. I won't ask for any alterations. Just the two pieces, as they are." She paused, adding the smallest plea she dared.
"I'm leaving the city. I need both. Please."
The tailor let out a short, rough laugh, and rapped her knuckles on the counter.
"Well, aren't you a sharp one? Fine, two silver for the tunic and the gown. But only because you've got the sense to haggle like someone who knows the value of a coin." She reached behind her, pulling out a folded wool tunic and a soft linen sleeping gown, the fabric plain but clean, and tucked them into a burlap sack for her.
"And for that? I'll throw in a spare length of twine, good for tying up bundles, or mending tears on the road. Don't tell the other customers I gave you a deal."
Relief flooded Hannah's chest, warm and sudden. She'd never dared to bargain for herself before, never been allowed to want enough to try. She tucked the sack close to her chest, the silver now gone, only the coppers left clinking in her pouch.
"Thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
The tailor waved a hand, grinning.
"Don't mention it. Come back if you ever need a mend, discount for good customers." She winked, and Hannah felt a tiny, shaky spark of something like joy, a first, small win, all her own.
Next was the butcher's, where she laid down three coppers for a small pouch of dried venion, the fat glistening in the morning light, and then the fruit seller's, his cart piled high with red apples that smelled like crisp autumn.
She spent two more coppers on three apples, a luxury she'd never allowed herself, not even when she'd been sent to buy crates of them for the countess's tea, and tucked them into her new tunic's pocket, the fruit firm and cool against her skin.
She was turning to leave when a small body crashed into her side.
The apples tumbled from her hand, one rolling into the gutter, and a boy—no older than seven, with matted brown hair and a tunic too big for his frame—went sprawling onto the cobblestones.
He let out a wail, loud and raw, and Hannah froze, her first thought of Kael's fists, of the countess's sharp words, of being punished for something that wasn't her fault. But then she saw the boy's scraped knee, the tears streaming down his face, and something soft and long-buried in her chest unfurled.
She knelt, ignoring the stares of the passersby hurrying to their morning errands, and picked up the two unbruised apples. She brushed the dust off one, then held it out to him.
"Here," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. "It's okay. You can have this."
The boy's sobs hiccuped to a stop. He stared at the apple like it was a treasure, then took it, his small fingers wrapping around it tightly.
A smile broke across his face, bright and unguarded, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Thank you, miss."
"Helmut!" a voice called, sharp but not unkind.
Hannah looked up.
Standing there was an old woman with silver hair twisted into a bun, her face crinkled with lines, her apron smudged with flour.
Hannah recognized her, Helda, the woman she'd seen dozens of times while running early morning errands for the manor's kitchen, the one who'd always slipped her a piece of stale bread when the cook wasn't looking.
She'd never spoken to her, not really, just helping her a few time like bringing some stuff or picking some stuff for her, but now Helda was walking toward her, her hands on her hips, scolding the boy.
"What have I told you about running in the market? You'll knock someone over, or get yourself trampled-"
Her words trailed off when she saw Hannah. Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed by a flicker of something else, sympathy, maybe, or pity.
"You're the girl from the Bennington kitchen," she said, and Hannah's throat tightened. Another person who saw her as nothing more than a servant.
"This rascal's mine—one of the orphans from the house on the hill."
Orphans. The house on the hill. Hannah's eyes widened. She'd heard the servants whisper about it, the orphanage the count's family funded, a place where children with no one else were sent to work until they were old enough to be hired out as servants or laborers.
She'd never put a face to it, never connected it to the woman who'd slipped her bread. "You're the director?" she asked, before she could stop herself.
Helda blinked, then smiled, a thin, tired smile.
"That I am. Keeps me busy, chasing after little ones like him before the sun's even climbed high." She nodded at the boy, who was already crunching into the apple, crumbs sticking to his cheeks, and sighed.
"Orphanage runs on the Benningtons' coin, though I'll say they don't bother to set foot near the place. Not that I blame them, dirty, noisy work, looking after strays."
Hannah said nothing, her fingers tightening around the remaining apple. The count's coin. Her father's coin, spent on children who were at least given a roof over their heads, while his own daughter slept in a box room, cold and alone.
It was Helda who broke the silence, her gaze softening as it fell on Hannah's new tunic peeking out of the sack, on the pouch of dried meat beside it.
"You're not running errands for the kitchen today, are you?" she said, and there was no judgment in her voice, only curiosity.
Hannah hesitated, then shook her head. "I'm leaving," she said, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. "I want to join the adventure guild. But I don't know what I need to apply."
Helda's eyebrows shot up. "Adventure guild? For a girl like you?" She paused, then frowned, as if she was putting pieces together, Hannah's ragged old boots, the way she flinched when a cart rumbled too close, the quiet hunger in her eyes.
"They'll turn you away without a guarantor. Need someone to swear you're not a thief, or a runaway." She sighed, glancing at Helmut, who was now chasing a stray cat through the market stalls.
"Most of the older kids from the orphanage, they either go to work for nobles, or they join the guild. I've stood as guarantor for half a dozen of them."
She looked back at Hannah, her eyes sharp and kind.
"You're a good kid. Gave that boy your apple, even when he knocked you over. The guild master owes me a favor or two. I'll go with you. Be your guarantor."
Hannah stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered to help her, not without expecting something in return. Not without sneering, or calling her a burden.
She felt a lump rise in her throat, and for a moment, she thought she might cry.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Helda clapped her on the shoulder, her palm rough but warm.
"Don't thank me yet. First, you'll help me round up Helmut before he gets into real trouble. Then we'll go to the guild. Deal?"
Hannah smiled, a small, shaky thing, the first real smile she'd worn in years. "Deal."
Somewhere behind them, the market bell chimed, marking the midpoint of the morning. And for the first time since she'd fled the manor, Hannah didn't feel alone.
.
.
.
.
"Where is the girl?" he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, a sharp contrast to the indifference he'd shown for years. "I want to speak with her before dinner."
He strode to the small room they'd moved her to last week, still cold, still drafty, but better than the box room she used to live in and pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
The straw pallet was made. The cracked ceramic bowl she used for a cup was on the windowsill. There was no sign of her. No note, no trace, no hint that she'd ever been there at all.
The count's brow furrowed. He turned to the nearest servant—a young boy who'd been scrubbing the corridor—and snapped, "Where is Hannah? Have you seen her?"
The boy paled, shaking his head. "I—I don't know, my lord. She was here this morning, I think—she left through the back door. But I didn't see her come back."
The count waved a hand, dismissing the boy. He was about to call for the head steward when a wail echoed down the hall.
Layla came running, her pink gown still stained with mud, her eyes red and puffy, her hair falling out of its braids.
She threw herself at the count's feet, sobbing so hard she could barely speak.
"Father," she gasped, clutching at his trousers.
"Father, Hannah attacked me! She slapped my maid and pushed me into the mud! She said she wasn't a Bennington anymore! She was so cruel-"
The count cut her off with a sharp, impatient gesture.
He didn't miss the way her tears seemed performative, the way her eyes darted to Kael for approval.
He'd heard enough of his daughter's lies over the years.
"Enough," he said, his voice cold. "I will deal with this later. Right now, find Hannah."
Layla's sobs died in her throat. She stared up at him, stunned, stunned that he hadn't coddled her, stunned that he hadn't roared with anger at Hannah's supposed betrayal.
She scrambled to her feet, her face flushing with humiliation, and fled down the hall.
The count ordered the servants to search the manor from top to bottom, the attics, the cellars, the gardens, the outbuildings.
A few moments later, they returned, their heads bowed.
She was not in the manor.
No one had seen her since the morning.
"The last person to see her was the stable boy," the head steward reported, his voice hesitant. "He was mending a harness when she went into the stable."
The count's jaw tightened. "Bring him to my office. Now."