A sigh slipped from Evangeline's pink lips, and her eyes lingered on her basket. It contained the shawls she had painstakingly sewn by candlelight the night before. She had been standing under the merciless sun for over four hours, waiting for Lady Anny of House Stefard to call her inside. Her skin felt scorched, and sweat slid from her temple, dampening the linen scarf tucked beneath her hat. Her head was swimming, yet she did not move.
The curt servant's words from hours ago still echoed: "The young lady wishes to see your shawl. Remain by the gate until her tea is finished."
And so she waited, ignoring the slow gnaw of hunger and the creeping weakness in her limbs, clinging to the fragile hope that the lady would come soon.
Her arms trembled around the basket. What if they had forgotten her? What if Miss Anny no longer wanted the shawls?
The thought tightened painfully in her chest. If she returned home empty-handed, her mother would be upset, and her father's gaze would harden with disappointment. As the eldest daughter, she had always been told to behave, to endure, to work until her hands ached so the family might eat. She would rather stand here until her vision burned white than return with nothing.
Just as her knees threatened to buckle, the iron gate groaned and swung open. A maid in a crisp white uniform stepped out. A barely concealed sigh lingered at the corners of her lips, as though addressing Evangeline was an intolerable inconvenience.
"The youngest lady will see you now." Her voice was flat and unfriendly. Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and walked off, already expecting Evangeline to follow.
Evangeline lowered her head, swallowing the sting of pride. She was used to this. She wasn't a Seraph. She and her family were human peasants, and this was how they were normally treated. Each day she lived on the edge of hunger, bartering what her hands could create to survive.
Her arms tightened around the basket as she stepped into the estate. The path beneath her feet was laid with smooth, polished stone, a stark contrast to the muddy roads she knew. Manicured hedges rose like green walls, clipped into perfect shapes, while roses and lilies spilled perfume so rich it made her head light after the dust outside.
Her green eyes flickered from detail to detail. For a fleeting moment, awe softened the weariness in her gaze.
"Not that path." The maid clicked her tongue, when she took a path, "That's the entrance, reserved for the Duchy family. Peasants would never be allowed."
Stung, Evangeline forced a small, polite smile to hide the ache in her chest. "I wasn't aware. I'm sorry."
"Hah." The maid exhaled in annoyance and continued walking.
Eva followed in silence, her worn shoes crunching against gravel as the path curved away from the grand doors. A greenhouse came into view, the glass walls catching sunlight like crystal.
At its heart sat a cluster of ladies in their glistening gowns and elaborate feathered hats. Their laughter rang bright as they leaned close to exchange secrets that mattered only to them.
Eva's breath caught at the luxury. For a moment, she forgot her thirst, her aching legs, even the maid's sharp words.
Then the maid's voice cut through the room, snapping her from the daze, "Milady, the peasant here wishes for you to look at her wares."
At once, every head turned towards her. Their stares were cold and hostile, startling Evangeline.
She wanted to clarify that the maid was mistaken. It was Lady Anny who had summoned her, yet now it sounded as though she had come uninvited… begging.
The thought stung. She might be desperate, but she was not a beggar.
"I don't remember calling you here," Anny said, lifting her chin where she sat like a queen among courtiers. "Are you that desperate for money?"
Soft, cruel laughter rippled around her.
Eva bowed quickly, fingers digging into the basket at her chest. To challenge a Seraph was to invite ruin, and she was not foolish enough to test it. "My apologies for disturbing you, milady."
"You are disrupting me," Anny continued, "What's your name? No wings, a peasant… working as a weaver at such a young age. Pitiful."
The truth in it stung more than the insult, but Eva kept her voice steady. "My name is Evangeline Crestmont."
"A beautiful name for a mere peasant. What a waste," Lady Vanery leaned forward, eyes gleaming with quiet cruelty. "Though it sounds familiar. Isn't she the one pining after Sir Adrian?"
Eva's breath caught. The name struck familiarly.
"Oh yes," another chimed, feigning innocence. "The same one seen whispering with him in the back garden during Missus Bluebell's birthday. Alone, no less."
Snickers spread through the greenhouse, but only Evangeline was unsettled by their bright laughter.
Her stomach twisted. She remembered that night—nothing more than a tired helper sent to rest after hours of work. In the quiet garden, she had met him by chance: the young kind man, a Seraph with brown hair and white wings. He had spoken to her as if she were an old friend.
It had been a fleeting meeting with nothing to add.
And now it was being turned into something ugly.
But no one should have known. She had never spoken of it, never lingered near him again. So why did their eyes burn into her as though she had stolen something that was never hers?
"I thought she would at least be striving to catch Sir Adrian's attention, but…" Vanery sighed. "She's hardly more than a rat in rags."
Laughter rippled again and Eva's lips pressed together until they ached, her cheeks burning so hot she feared the skin would blister.
"I doubt the rumors that say they kissed," another lady chimed in. "It must have been her who spread them. Desperate creatures always claw for scraps of notice."
"Did she truly think someone like her could ever attract Sir Adrian?" scoffed Venery. "Pathetic. So ugly. Her face is a sore sight to my eyes."
The venom they spat at her stung like nothing she had ever experienced. Evangeline tried to steady her breath, to convince herself this was just another day, another wound to bear. But the words burrowed into her chest, shredding the memory she had cherished of a young man who had seemed so unlike the rest. What had been her only spark of warmth now smoldered into ash beneath their ridicule.
She knew the truth, yet the truth meant nothing here. Denial would only stoke their cruelty. And so she bowed her head lower, lips clamped shut until they quivered with the force of her silence.
Lady Anny's smile spread, satisfied as she studied the way Evangeline's eyes glossed with shame.
"Well," Anny drawled, lifting her hand languidly, "let us see what this little peddler has brought us."
Clutching her basket so tightly her knuckles turned white, Evangeline stepped forward.
Anny's smile curved higher, "Why do you look so mortified? Are you offended by our words?"
"No, milady," Evangeline murmured. Her fists curled tight at her sides, nails biting into her palms. "I wouldn't dare."
"Then those shawls." Anny flicked her fingers toward the basket. "Show me one."
Eva hesitated, before drawing out a neatly folded shawl. Snow-white, soft as spring clouds, a product of endless nights bent over her loom. With both hands she extended it toward Anny, careful.
The fabric was just about to brush against Anny's fingertips when the lady abruptly pulled her hand back. The shawl slipped through her finger, falling down to the rocky path.
Eva's heart lurched. She bent quickly to retrieve it, only to freeze as Anny's dainty shoe came down with a sharp loud stomp.
The sound of the heel grinding into wool rang louder than it should have, echoing in Eva's chest. The pure white yarn stained instantly, brown smears under the sole.
Her breath hitched. That single shawl had cost her weeks of work until her fingers bled now it lay ruined, trampled into dirt as if it had never mattered at all.
"Show me the others," Anny said lightly, her tone that of a bored mistress giving orders to a servant, as though nothing had happened.
Eva's throat tightened, but with trembling hands she drew another shawl from her basket.
One by one, Anny snatched them, inspecting each with feigned interest before tearing them apart. Each rip was followed by laughter, soft at first, then swelling, feeding on Eva's silence.
The pile of her labor lay in tatters at their feet. And with it came the unspoken verdict: You are worthless. Your work is worthless. You are nothing.
"What a shame," Anny mused, lifting the last shawl between two fingers as if it disgusted her. "All of them are of lesser quality. House Stefard does not use anything beneath it. Leave."
"But the shawls…" Evangeline's voice wavered. She could endure the mockery, the laughter, even the sight of her work destroyed. But not this. Not the loss of what little she had to trade for survival.
She swallowed, forcing the words out despite the way pride clawed at her throat. "All those shawls… they are worth five silvers."
Anny sighed, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Ah, yes. But such poor quality…did you not see how they tore the moment I touched them? And yet, you expect payment?"
Eva's stomach twisted. So that was it. After everything, she would be given nothing.
"They are of the best quality," she insisted, desperation overtaking her. "The silk came from the finest shop in town. Each one was woven with care—"
"But made by you," Anny cut in sharply. "And that alone lowers their worth."
She rose, her hand striking the marble table with a sharp crack. "You dare come into my home, insult me with such pitiful wares, and then demand a coin?"
Eva's jaw tightened until it ached. "I did not beg. I came to sell."
Anny laughed, high and cutting. "You did not?"
She snapped her fingers. The maid stepped forward at once, placing a single gold coin into Anny's palm.
With slow, deliberate care, Anny let it fall.
The coin struck marble with a clear, ringing note, then rolled across the floor until it stopped at Eva's worn shoes.
"There," Anny said sweetly, her smile thin as glass. "If you are not here to beg, then you won't be needing it, will you?"