Chapter 9: Improvements

Raphtalia’s days blurred together, each one a mirror of the last. She woke to the sound of roosters crowing, to the distant slap of water in a bucket, to the scent of earth and the faint, persistent aroma of livestock. The world here moved to the rhythm of chores, sun, and necessity, each waking hour marked by some small task. There was nothing glamorous in it; she rose before the sun most mornings, fingers already stiff from the cold, her body aching from a straw mattress that never seemed to soften. Yet as the days wore on, she found herself grateful for every small, repetitive task. In this home, monotony meant stability and safety —routine replaced the terror of unpredictability, hunger, and the threat of violence that had haunted her when she was in town.

The cottage was cramped, the air thick with the smells of cooking, sweat, and unwashed bodies, but it was also solid and warm. There were no silks or featherbeds, no luxury—just patched blankets and battered wooden furniture. Yet to Raphtalia, each day felt like a reprieve from the life she’d escaped. She remembered cold nights huddled in alleyways, the taste of sour rain on her tongue, the sharp ache of an empty stomach gnawing at her. There were no soft places in the gutter, no sense of safety, no certainty that she would wake up whole and unharmed. Here, even at its most grinding and dull moments, life was better.

She learned quickly that work never really ended. Mornings began with the feeding of animals, the fetching of water, the cleaning of stalls. Her hands became raw, knuckles split and bleeding, nails broken, but there was satisfaction in the ache—proof that she was earning her place. Slimes darted and rolled about her feet as she swept and scattered straw, the odd sensation of their slick, gelatinous bodies brushing against her skin. She kept an eye out for the smallest, Pebble, who had attached itself to her like a shadow, tumbling after her as she moved from chore to chore.

Afternoons brought more labor: pulling weeds, gathering eggs, mending torn clothing, washing linens at the creek. In a few short days, her skin browned under the sun, shoulders freckling, hair lightening in ragged streaks. She listened to the sounds around her: the lowing of cows, the cluck and squabble of chickens, the ever-present hum of insects in the garden. There was little conversation—words spent on the farm were precious, not wasted on complaints or idle chatter. Everything was a cycle: feed, clean, mend, repeat.

Yet there were small moments, pockets of peace she cherished. The cool shade beneath the old oak, the smell of fresh bread as it cooled on the windowsill, the warmth of the hearth after a day spent in the cold fields. Sometimes, when James glanced her way with a crooked grin, or when she found a few extra berries left in her bowl, she felt a strange, glowing contentment. In a world that had always seemed eager to spit her out, she found herself becoming rooted, if only in the smallest ways.

Evenings fell with aching predictability. They ate by firelight, a huddle of bodies around a scarred wooden table, food plain but filling: boiled potatoes, rough bread, a sliver of cheese, sometimes an egg or a bit of smoked fish if they were lucky. The slimes clustered around their legs, silent and watchful. Raphtalia felt them nudge her ankles, a reminder that she was never quite alone, that even here, in the grind of survival, there was a strange kind of companionship.

The monotony dulled some edges but softened others. Still, Raphtalia sometimes woke up screaming, cold sweat slick on her brow, heart hammering from nightmares she could never quite escape. Even now, she flinched when a hand was raised too quickly, or screamed if a shadow passed over her in the half-light—old habits, scars that daily routine could not erase. Yet always, James was there. Always gentle, always tender, never ridiculing her for her fear. He tried to hide his concern behind the mask of a cheerful, clueless boy, but she saw through it. She saw the look in his eyes when she startled—a shadow of something older than his years, an anger simmering deep, never aimed at her but at the world itself. Sometimes, she wondered if his soul was as tired and battered as hers, if beneath that youthful exterior was someone far more weary and world-wise than anyone could guess.

With James close, she started to learn to trust again, a little at a time. His presence was a balm—steady and reassuring, a promise that, whatever haunted her, she was not alone with it anymore. In the quiet moments between chores, when the world was still and no one was watching, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, the dull repetition of these days could be the very thing that healed her.

It was on the fifth day since she arrived that the farmstead received a visitor. Raphtalia was at the pump, hands cold and damp, when she heard the distant clatter of hooves on the packed earth lane.

The rider was alone, the only figure for half a mile in any direction. As he drew nearer, she saw he was a man of some authority—his bearing upright and measured, his horse a sturdy gelding of mottled gray, well-kept and broad of chest. He wore a heavy cloak and hood, the color of the deep green of forest shadows, and beneath the edge of the fabric she glimpsed the shimmer of a badge—a disc of hammered silver, chased with the mark of the local lord. The sheriff.

He dismounted with the quiet skill of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Even before he spoke, his presence drew attention from everyone in the yard. The children quieted. Garrick, wiping his hands on his trousers, straightened, every line of his body alert. There was no bluster or arrogance in the man’s movements; he surveyed the farm with an appraising eye, missing nothing.

Raphtalia stood to one side, heart thumping, and watched as the sheriff approached. He nodded in greeting, then turned his gaze across the fields and the faces gathered to meet him. The air seemed to hush in his wake, even the birds pausing in their song.