A sigh slipped from her pink lips. Her wide-set eyes lingered on the basket in her arms, its simple weave cradling the clothes she had worked by candlelight. She stood at the wrought iron gate of House Stefard, the grandest manor in town— a place that seemed to breathe wealth and perfume, where gold dust clung to the very air. For Evangeline, and for all the townsfolk, it was more than a house. It was the wellspring of survival, the one door where labor might be exchanged for bread.
She had been waiting beneath the merciless sun for over four hours, the weight of its heat pressing until her bones ached. Sweat slid from her temple, dampening the linen scarf she had tucked beneath her wooden brimmed hat, and the dry wind stung her lips raw. Her head swam as if the world tilted sideways, yet she did not move. She would not move.
The servant's words four hours ago still echoed in her mind: "The young lady wishes to see your shawl. Remain by the gate until her tea is finished." The servant stated curtly.
That had been hours ago. Hours of swallowing dust, of watching painted carriages glide past her as if she were invisible, of convincing her fainting body to stay upright and that the lady would come soon.
Evangeline's arms trembled around the basket. What if they had forgotten her? What if Miss Anny no longer wanted the shawl? Her heart squeezed at the thought. If she returned home empty handed, her mother would be terribly upset and her father would one again look at her with disappointment.
As the older sister of the house, she had constantly been warned to be at her best behavior, to work hard for the sake of the family, and to become the breadwinner of the family. To see her parents who had always shoulder her with the responsibility looking disappointed at her- that truly breaks her heart and Eva would rather stand until heat completely engulf her vision than to come home with her pockets empty.
She kept her place by the gilded gate, her emerald eyes fixed on the great doors of the manor, waiting—hoping—that someone inside would remember she existed.
Just as her body threatened to give way, the iron gate gave a slow groan and swung open. A maid in crisp white uniform emerged, her gaze cutting like glass. A sigh pressed at the corners of her lips, carefully hidden yet impossible to miss, as if the very act of addressing a peasant was beneath her.
"The youngest lady will now see you." Her voice was flat, clipped, the kind of tone that could slice dignity into shreds. Without waiting for acknowledgment, the maid turned sharply on her heel, expecting to be followed.
Evangeline lowered her head, swallowing back the sting of pride. She was used to this. After all, she was no Seraph, no noblewoman draped in silks. She was a peasant girl, nameless in the eyes of those who ruled it. Each day she lived on the edge of hunger, bartering what her hands could create for livelihood.
Her arms tightened protectively around her basket as she stepped into the estate. The path beneath her feet was laid in neat stones, polished smooth in contrast to the muddy roads she was used to.
Manicured hedges framed the walkway like green walls, their edges clipped to unnatural perfection, and blooms of roses and lilies spilled perfume into the air that was almost dizzying after the dust of the road.
Her green eyes flickered from detail to detail, the gleam of brass lanterns crowning slender posts, the symmetry of the garden that seemed more painted than alive. For a fleeting moment, awe softened the weariness in her gaze.
"Not that path." The maid's tongue clicked with irritation, her words edged like glass. "That's the entrance. Reserved only for the Duchy family. Peasants would never have the chance."
Stung, Eva forced a small, polite smile to mask the ache in her chest. "I wasn't aware. I'm sorry."
"Hah." The maid let out a sharp breath, the sound more annoyance than forgiveness, and swept forward without slowing her pace.
Eva followed silently, her worn shoes crunching against the gravel as the path curved. It led not toward the towering doors of the manor but into the garden. The air shifted here, rich with the fragrance of soil and blossoms.
Before her was a greenhouse, its walls and roof built of flawless panes of glass that caught the sunlight like crystal. Through its transparent skin, she glimpsed a world of cultivated wonder: rare flowers curling in jewel tones, vines heavy with blooms that would never survive outside these hothouse walls.
And there, at the heart of it, sat a cluster of ladies. Their gowns spilled like waterfalls of silk and lace, hats perched like crowns, their white feathers trembling in the sunlight. Their laughter glittered through the air, high and bright, as they leaned toward one another to exchange secrets that meant nothing and yet everything in their world.
Eva's breath caught. For a moment, she forgot her thirst, her aching legs, even the sting of the maid's words.
The maid's voice rang far too loudly in the glass room, every syllable crafted with malice, "Milady, the peasant here wishes for you to look at the items she's selling."
At once, all heads turned. Eyes gleamed in pale faces framed by ivory wings, and their stares cut sharper than glass. It wasn't curiosity, it was hostility.
Eva's heart stumbled. Why such looks? She had never seen these ladies before. And worse, the maid's words carried a lie. It was Anny who called her here yet it sounded as if... she wasn't. As if she had came to beg.
While she is desperate to work, she isn't a beggar and the statement stung.
Sure enough, Anny tilted her chin from where she sat like a queen among courtiers, her ivory gown spilling across the wicker chair. "I don't remember calling you here. Are you that desperate for money?"
Soft, cruel laughter rose around her like a chorus.
Eva bowed her head quickly, fingers digging into the basket she clutched to her chest. To challenge a Seraph was to sign one's own death sentence, she wasn't so stupid to defy doom. "My apologies for disturbing you, milady."
"You are disrupting me," Anny pressed, her voice edged with satisfaction. "What's your name? No wings, a peasant... working as a weaver at such a young age. Pitiful."
The words stung because they were true. Still, Eva forced her voice steady. "My name is Evangeline Crestmont."
"A beautiful name for a mere peasant. What a shame," murmured Lady Vanery, seated opposite Anny, her lips curling. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the thrill of cruelty. "Though I find it familiar. Isn't she the one pining hopelessly after Sir Adrian?"
Eva's breath caught again. The name was so familiar to her as it was introduced to her a few days ago.
"Oh yes," another chimed, feigning innocence. "The very same! The one seen whispering to him in the back garden during Missus Bluebell's birthday. Alone, no less."
The greenhouse filled with the sound of hushed, delighted snickers.
Her stomach twisted. That night, she remembered it clearly. She had been nothing more than a tired helper, sent to rest after peeling vegetables past midnight. Alone in the quiet garden, she had met him by chance. The young Seraph with kind brown hair and white wings. His voice had been soft, his smile genuine. He had spoken to her like she was not dirt beneath his feet.
It had been a fleeting moment, no more than a conversation. She hadn't dared to think of it since.
And now they were using it as a weapon.
But no one should have known... and she had never once spoken with Adrian again. So why, then, did their eyes burn into her as though she were some thieving stray?
"I thought she would at least have a striking look to steal Sir Adrian's attention, but well," Venery sighed with an exaggerated pout. "She's hardly more than a rat in rags."
Laughter rippled through the air, delicate and cruel as shattered glass.
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, her voice syrup-sweet. "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. What a sore sight to the eyes her face is."
The venom laced into their voices was sharper than any knife. Eva tried, oh, she 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: the gentle smile in the garden, the brief kindness 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 silence.
Lady Anny's smile spread, sharp with satisfaction, as she studied the way Eva's eyes glossed with shame.
"Well," Anny drawled, lifting her hand with languid grace, "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 like a blade. "Why do you look so mortified? Are you offended by our words?"
"No, milady," Evangeline murmured, voice barely above a whisper. 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, her breath shallow, 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 as though she were offering up something sacred.
The fabric was just about to brush against Anny's fingertips when the lady abruptly pulled her hand back. The shawl slipped through the air, landing with a muted whisper against the polished floor.
Eva's heart lurched. She bent quickly to retrieve it, only to freeze as Anny's dainty shoe came down with a sharp, deliberate crack.
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 blooming under the sole like spreading wounds.
Her breath hitched. That single shawl had cost her weeks of work— thread spun until her fingers bled, hours stolen from sleep. 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. Still, with trembling hands, she drew another from her basket.
One by one, Anny snatched them, inspected them with feigned interest, and then tore them carelessly, seams ripping with cruel precision, fabric fluttering to the ground like broken wings. Each time, laughter rippled from the gathered ladies, their amusement feeding on Eva's silent despair.
The pile of her labor, her sleepless nights, her only hope for coin, lay shredded at their feet. And with it, the weight of their message pressed down on her: You are worthless. Your work is worthless. You are nothing to us.
"What a shame," Anny said, lifting the last shawl between two fingers as though it were something foul. "All of them are of lesser quality. We of House Stefard have never used anything beneath us. Leave."
"But the shawls..." Evangeline's voice wavered. She could bear their mocking words. She could bear the sneers and laughter and even the memory of her work torn apart before her eyes. But her shawls—those nights of weaving, her only chance to earn—lay in tatters on the floor.
She swallowed hard. Pride screamed for silence, but hunger, rent, and survival pressed harder.
"All those shawls," she managed, steadying her breath, "They are worth five silvers."
Anny sighed as if weary of the conversation, her lips curving into a smirk. "Ah, correct. But the quality is so poor that they slipped through my fingers and tore the moment I tugged. And yet, you still expect me to pay?"
Eva's stomach twisted. Did that mean... after all this, Anny intended to give her nothing?
"They are of the best quality," Eva said quickly, desperation swallowing pride. "I swear it. The silk threads came from the finest shop in town. Each one was woven with care—"
"But the fact that someone like you made them lowers their worth," Anny cut her off, her voice sharp, her chin tilting with disdain. She rose, her hand striking the marble table with a sharp crack that echoed in the greenhouse. "You dare enter my house, insult me with such pitiful wares, and then demand coin?"
Eva's jaw tightened until it hurt. "I did not beg, I came to sell."
Anny laughed, the sound slicing through the air, cruel and shrill. "You did not?" She snapped her fingers. The curt maid stepped forward, placing a single gold coin in Anny's palm.
With exaggerated slowness, Anny let the coin fall.
It struck the marble with a sharp clink before rolling across the floor and stopping by Eva's worn shoes.
"There," Anny said sweetly. "If you are not here to beg, then you won't be needing it, will you?"