Lavender sat on her window sill, eyes closed, though sleep was the last thing on her mind. The moonlight pooled at her feet, and the night wind brushed against her face. It had been months since she came to the Sparrow household, and her English lessons had only grown harder.
English was a strange, sharp sort of language, where her own tongue had been soft, this one cut at her. It moved too fast, never giving her enough time to think. Speaking it was already a battle, but now she had to learn to write it too. Her days were swallowed by lessons and red ink and her governess's frown.
She didn't hate learning. She was grateful to the Marquess and Marchioness, they were kind, and they wanted her to be clever. But her governess… oh, her governess was another creature entirely.
"Governess MacLeary," Lavender muttered under her breath, "wicked woman."
Her lips twitched. "Cruel. Wicked." She hesitated, then whispered, "Bastard. Bloody bastard."
She had heard the words once, back in Zerola, an English sailor shouting it at someone on the docks. It had stuck with her, the sound of it, like a slap. And today, it fit perfectly. Governess MacLeary deserved it.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the heavy book in her lap. It smelled of dust and something sweet, like the air inside her father's library. She couldn't read half of it, but she liked the feel of it in her hands. It felt like a heavy secret, that was full of meaning.
"I will read it," she whispered, a bit fiercely. "I promise."
But the letters wobbled and danced on the page until they looked like tiny black waves.
Just then, the door creaked open. Martha, the only house maid whose name she bothered to remember , peeked in. Her face was round and kind, she was one of the few Lavender trusted.
"Dinner's ready, my lady," Martha said with a little curtsy.
Lavender blinked. "My… lady?"
"Yes, my lady," Martha repeated, smiling a little. "Why?"
"Why… my lady?" Lavender asked again, confused.
Martha chuckled softly. "Because you're the daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness now."
Lavender frowned and tried the words out slowly. "Mar… quess. March… ioness."
They sounded heavy on her tongue, like titles from another world.
"Didn't your governess explain that?" Martha asked, still smiling.
Lavender's face went dark. "She is wicked," she said firmly. "She is cruel."
Martha's smile faded. She had heard the whispers about Miss MacLeary but couldn't say much, a maid's word meant little in houses like these.
"Then you tell your parents," she said softly. "Tell them, dear."
Lavender didn't answer. She only slipped off the sill and padded past the maid without a word.
---
The dining room was glowing when she arrived. The chandeliers looked like drops of gold, and the long table gleamed with silver and glass.
It was odd, the servants whispered, for the Marquess and Marchioness to wait for a child before beginning dinner.
"She's late again," one muttered.
"Doesn't even curtsy right," said another.
"Poor little thing," whispered a third. "The Lord treats her like a princess."
"Princess?" scoffed the cook. "She's no princess, just a foreign charity case."
The door opened, and Lavender stepped in quietly. The room went still.
Lady Beatrice looked up at once. "Ah, Lavender, dearest , there you are."
Lavender gave a small, wobbly curtsy. "Good… evening," she said carefully.
"Very good," Lady Beatrice said warmly. "Come, sit beside me."
Lord Edmund only smiled, that small, quiet smile of his that always made her chest feel lighter.
Dinner began. The food looked strange , bright and rich and far too pretty to eat. Lavender stared at the sauce for a long time, wondering what it was made of.
Lady Beatrice noticed and, without a word, showed her how to cut the meat and use the silverware.
Lavender copied her movements, awkward at first, then better. "Thank you," she said softly, her accent curling around the words.
Lord Edmund chuckled lowly. "You're learning fast," he said.
Through the open door, Martha heard and smiled proudly.
"She's trying," Martha whispered to the others.
"She doesn't belong here," muttered the scullery maid.
"She will," Martha said, her voice firm. "You'll see."
---
Later that night, Lady Beatrice helped Lavender upstairs. The child's small hand fit neatly in hers, and their steps echoed softly in the quiet hall.
When they reached her room, Lavender turned suddenly. "Lady," she said softly.
Lady Beatrice stopped. "You shouldn't call me that," she said gently. "I'm your mother now."
She waited, her tone warm but patient. "Mother," she repeated, slow and kind.
Lavender hesitated. The word felt heavy, new. "Mother," she whispered at last.
And Lady Beatrice's whole face seemed to light up, like sunrise.
Lavender said it again, stronger this time. "Mother." Then, after a pause, her brow furrowed. "Mother… the governess is wicked. Cruel."
Lady Beatrice blinked. "Cruel?"
"Yes," Lavender said quickly. "I bring book… she laugh. I try… she say I stupid."
The Marchioness's heart ached. "Oh, my darling. I'll speak to her tomorrow, all right?"
Lavender nodded, eyes heavy now. "Okay."
Lady Beatrice smiled and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Goodnight, my little one."
Lavender froze. The touch was so soft, so warm, she almost didn't know what to do with it.
"Goodnight… Mother," she whispered finally.
When the Marchioness left, Lavender stood still by the hearth, her hand pressed to her cheek where the kiss had landed. It was strange,but wonderful.