The next morning was torturous. Every second felt like an eternity as I forced myself through my duties, my hands still raw and painful beneath the bandages. Mrs. Harrow had assigned me to lighter tasks—dusting the library shelves, polishing the silver in the great hall, tasks that wouldn't strain my injured fingers.
I was grateful for the quiet work that kept me away from the more populated areas of the castle. The last thing I wanted was to face anyone's curious glances or, worse, their pity. Word spread quickly among the servants, and I had no doubt that my red-rimmed eyes and bandaged hands had already sparked rumors.
By midday, I found myself in the rear courtyard, hanging freshly laundered sheets on the drying lines. The spring breeze was cool against my face, carrying the scent of distant mountains and pine forests. In another life, I might have found it soothing. Now, it was simply air I needed to breathe to stay alive.
