A month in Mrs. Cole's house flew by like a single day.
I woke at dawn and fell asleep at sunset, and there was something oddly pleasant about that rhythm of life. My hands had grown used to work — washing, ironing, kneading dough, weeding the garden beds. My skin had toughened, calluses appeared, but I felt pride: I was earning my bread honestly.
Mrs. Cole rarely praised me, but when she did, it mattered.
"Good work," she said once, watching me handle the dough. "You'll amount to something."
I only smiled and kept working.
Yet inside, unease was growing.
I couldn't live off charity forever. Yes, Mrs. Cole was kind, yes, I helped her with household tasks, but this wasn't real work. It was — mercy. And mercy cannot last forever.
"Mrs. Cole," I began one evening while we drank tea. "I want to find a job. A real one."
She set down her cup.
"What kind of job?"
"Well… in the village. Maybe in someone's shop? Or helping around a house for pay?"
Mrs. Cole sighed.
"Merope, my girl, you're good, hardworking. But who will take you? You're a stranger here. You have no name, no references…" she hesitated.
I remained silent because I already knew: she was right.
"But don't despair," she added. "Tomorrow's the fair; many are looking for workers. Go, try. It won't get worse."
I nodded and decided to follow her advice exactly.
In the morning, I put on my best dress — the very one Mrs. Cole had given me. I braided my hair, washed my face, and set off for the fair.
The fair was held in the main square. Colorful tents, the lowing of cows, the clucking of chickens, and the cries of hawkers. I wove between people, searching for places where workers were needed.
The first stall — the butcher's. A fat butcher in a bloodstained apron eyed me from head to toe.
"Work?" he repeated. "And what can you do?"
"Anything," I said. "Cook, clean, work with animals…"
"With animals?" he laughed. "Look at yourself. The wind will blow you over. I need strong hands. Go on, girl, don't get in the way."
The second stall — the bakery. A plump woman in a white cap listened to me, frowned, and shook her head.
"Girl, you're good, I can see that. But I already have two helpers. And both are my sister's daughters. So, you understand…"
And I did. Family is reliable. And I was nobody.
The third — the inn 'The Fox and Hounds.' The innkeeper was a man of about fifty, with sly eyes and a broad smile that nearly reached them.
Honestly, I didn't like him at first sight.
"Worker?" he looked me over. "Face, honestly, so-so. But alright. Dishwasher? I'll give you a room, food, a little money."
I hesitated. But work is work.
"And the conditions?"
"Simple," he smiled wider. "Wash my dishes, clean the rooms. And in the evening, if guests ask — sit with them, keep them entertained. Extra pay for that."
A chill ran through me.
"Just the dishes," I said firmly.
"Just dishes?" he smirked. "How do you expect to earn anything if only dishes? Well, think it over. If you decide — come back. Door's always open."
I left the inn and almost ran away.
"Scoundrel," I whispered, clenching my fists. "Villain!"
The fourth place — the stables. The groom, an old man with smoke-stained mustaches, was the only one who didn't look at me with lust or suspicion.
Moreover, he asked me only a single question.
"Do you like horses?" he asked.
"I don't know… never tried."
"Honest at least," he chuckled. "That's good. Well, come here, I'll show you."
"You… you're really going to hire me?" I asked, incredulous.
"And why not? I need an assistant, and no one else came. See, no one wants to work in the stables," the old man snorted. "So? What do you say?"
"I… I agree!" I blurted out almost immediately.
The groom only chuckled and beckoned me to follow.
The rest of the day he taught me how to groom the horses, give them feed, and change the bedding. The work, honestly, was dirty and hard. By evening I was exhausted, barely able to stand.
"Come back tomorrow," said the old man. "Trial period — one week. If you don't run away, I'll take you on permanently."
As I walked home, I couldn't stop smiling. Work. I was going to have work!
But halfway there, someone suddenly called out.
My good mood was ruined in an instant.
"Hey, you!"
I turned. Three boys, locals, around eighteen, stood by a fence grinning at me.
"You're the one living with Mrs. Cole?"
"Yes," I answered cautiously.
"Heard you're looking for work," one of them, red-haired and freckled, stepped closer. "We've got a job here. You coming?"
The others laughed.
I clenched my fists.
"Go to hell."
"You wound us," the redhead came even closer. "We're trying to be nice. Walking around our village, and nobody knows where you crawled out from. Maybe you're a runaway? Maybe the police are after you?"
"None of your business."
"Mine," he suddenly grabbed my hand. "If you're a criminal, I have to…"
I jerked, but he held on tight. A second boy approached from the other side.
"Let go!" I shouted.
"Or what?"
And then something completely unexpected happened.
Around my hand, where he held it, a faint golden light flared. The boy yelped and pulled back his hand as if burned.
He stared at me with horror and fear in his eyes.
"What the…" he looked at his hand, where a red mark was swelling. "You're a witch!"