The village had settled into the gentle rhythms of early autumn.
One such afternoon, as the sun began its descent, casting elongated shadows across the village, a stranger approached the modest home of Beatrice Harrow.
The man at her doorstep was tall and lean, his face etched with lines that spoke of hard labor and harder times.
Beatrice opened the door, her brow furrowing as she took in the pair. "Yes?" she prompted, her tone brisk.
The man cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Miss Harrow, my name is Thomas Reed. I'm from Briar Glen, the village yonder."
Beatrice's eyes narrowed. "I know it."
Thomas nodded, glancing down at the girl. "This here is Evelyn Winterrose, your niece. Her parents... there was an accident. A carriage overturned on the old bridge. They didn't survive."
A flicker of something—shock, perhaps grief—passed over Beatrice's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "I see," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "And what is it you expect of me?"
Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "The village elders thought it best she come to you. You're her closest kin."
Beatrice's lips pressed into a thin line. "Another mouth to feed is no small burden, Mr. Reed. Times are hard."
"I understand, truly," Thomas replied, his tone earnest. "But Evelyn is a good girl. Quiet. She won't be any trouble."
Beatrice crossed her arms over her chest. "Good intentions don't fill bellies, Mr. Reed. I've my own daughter to think of."
Thomas took a deep breath, glancing around as if seeking assistance from the very trees. "Perhaps... perhaps there's something we can arrange. The village could send provisions. A monthly stipend, to help with expenses."
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Charity? I don't take handouts."
"Not charity," Thomas corrected quickly. "Compensation. For your kindness."
Beatrice studied the man before her, then shifted her gaze to the child. Evelyn stood silently, her eyes fixed on the ground, shoulders hunched as if bracing for rejection.
After a prolonged silence, Beatrice spoke. "She'll have to earn her keep. I won't have idleness under my roof."
Thomas nodded eagerly. "Of course. She can help with chores. She's young, but she's willing."
Beatrice exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound of resignation. "Very well. Leave her things, and be on your way."
Thomas placed a gentle hand on Evelyn's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be alright here, Evie. Mind your aunt, and do as you're told."
Evelyn nodded mutely, not trusting her voice to remain steady.
Without further ado, Thomas tipped his hat to Beatrice and retreated down the path, leaving Evelyn standing alone on the threshold.
"Well, come on then," Beatrice said gruffly, stepping aside to allow the girl entry.
Evelyn stepped into the cottage, the scent of herbs and aged wood enveloping her. The interior was modest but tidy, with a small hearth crackling softly in the corner.
A young girl, a few years younger than Evelyn, peered out from behind a curtain. Her golden curls framed a cherubic face, eyes wide with curiosity and something else—apprehension, perhaps.
"This is Isolde, my daughter," Beatrice said, noting Evelyn's gaze. "You'll be sharing the room with her."
Isolde's nose wrinkled slightly, but she said nothing.