The "seeds of knowledge" Elara had so carefully sown finally yielded a faint return.
The most noticeable change was in her body. Though still thin, consistently drinking boiled water and occasionally supplementing with wild greens seemed to restore a touch of color to her previously sallow complexion. The frequency of her coughing also markedly decreased. More importantly, a cut on her arm from moving heavy objects a few days prior, after secretly applying mashed plantain twice, hadn't become red and inflamed as usual. Instead, it healed at a visibly faster rate.
This small improvement gave Elara immense encouragement. It proved, at least, that her struggles weren't entirely futile.
Thomas, the boy who tended the hounds, also seemed to sense a difference. Ever since Elara helped treat his dog bite (which also healed quickly without festering), his wariness towards her lessened, replaced by a hesitant closeness. Twice in the mess hall, he even furtively slipped her a slightly softer piece of black bread – perhaps saved from his own portion, or pilfered from the hounds' feed.
Elara didn't refuse. In this cold, cruel place, any bit of kindness was precious. She merely offered a silent nod of thanks with her eyes and quickly hid the bread. This fragile, silent alliance, like two small blades of grass huddling together against the harsh wind, provided a minuscule measure of comfort.
However, ripples on the water's surface are more easily noticed by those on the shore.
Elara's changes didn't escape everyone's notice, especially a few older, spiteful female servants on the manor. One named Martha was particularly resentful of Elara. Often scolded by Steward Gregor for her clumsiness, Martha vented her frustrations on those weaker than herself.
"Hmph, look at that Elara," Martha grumbled to another servant while laboriously scrubbing laundry, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Ever since she came out of that attic, it's like she's a different person. Got some color back in her cheeks, doesn't seem to tire as easily? Strange, isn't it? Eats less than anyone, but seems livelier than anyone."
The other servant shrank back, not daring to respond.
But Martha warmed to her theme: "Saw her digging around for some weird roots by the field edge the other day, who knows if it's something unclean? And that Thomas boy, got scratched by a dog, but didn't get a fever or have the flesh rot. Bet you it's that girl, up to some trickery!"
Naturally, this gossip soon reached Steward Gregor's ears.
Gregor already disliked Elara, this "daughter of a former freeman," sensing an inherent "restlessness" in her. Now, hearing these words and connecting them to his own observations—Elara did seem 'sturdier' than before, and the quiet intensity with which she worked lacked the fearful numbness of other serfs, possessing instead a... calmness that unsettled him—he began to pay closer, albeit covert, attention.
One day, Elara was clearing the mountain of manure in the stables. The work was filthy and exhausting, the stench dizzying. As she bent over, struggling to shovel the waste into a wheelbarrow with a worn wooden fork, Gregor's grim voice suddenly sounded behind her:
"Elara!"
Elara froze, instantly stopping her work. She turned, lowered her head, adopting an expression of reverence and fear. "Steward."
Gregor stood with his hands behind his back, pacing towards her like inspecting his domain. His greasy eyes swept over her, finally settling on her hands – still thin, but relatively clean.
"The cut on your hand, healed?" His tone was flat, unreadable.
Alarm bells screamed in Elara's mind. She knew he meant the cut from the pitchfork a few days ago. She lowered her head further, her voice deliberately timid: "Y-yes, Steward. It doesn't hurt anymore."
"Oh?" Gregor drawled. "Healed rather quickly. Used some miracle cure, did you?"
Elara's heart leaped into her throat. She forced herself to remain calm, reciting the lines she had prepared, whispering, "N-no, nothing like that. Just... just used some crushed plantain... put it on... on the cut. When I was little... my grandmother said... said it stops bleeding and swelling..." She deliberately stammered, affecting the ignorance and superstition of a country peasant.
Gregor narrowed his eyes, staring at her for a long moment, seemingly trying to gauge the truth in her words. Elara could feel his scrutinizing gaze like needles on her skin. Her palms grew sweaty with nervousness, cold sweat threatening to soak through her thin tunic.
"Hmph, peasant remedies," Gregor finally snorted dismissively, apparently finding no concrete fault. "Don't think knowing a few useless tricks means you can slack off! If this manure isn't cleared by evening, you can forget about dinner!"
With that, he turned and left as silently as he had arrived.
Elara only dared to slowly raise her head and let out a long, silent sigh of relief after his footsteps faded completely. For a moment there, she truly thought she might be accused of witchcraft or heresy.
Gregor's suspicion, like a venomous snake, had coiled around her.
She knew she had to be even more careful, more cautious. But at the same time, the feeling of being cornered ignited the flame of survival within her even brighter.
She couldn't just wait to be crushed. She had to find a way, find an opportunity to change her situation, soon!
She just didn't expect that "opportunity" would arrive so quickly, and in the way she dreaded most.