The morning woke her with a shock of ice against her feet. Rose huddled beneath the quilt, weighing the warmth of her siblings against the certainty of time. She stayed for a count of ten, then slipped free, shivering as the air bit every inch of exposed skin. Frost ghosted the inside of the windowpane. She pressed her palm to it, waiting for the ache to pass.
In the blue-dark kitchen, Mama stood by the stove, shoulders rounded, kettle already whispering steam. She turned at Rose's steps, eyes hooded with the same tired pride that had followed Rose all her life.
"You'll want to dress quick," Mama said, voice too soft to rouse the others.
Rose nodded. She took the lamp to the corner where the family's clothes hung in a neat, desperate row. The "good" dress was only good in contrast to the rest; once navy, now more gray than blue, collar starched but frayed. She'd brushed it last night and picked off every stray thread, stitched the hem tight enough that only a miracle could trip her. Over it, the old cloak, lined with flannel and patched at the elbows. She pulled a fresh apron over both, though it did nothing for the cold.
She stripped her nightdress and crammed herself into the layers. Her arms, already dotted with chill bumps, stung as she forced the sleeves down. The fabric whispered against her skin—she pretended it was silk. In the low light, she imagined herself as someone else: a girl whose elbows didn't poke through sleeves, whose legs weren't mapped with scars from chores gone wrong.
The rest of the family would sleep another hour, safe beneath the quilt. Daniel and Meg sometimes tangled themselves together, arms and legs a braided puzzle. Even the baby had learned to cling, her small fingers always finding a handful of cloth. For a moment, Rose considered crawling back, letting the world drift on without her, but the idea stuck in her throat like a pebble.
Mama set the kettle on the scarred table, poured hot water into a cup, and dropped in a wedge of dried lemon. "For luck," she said.
Rose sipped, the liquid burning her tongue and waking her jaw. She waited for the words Mama would not say: Be careful. Don't let them take advantage. If it's bad, come home. But all that passed between them was silence, sharp and cold as the morning.
"Thank you," Rose said, meaning it for the tea and the hope.
Mama nodded, lips pressed thin. "You'll do fine."
Rose put on her boots, feeling the brittle leather give. She tied her hair back with the one ribbon she owned, black and shiny as oil. She watched Mama for a sign, a hug or a blessing, but Mama only stood with hands gripping the table's edge.
Outside, the wind was waiting. Rose steeled herself and stepped into it, letting the slap of cold steady her. The house shrank behind her, smoke threading up and then vanishing into the pewter sky. She walked fast at first, boots breaking the snow's crust with little cracks. At the end of the lane, she turned and looked back, expecting to see someone at the window. It was empty; the family had already folded themselves into the new day.
She walked with the wind full in her face, arms drawn in and fists buried in her cloak. The road ran between fallow fields, ridged and pocked with old corn stalks poking through the drifts. She could see for miles, though there was nothing to see. The town waited ahead, a row of roofs and the sharp angle of the Guild sign jutting above it all.
With every step, her toes shrank away from the world. She wiggled them inside the boots, but they refused to thaw. Her arms numbed, the cold traveling up from her fingers until her elbows ached. She pressed her chin down, counting breaths. Each one fogged out, proof of stubborn life.
The walk took longer than she remembered. Halfway there, she stopped to rub her arms, slapping them to force the blood back. The wind cut through her layers, finding every flaw in the fabric. She wondered what the other girls would be wearing—if they'd have mittens, wool caps, even shoes without holes.
She hated herself for caring, for feeling the heat in her cheeks at the thought of being less. But she could not unthink it: the knowledge that no matter how clean or careful she was, there would always be someone better, someone more.
The road sloped down toward the river, and for a few moments, the wind eased. She let herself walk slower, listening to the crunch of snow beneath her feet. She remembered the summers when she and Daniel had dammed the creek with mud and stones, when her biggest worry had been whether the water would hold long enough to catch a frog. She tried to remember what it felt like to walk with bare legs and not feel shame or need.
The Guild came into view—a squat brick building, larger than any house in the valley, with a bell over the door. She'd seen it a hundred times, but never like this, not with her whole future huddled behind its walls. She straightened her spine, pulled her ribbon tight, and wiped her boots on the mat before stepping inside.
The heat inside the Guild nearly floored her. It was thick, humid from so many bodies and the constant drip of melting snow. The room was crowded with girls—some her age, others younger or much older—each dressed in whatever counted as their "best." Some wore bright colors, others black, a few in prints so loud she wondered if they were meant as a joke. They stood in clumps, whispering or pretending not to notice one another.
Rose hung back near the door, letting her eyes adjust. She took stock of them: the way they glanced over shoulders, compared shoes, narrowed their eyes at rivals. She saw two girls with curls so perfect it must have taken hours, another whose dress was velvet, the hem brushing the floor like a secret.
A cluster near the fire laughed loud, then cast a look her way. Rose felt the weight of it settle on her shoulders. She didn't flinch, didn't smile. She knew how to make herself invisible, how to let the world pass over her without leaving a mark.
She sidled along the wall, searching for her name on the sign-in sheet. There it was, third from the bottom: Rose Abram, in her own careful hand. Next to it, the word "Interview" had been circled twice in red, as if to remind her what was at stake.
She looked up and found herself reflected in the window. The glass was wavy, but she could see enough: the high, flat brow; the too-prominent nose; the hair so black it seemed to drink the light. Not beautiful, maybe, but not soft or weak. She squared her jaw and tried to look like a girl who belonged here.
Across the room, a clock tolled the half hour. Someone called out, "Line up, all of you," and the crowd shifted, girls scrambling for position. Rose joined the queue, near the back but not quite last. She felt the brush of someone's sleeve, the tang of perfume and starch.
Ahead, the Guild master barked orders from behind a desk. "Names, ages, skills. Stand straight, don't mumble. If you're called, step forward. If not—come back next year." His tone was flat, without cruelty but also without hope.
Rose let her eyes drift over the room. A few faces were pale with nerves, others smug or bored. No one seemed happy to be here. Even the velvet girl looked as if she'd swallowed a stone.
The line inched forward. Every few minutes, a name was called and a girl was ushered through a side door. Sometimes they came back, faces blank or tight with disappointment; sometimes they didn't return at all.
Rose rehearsed her answers in her head: I can read and write. I keep good ledgers. I have strong arms, and I don't faint at blood. She wondered if it would be enough, or if she should mention her family, the hunger, the baby sister who might not see spring. She decided against it. Pity didn't buy bread.
As she waited, the cold began to drain from her arms, replaced by the slow burn of anxiety. She flexed her fingers, pinched her own wrist to keep herself present. The dress itched at her neck, the wool of her cloak suddenly too heavy.
Finally, it was her turn. The Guild master fixed her with a quick, appraising stare. "Name?"
"Rose Abram," she said, steady as she could manage.
He glanced at his ledger, then back at her. "Read and write?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any prior work?"
"Fieldhand. Nursemaid to my siblings."
He grunted, not writing anything down. "References?"
She hesitated, then gave her father's name. He didn't react, just made a quick note and waved her through the side door.
The room beyond was narrow, with a small desk and two chairs. A thin woman in a black dress waited, her hair scraped back into a knot so tight it seemed to pull her whole face backward. She looked at Rose without greeting, just pointed to the chair.
Rose sat, knees together, hands clasped in her lap. The woman leafed through a paper file, then set it down.
"Why do you want this position?" she asked, voice smooth as slate.
Rose blinked. She'd expected questions about sewing or cleaning, not philosophy.
"I want to help my family," she said. "We need the money."
The woman stared at her, unblinking. "Most girls say they want to see the world. Or that they want to serve the House. You don't care for that?"
"I care for my family," Rose said, holding the woman's gaze. "Anything else is a bonus."
The woman's lips twitched, the hint of a smile or a tic. "You will be expected to keep to yourself. No talking about the work outside the Estate. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Can you follow instructions without question?"
"Yes."
"Are you willing to leave immediately, if selected?"
Rose's mouth went dry, but she nodded. "Yes."
The woman snapped the file shut. "Wait outside."
Rose did as she was told, returning to the main room. The line was shorter now; a few girls sat on the benches, heads in hands, others huddled by the fire. Rose stood alone, heart hammering.
Minutes passed, or maybe an hour. She counted the ticks of the clock, the shuffles of boots on the wood floor. She thought about home, about Mama and the others waiting, about what she would say if she failed. She realized she didn't have words for that—not even to herself.
Finally, the woman in black reappeared. She spoke a list of names, each like a pebble dropped in water. Rose held her breath until hers was called, near the end.
She let the relief wash over her, slow and hot, almost like shame. She'd done it. Or, at least, she was not yet defeated.
The selected girls were told to return in three days' time, packed and ready for the journey north. The Guild would handle the rest. The woman in black collected their names and vanished again.
The room emptied quickly. The other girls clustered together, some hugging, others pale and stunned. Rose lingered by the door, letting the cold seep in as she gathered her strength.
Outside, the wind had not let up. She pulled her cloak tight and stepped into it, boots crunching the new snow. She didn't look back at the Guild; she fixed her eyes on the road, on the thin column of smoke rising from her own roof.
She moved forward, one step at a time, feeling the numbness give way to something sharper. Not hope, exactly, but something that could stand in for it.
She let the air sting her cheeks, let her arms ache. She would make a good impression. She would get the job. She would not let her family slip under the ice.
Rose squared her shoulders and walked home, the world opening before her, white and merciless, but hers for the taking.