The Crofts' "home" had fallen into a strange kind of stalemate. Father Lucien had become the most diligent man in the church, burying himself in morning prayers, evening lessons, pastoral visits, endless paperwork—anything that would keep him inside the main building as long as possible. Every extra hour there meant one less hour spent in the same room with the woman who was his wife in name only. Their cramped quarters were no longer a place of rest for him but an unrelenting courtroom, where Eleanor Croft presided as judge—silent, cold, merciless.
Eleanor, however, made full use of this deliberately manufactured solitude. She systematically searched through every book and document in Lucien's study. Most were predictable—treatises on theology, drafts of sermons, guides to the rhythm of the liturgical year, and trivial correspondence with neighbouring parishes. Dry material, yet she read every page with painstaking care, scanning for the faintest hints of useful information. She needed to master the language, the rules, and the machinery of this era's church. They would become her weapons.
But the lack of knowledge gnawed at her. Of the outside world—of the Flemings, of Seraphina—she found almost nothing. She felt trapped, like an insect frozen in amber: granted a second life, yet pinned in place, unable to move.
She had to get out.
A few days later, one early morning. Lucien was hastily swallowing the last bite of coarse black bread, preparing to flee as usual.
"I need to go into town today to buy thread and cloth," Eleanor's voice rang calmly from the kitchen doorway. She wore a faded old cloak, washed thin from years of use, and carried an empty wicker basket on her arm. "As your wife, maintaining a basic appearance of decency is necessary. And I must also learn the lay of the land."
Lucien froze mid-motion. His green eyes flickered with alarm as he lifted his head. He was afraid of her leaving, afraid of what she might hear, and more afraid still of what attention she might draw. "Perhaps… perhaps Martha could—"
"Martha is old," Eleanor cut him off, her tone brooking no debate. "She should not be burdened with errands. Besides, would it not be better for you to know where your wife walks and whom she speaks to? Such knowledge should be important to you." The faint edge of ice in her words carried a trace of mockery.
Lucien fell silent. He could not refuse such a reasonable request, nor could he ignore the implicit threat hidden in her voice—if he did not "know", she might do things far beyond his control.
"…Come back early," he finally muttered, his words dry and brittle, before snatching his things and escaping almost at a run.
Eleanor watched him go without expression. Then she lifted her basket and stepped into the streets beyond the churchyard.
The sun fell across cobblestones. The air smelt of horse dung, earth, and fresh bread. Vendors cried out, hooves clattered, and conversations swelled into a constant murmur. Life was everywhere—raw, bustling, vivid. It was the very opposite of her last memories: silence, terror, and the noose tightening around her neck. Each breath she drew felt unreal, like air from another world.
She slowed her pace deliberately, letting her eyes drift over shops, faces, and doorways as though idly wandering, while her ears caught fragments of gossip. Weather. Harvests. Prices. Petty quarrels between neighbours. Ordinary lives continuing without pause.
Her steps guided her with a will of their own, pulling her toward the town's wealthier quarter. The closer she drew, the heavier her heartbeat pounded, like a drum calling her to judgement. Familiar streets, familiar façades, the proud doorways of mansions. At last she halted at the corner of a broad avenue.
Before her loomed the Fleming estate.
The wrought-iron gates towered, closed and forbidding. Beyond lay a stretch of manicured lawns and, farther back, the grand body of the house itself. Compared to her memory, it was even more imposing now. New decorative spikes lined the walls, a display of both wealth and caution. Servants in livery swept the entrance with that peculiar air of pride and obedience that marked a great household's retainers.
Eleanor's chest constricted, as if an icy hand had gripped her heart. Breath grew scarce. This was where she had been born and raised. This was where she had been dragged out, accused of witchcraft, and led to her death.
A figure moved past one of the upstairs windows. She could not see the face, but the flash of a bright gown caught her eye. Lydia? The sister she had loved with all her strength? The one who, in madness and jealousy, had condemned her to die?
Hatred pierced her chest like a poisoned blade, sharp and cold. It was not the wild blaze of fury but something older, heavier—hatred fossilized in silence and time, now wrenched open by the sight of this place. She stopped in her tracks, her fists tightening until her nails cut her palms. Only the sting of pain anchored her against the wave of suffocating memories threatening to crush her.
She could not linger. Eleanor Croft, in her threadbare cloak and solitary stance, did not belong here. Already a passing lady in a carriage had cast her a curious, disdainful glance. The Flemings' servants had noticed too, their eyes sharp with suspicion.
She bowed her head and turned away, hurrying off like any poor woman cowed by noble grandeur. Yet her spine was straight as a blade, each step falling like iron on burning coals.
Once out of sight, she did not return at once. She sat for a while on a bench in the town square, fighting to steady the storm in her chest. Children played in the distance. From somewhere nearby came the coarse song about witches again, twisting her stomach with revulsion.
On the notice board, several new postings caught her eye. Most were municipal announcements, but one bore the seal of the Inquisition. The stern decree warned citizens against the temptations of demons, urged them to report any "abnormal" or "immoral" acts, and announced an upcoming increase in patrols to root out "moral corruption". The name signed at the bottom was that of a minor judge she did not recognize.
The sight doused her fury like cold water. Reality was harsh, unrelenting. The road of vengeance would be long, and her strength now was fragile, almost nothing. One misstep would destroy her completely.
By noon she rose, bought the cheapest thread and a piece of coarse gray cloth—just enough to patch her few worn dresses, just enough to justify her errand.
When she returned to the quarters behind the church, Lucien had not come back. The room was as cold and empty as when she had left. The hearth showed no sign of fire, proof that he had not even returned for lunch.
She set down her basket and moved to the window. The sky outside was still bright, but no warmth penetrated these walls. This was not a home. It had none of the faint, broken warmth of the Warren estate. Here there was only transaction, coercion, and the chill of mutual distrust. It was a base, a disguise, an outpost at the edge of an abyss.
From the bottom of an old chest, she retrieved once more the small ceramic vial. She held it in her palm, its cold surface steadying her ragged thoughts.
Returning to her old home had awakened her hatred—and reminded her of the gulf between what she was and what she must become. The cold hearth reminded her of her hardship and solitude.
But the fire in her eyes had not gone out. It burnt more fiercely now, sharpened by cold clarity.
She placed the vial back in its hiding place. Vengeance demanded patience, disguise, and the patience of a spider weaving its web in silence.
Today she had seen her enemy's fortress still strong.But her web had only just begun to form.