The Fog and the Ledger (Chapter 5)
The fog of fever lifted entirely on the seventh day, leaving Hannah's head as clear as the winter sky beyond her window.
No more dizzy spells, no more trembling hands—only a slow, steady thrum of strength returning to her bones, fed by warm soup, Doctor Hale's tonic, and sleep that no longer ended in nightmares of empty larders and freezing haylofts.
She had not stepped outside the silk-draped room since waking there; every moment had been spent curled by the hearth, letting the fire seep into her marrow while her body mended the years of neglect carved into her flesh.
In her past life, she had been soft, desk-bound, fueled by endless coffee, her only physical effort the short walk from the bus stop to her office.
Weakness had been her constant companion then, too, though of a different kind: the weakness of a woman who had let fear and loneliness chain her to a life she had hated.
Now, as she pressed a palm to her ribs and felt the faint, firm curve of muscle returning, a thought unspooled in her mind—sharp, bright, unbidden.
Adventurer.
The word tasted like iron and honey on her tongue.
She was still too thin, too slow, too accustomed only to scrubbing floors and hiding in corners—but this was a world of rebirth, of second chances.
A fantasy world, she was certain of it now.
No ordinary realm let a soul burn out in loneliness and wake in the body of a wronged noble girl.
If magic could twist fate this deeply, then anything was possible.
She could learn to wield a blade. She could stop being the victim, the shadow, the forgotten Bennington. She could be something more.
But first, she needed information.
If this world functioned like a book—one she might have flipped through late at night, when office work had piled too high—then knowing the plot, the players, and the hidden twists would be her greatest weapon.
Even if it did not, the sharp, practical mind she had honed as a twenty-seven-year-old clerk, balancing ledgers, tracking deadlines, and seeing numbers no one else bothered to count, would serve her now.
She needed to map this world, this manor, this family's rot, from the inside out.
Hannah swung her legs over the edge of the goose-down bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug, and crossed to the vanity table pushed against the wall.
The wood was polished to a mirror shine, its surface clear save for a stack of crisp cream paper—thicker, smoother than any she had ever touched—and a silver inkwell etched with the Bennington stag.
Beside it lay a quill, its feather soft as silk, with no frayed edges and no crusted, dried ink on the nib.
A sharp, bitter ache twisted in her chest.
For years, she had scrawled notes on scraps of discarded parchment, using charred sticks or the nub of a pencil Stephanie had thrown at her in a rage.
She had hidden those scraps in cracks of the larder walls, afraid even that small act of possession would be taken from her.
Now luxury was laid out like nothing, for a girl who had once gone a week on nothing but moldy bread and rainwater.
The contrast stung, a brutal reminder of all she had been denied.
She sat anyway, pulling the paper toward her and uncorking the inkwell with a steady hand. The quill glided across the page without resistance or smudges.
She began to write—not with the messy, slanted script of her fevered renunciation, but with the neat, precise lines she had used for spreadsheets in her past life.
She titled the page:
Hannah Bennington: Ledger of Stolen Years
She started at the age of three—her first memory of scrubbing the dining hall floors until her knees bled, of Stephanie's cold voice telling her she was a burden who earned her keep through labor. S
he listed every chore: scouring pots until her fingers cracked, mending Kael's torn tunics until her eyes blurred, hauling buckets of water from the well at dawn while other maids still slept.
She noted the hours—sunup to sundown, no breaks, no days off—and compared them to the wages the count paid his lowest servants, a sum she had once overheard the steward mention.
She deducted the cost of the moldy bread she had been fed, the tattered rags she had worn, the straw pallet in the larder, scraping the bottom of the barrel for numbers, for proof, for a way to quantify the theft of her childhood.
The numbers stacked up, cold and unforgiving.
By the time she finished, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold.
She had filled three pages, her hand steady, her heart colder than the winter wind outside.
This was no mere list. It was a weapon. A reckoning written in ink and rage.
Hannah rolled the pages tight and tucked them into the waistband of her dress, beneath layers of fabric where no one would think to look.
Then she stood, her resolve hardening into something sharp and unbreakable.
There was one more thing she needed—her only treasure, the one item Stephanie and her brats had never managed to take from her.
She slipped out of the room, her bare feet silent on the stone corridor.
The manor was quiet at that hour, servants retreating to their quarters for supper, the family holed up in the dining hall.
But whispers followed her as she walked—faint, hissing things carried on the draft snaking through the walls.
"Is that her?"
"The count's forgotten daughter."
"He moved her to the children's wing. Gave her silk sheets and warm soup."
"The countess will have her head for this."
Hannah did not turn. She did not acknowledge them.
Their words slid off her like water, meaningless noise in the face of what she planned.
She walked past the closed doors of Kael and Layla's old rooms, past tapestries that painted the Bennington legacy as noble and bright, past the staircase where Kael had tripped her only weeks earlier.
She kept going until she reached the end of the east corridor, where the stone walls turned cold and damp, and the air smelled of mildew and rats.
Her old room. The larder.
The door hung ajar, off its hinges—Stephanie had never bothered to repair it, not for a room that held nothing but a forgotten girl and moldy sacks.
Hannah pushed it open, the wood scraping against the stone, and stepped inside.
The space was exactly as she had left it: a small, windowless box, shelves lined with turnips and potatoes, a straw pallet in the corner, a rusted bucket in the center.
She dropped to her knees beside the pallet, her fingers brushing the rough floorboards.
She had hidden it here three years prior, after Kael had torn the pendant from her neck and tried to melt it for scrap.
She had pried up the loose board with a shard of broken pottery, buried the pendant deep beneath it, and replaced the board so carefully no one would ever guess it was loose.
Her fingers found the edge and pried it up with a soft crack. Beneath lay a small hole, filled with dust and spiderwebs.
She reached in, her heart pounding, and her fingers closed around something cold and smooth.
She pulled it out and brushed away the dust.
The pendant glinted in faint light seeping through the door: a small silver disk, its surface etched with a pattern she had never been able to identify.
It was not the Bennington crest. It was not any symbol she had seen in the manor's tapestries or books—only a winding, intricate design, like a maze, a spell, or a map to something she did not yet understand.
On the back, a single word was carved into the silver, worn nearly smooth by time:
Beatrice.
Her mother's name.
The count had told her once, in a rare moment of kindness before Stephanie poisoned his mind, that Beatrice had been a woman from a far-off land, with hair like sunlight and eyes like sapphires.
She had brought the pendant with her when she married him, he said, and it had been her most prized possession.
She had pressed it into Hannah's hand on her deathbed, whispering that it would keep her safe.
Hannah had never understood what that meant. Not then.
But now, clutching the pendant in her palm and feeling its warmth seep into her skin, she knew.
This was more than a trinket. It was a key—to her mother's past, to the truth of who she was, to the power Stephanie had spent years trying to snuff out.
She slipped the pendant around her neck and tucked it beneath her dress, where it rested against her heart.
A quiet, fierce joy bloomed in her chest—bright, hot, unquenchable.
Hannah secured the pendant beneath her neckline and stepped back into the corridor, the rolled ledger still pressed firm against her waist.
Her next step was clear: she would go to the count's solar, present the ledger, and force him to confront the debt his family owed her.
But when she reached the west corridor, the attendant who had let her in before stood guard outside the oak door, his posture stiff and formal.
He bowed his head when he saw her, his expression wary.
"Miss Bennington," he said, his voice low.
"The count is not here. He departed at dawn for the northern estates—matters of tenant disputes and crop yields, he said. He will not return until the morrow at the earliest."
Frustration tightened her jaw, but she nodded, masking irritation with calm.
"I see. Thank you for telling me."
She turned on her heel and walked back toward the children's wing.
The manor grew quieter still, the last of the servants' footsteps fading into the distance, the only sounds the distant creak of floorboards and wind howling outside leaded windows.
She was halfway down the hall when she heard it—a slow, deliberate tread, boots clicking against stone, too heavy for a servant.
She looked up.
William stood at the end of the hall, his broad shoulders framed by the library archway.
At eighteen, nearly nineteen, he was the count's spitting image: the same storm-gray eyes, sharp jawline, tall, imposing stature that made even the steward shrink back.
He wore a tailored deep-blue wool coat, a silver stag brooch pinned to his lapel, his boots polished so brightly they reflected torchlight flickering on the walls.
He was the official heir to the Bennington title, the son Stephanie doted on, the boy given every privilege denied to Hannah.
Like his father, he had never laid a hand on her.
Never mocked her to her face, never locked her in the larder, never let the quack near her with wandering hands. But he had seen everything.
He had watched Kael trip her down the stairs when she was seven, watched Stephanie slap her for spilling wine at dinner, watched servants starve her for days after she dared ask for crust.
And every time, he had turned away, walking past as if she were no more than dust on his boots.
He stopped a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over her—faded gray dress, bare feet, faint smudge of ink on her fingers—and his lips tightened into a thin line.
His voice was cold, sharp, the tone of a nobleman addressing a servant who had overstepped.
"Can you not walk around without causing trouble?" he said.
"First the scene in the dining hall, then skulking about the larder like a thief. Stop bringing shame to this family."
Once, those words would have made her flinch, drop her gaze, mumble an apology, scurry away like the mouse they all believed her to be.
Once, she would have called him big brother, voice trembling with desperate hope that he might finally see her, finally care.
But that girl was gone.
Hannah lifted her chin, her sapphire eyes locking with his storm-gray ones, and did not look away.
She was small beside him, barely reaching his shoulder, her bones still thin from years of starvation, her feet sore from cold stone.
But when she spoke, her voice was calm and steady, with no trace of fear or pleading.
"I understand," she said.
William blinked—a small, almost imperceptible movement, but she saw it: surprise in his eyes, as if he had expected her to cry, beg, or run.
He opened his mouth as if to speak again, harsher this time, but Hannah reached into her waistband and pulled out the rolled ledger. She held it out to him, the paper crisp in her hand.
"I will remove myself as a disgrace to this family," she said, her tone even, "if you pay me the debt this family owes me."
William stared at the ledger, then at her.
His brow furrowed, confusion crossing his face—not anger, not disgust, but genuine bafflement, as if he could not fathom what she meant.
He reached out, fingers brushing hers as he took the roll, and unrolled it.
His eyes scanned the neat, precise lines of writing, the columns of numbers, the title at the top in her steady hand.
Hannah watched his confusion deepen.
William was no fool; he had been trained since childhood to read ledgers, manage estate finances, and understand even complicated accounts.
But this was something else entirely: a record of every chore, every hour, every moldy scrap, every tattered rag, all quantified into a cold, unforgiving sum.
He flipped the pages faster now, his storm-gray eyes widening slightly. When he reached the final page, where the total stood bold at the bottom, he froze.
"What is this?" he said, his voice sharper now, calm facade cracking. He looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Two hundred and fifty gold? What nonsense is this?"
Hannah held her breath.
She knew Stephanie would tear the ledger to shreds if she saw it. She knew the count would dismiss it as the rantings of a mad girl.
But William? William understood numbers. He believed in debts and accounts, balances and payments.
If he refused, or turned her away, or worse—showed it to Stephanie—she could be sold, locked away forever, or killed.
But it was a risk she had to take. It was the only way out.
"It is my right," she said, her voice unwavering. She did not flinch when he stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her.
"I am not truly part of this family, yet I spent my entire childhood—from age three until now—working unpaid for this household.
I scrubbed your floors, mended your clothes, hauled your water, worked longer hours than any servant here, and received nothing in return but moldy bread and a straw pallet in the larder.
This is the sum I am owed, calculated by the minimum wage your father pays his lowest servants, minus the cost of the scraps I was forced to survive on."
William's jaw tightened, his expression hardening into a grim line.
He glanced back at the ledger, eyes darting over the numbers again, as if he could will them into sense.
When he spoke, his voice was colder, edged with disbelief.
"Were you not assigned an allowance?" he asked, sharp and almost accusatory.
"Father provides for all members of this household. What do you mean you worked here? You were a daughter of the house, not a servant."
The words hung in the air, bitter and absurd.
Hannah let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound echoing off stone walls. It held no joy, only the weight of years of unspoken truth.
"Well, Young Master Bennington," she said, calm but laced with a cutting edge,
"I may be small, but I have a memory like a steel trap. I remember every dawn I hauled water before servants rose.
Every night I mended Kael's tunics until my eyes blurred. Every moldy scrap thrown to me like a bone to a dog.
Do you truly think, if I had been given an allowance—if I had been treated like a daughter—I would wear this tattered rag?
Do you think I would have slept in a larder with rats? Do you think I would have collapsed in your father's solar, half-dead from malnutrition and exhaustion?"
She paused, sapphire eyes never leaving his storm-gray ones, and let the truth sink in.
William's face darkened.
He rolled the ledger tight, knuckles white with force, and stared at her for a long, tense moment.
For a second, Hannah thought he would snap—tear the ledger, shout, order servants to drag her back to the larder and lock her away forever. But then he sighed, a deep, weary sound far too similar to the count's, and his shoulders relaxed fractionally.
"We will talk about this later," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"I will relay everything to Father when he returns. Now go back to your room. I will send a maid to bring you proper shoes and a warm cloak. Do not wander the corridors again until I send for you."
The words were a command, not a request.
But there was no anger, no disgust—only quiet, reluctant acknowledgment: of the ledger, of the debt, of her.
Hannah nodded, expression impassive. "Very well."
She turned and walked away, bare feet silent on stone, the pendant warm against her chest. She did not look back.
She did not need to. She could feel his eyes on her back—confused, wary, perhaps even a little guilty—and for the first time in her life, she did not care.
She was one step closer to freedom. One step closer to the truth.
And nothing—not William, not Stephanie, not the count—would stop her.
By the time she settled onto the silk cushions of her bed, a tap at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Two maids stood in the threshold, arms laden with parcels and a heavy iron-bound chest.
The air hummed with quiet, spiteful whispers they made no effort to muffle.
"Think she'll know how to wear silk?"
"Gold for a rag-cloaked rat. What a farce."
Without a word, they set the chest on the floor with a clunk and laid out the rest: a sky-blue silk gown stitched with silver thread, fur-lined leather boots, a tray of jewelry glinting with pearls and small gemstones.
One maid flipped open the chest lid, revealing stacks of gold coins that glinted in candlelight—far more than the two hundred and fifty she had demanded.
"From Young Master William," the senior maid said, tone sharp with disdain.
"He said to give you these… comforts while we wait for the count's return."
Hannah did not bother with pleasantries.
"Set everything on the vanity," she said, voice cold and even.
"Then go fetch me a tray of dinner—nothing fancy, just bread and stew. Close the door on your way out."
The maids' sneers grew bolder as they obeyed, their whispers loud enough to sting as they retreated.
"Acting like a lady now."
"Won't last a week."
The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent.
Hannah crossed to the chest, fingers brushing cool gold coins.
There must have been twenty thousand in total—enough to buy a small farm, a horse, a new life far from the manor.
But the sight stirred no joy, only a sick, heavy sense of hypocrisy. This was charity, not payment. A bandage over a festering years-old wound.
She counted out exactly two hundred and fifty gold pieces, tucking them into a small leather pouch hidden beneath her mattress.
She left the rest in the chest, the silk gown and jewelry untouched on the vanity. None of it was truly hers.
None of it could erase cold nights and empty stomachs.
When a quiet maid with a scar across her cheek arrived, Hannah nodded at the silk gown.
"Take this and the jewelry back to the storeroom," she said.
"Tell the steward they are to be returned to William's chambers. Then bring me something practical: a hunting tunic, sturdy breeches, a plain wool cloak. Something I can move in."
The maid's eyes widened, but she did not question it—Bennington servants learned obedience quickly.
She gathered the silk and jewels, arms full, and slipped out the door. Hannah heard her muttering in the corridor as she left.
"Said she doesn't want silk. Wants hunting clothes. Can you believe it?"
"Mad as a hare, that one."
Hannah did not care. Let them whisper. Let them think her mad.
The two hundred and fifty gold in her pouch was not charity.
It was payment—for every dawn hauling water, every night mending tunics, every moldy scrap. It was the first step out of the manor, the first brick in the foundation of the life she would build for herself.
And when she left, she would not wear silk. She would wear clothes fit for an adventurer. Fit for someone who was finally, finally free.