The Rothwell family bought Amelia for twelve silver coins.
"Bought" was the word they used, though Mr. Blackwood called it "sponsorship." The arrangement was simple: the Rothwells needed servants, Thornhill needed to rid itself of problematic children, and Amelia—at eleven years old—was old enough to work but young enough to be controlled.
Or so they thought.
Edmund Rothwell was a spice merchant who'd made his fortune trading in exotic goods from distant lands. His wife, Beatrice, was a social climber desperate to ascend into the upper circles of Millford society. Their daughter, Vivienne, was fifteen years old and the most spoiled creature Amelia had ever encountered.
"She'll do," Beatrice said, examining Amelia like livestock. "Small, but capable. And she doesn't speak? Even better. I can't abide chattering servants."
"She does speak," Mr. Blackwood corrected. "She simply chooses not to. Though I should warn you—there have been… incidents."
"What kind of incidents?"
Mr. Blackwood hesitated. "The marks I mentioned in my letter. They appeared several times despite our attempts at suppression. And there have been reports of objects moving on their own, candles extinguishing, strange occurrences—"
"Nonsense," Edmund interrupted. "The girl is troubled, not cursed. A firm hand and proper discipline will cure these… eccentricities."
Mr. Blackwood looked doubtful but said nothing more. The transaction was completed. Amelia was handed a small bag with her possessions (almost nothing) and led to the Rothwells' carriage.
As they drove away from Thornhill, Thomas ran to the gate. "Amelia! Be careful! And remember—you're not cursed!"
She looked back at him, at the only place she'd found people who understood her, and felt the loss like a physical ache. But she didn't wave. Didn't call back. Just watched until the orphanage disappeared from view.
-----
The Rothwell house was grand. Three stories, marble floors, servants' quarters that were cleaner than anywhere Amelia had ever lived. Her room was in the attic—small but private, with an actual window.
"You'll rise at dawn," Beatrice instructed. "Help Cook with breakfast, serve the family, clean the house, assist with Vivienne's needs, and retire when your work is complete. You'll eat what's left after the family is finished. You'll speak only when spoken to—though in your case, apparently, you don't speak at all. Is that clear?"
Amelia nodded.
"Good. Vivienne requires a lady's maid. You'll learn to dress her hair, prepare her clothes, attend to her needs. She's a delicate girl and must be treated with the utmost care."
Delicate was not the word Amelia would have chosen.
Vivienne Rothwell was beautiful in the way a porcelain doll is beautiful—perfect features, golden hair, rosebud lips. But her eyes held a cruelty that reminded Amelia of every bully she'd ever known.
Their first interaction set the tone for everything that followed.
"You're the new maid?" Vivienne looked Amelia up and down with distaste. "You're tiny. And you don't talk? How pathetic."
Amelia remained silent.
"Mother says you're from an orphanage for disturbed children. Is that true? Are you mad?" Vivienne stepped closer, invading Amelia's space. "Or are you just stupid?"
Still silence.
Vivienne's hand shot out and pinched Amelia's arm, hard enough to leave a mark. "I asked you a question, freak."
Amelia's power stirred inside her, responding to the pain and anger. The marks on her wrists, hidden beneath her sleeves, began to glow.
*No,* she thought firmly. *Not yet. Control it.*
The marks dimmed. The power retreated.
Vivienne, sensing she'd won, smiled sweetly. "Oh, we're going to have such fun together."
-----
The next three months were a special kind of hell.
Vivienne took pleasure in making Amelia's life miserable. She'd spill things deliberately, then force Amelia to clean them. Request her hair be done six different ways before breakfast. "Accidentally" stick pins into Amelia's hands while being dressed. Wake her in the middle of the night for trivial demands.
And all the while, she'd taunt. "Why don't you speak? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too stupid to form words?"
Amelia endured it silently. She'd learned that reaction only encouraged bullies. Better to be a stone, unmoved and unmoving.
But her power was harder to control.
At night, alone in her attic room, the marks would appear unbidden. They'd grown more complex—not just simple symbols anymore, but elaborate patterns that covered her wrists and crept up her forearms. And they were getting harder to hide.
The spirits were also growing more active. The Rothwell house was old, and many had died here over the years. They congregated in Amelia's room, drawn to her growing power.
*She will break you if you let her,* one spirit warned. An old woman who'd been a servant in this house generations ago. *They all do, the Rothwells. They break their servants and discard them.*
*I won't break,* Amelia thought back.
*You're strong. But strength alone isn't enough. You need to learn to use your power.*
*I don't know how.*
*Then you'll have to figure it out. Soon.*
The warning proved prophetic.
-----
It happened three months into Amelia's service.
Vivienne was preparing for a ball—the social event of the season. She'd been insufferable for weeks, obsessing over her dress, her hair, her jewelry. And she'd taken out every anxiety and frustration on Amelia.
The day of the ball, Vivienne stood before her mirror while Amelia arranged her hair. It had taken two hours to get it perfect—an elaborate updo with golden ribbons woven through.
"It's crooked," Vivienne said.
It wasn't. Amelia had been meticulous.
"Fix it."
Amelia reached up to adjust a single curl—
Vivienne grabbed her wrist. Hard.
The sleeve pulled back.
The marks were visible.
Vivienne's eyes widened. "What is THAT?"
Amelia tried to pull away, but Vivienne's grip tightened. She yanked Amelia's other sleeve up, exposing both wrists.
"Mother!" Vivienne shrieked. "MOTHER, COME HERE!"
Beatrice rushed in. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Look!" Vivienne thrust Amelia's arms forward. "She's marked! Like a witch or a demon!"
The marks, triggered by Amelia's fear and Vivienne's rough handling, began to glow. Soft silver-violet light pulsed from them, illuminating the room.
Beatrice gasped. "Edmund! Get in here!"
Within minutes, the entire household was gathered. Edmund, Beatrice, Vivienne, the other servants—all staring at Amelia and her glowing marks.
"What are you?" Edmund demanded. "Some kind of witch?"
Amelia shook her head desperately.
"She doesn't speak because she's hiding something," Vivienne said, her fear transforming into vicious accusation. "She's been casting spells on us! That's why Mother's roses died last week! That's why I've been having nightmares!"
"The roses died because you forgot to water them," one of the other servants muttered, but no one listened.
"Get her out," Beatrice said, backing away. "I won't have witchcraft in my house!"
"Wait," Edmund said, still staring at the marks. "These might be valuable. What if she really does have power? We could use that."
"Use it? Are you mad? She's dangerous!"
"Or she's an asset." Edmund's merchant mind was calculating. "There are people who pay well for… unusual items. Unusual individuals."
Amelia's blood ran cold. He was talking about selling her. Not to a family, but to someone who'd exploit her power.
"No," Beatrice said firmly. "I want her gone. Out of this house. Tonight."
"But the marks—"
"I don't care! Get her out!"
Vivienne smiled, satisfied. "Told you there was something wrong with her."
They gave Amelia ten minutes to gather her things. No payment for her three months of service. No explanation of where she should go. Just out.
As Amelia packed her pathetic bag, she heard Vivienne in the hallway, already spinning a story for her friends: "We had to dismiss the help. Turns out she was a witch! Can you imagine? In MY house!"
Amelia walked down the servants' stairs for the last time. As she passed Vivienne's room, she saw the girl at her mirror, admiring herself in her ball gown.
And for the first time in her life, Amelia deliberately used her power.
She didn't know exactly how she did it. Didn't understand the mechanism. But she thought hard about Vivienne's perfect hair, the hours of work, the upcoming ball.
The marks on her wrists flared hot.
And in Vivienne's room, every candle suddenly went out. The girl shrieked. When light was restored, her elaborate hairdo had somehow come completely undone, ribbons tangled, curls a mess.
"WHAT HAPPENED?" Vivienne wailed. "The ball is in two hours!"
Amelia allowed herself the smallest smile as she walked out into the night.
It was petty. It was small. It solved nothing.
But gods, it felt good.
-----
She wandered the streets of Millford for three days, sleeping in alleys, eating scraps she found or stole. The spirits followed her, more visible now than ever. People started noticing—not the spirits themselves, but Amelia's behavior. The way she'd pause and seem to listen to nothing. The way she'd move aside for things they couldn't see.
"That girl's mad," she heard someone whisper.
"Talking to herself."
"Probably escaped from an asylum."
On the fourth day, weak from hunger and exhausted from lack of sleep, Amelia collapsed near a temple. A monk found her and brought her inside.
His name was Brother Chen—no relation to Thomas Chen, but the coincidence of names made Amelia's heart ache.
"You're safe here," he said gently. "Rest. We'll feed you and find you proper placement."
For two weeks, Amelia stayed at the temple. The monks were kind, never pushing her to speak, never fearing her silence. Brother Chen especially seemed to understand that some wounds ran too deep for words.
"You've seen hardship," he observed one day as they worked in the temple garden. "More than any child should."
Amelia nodded.
"And you see things others don't. Don't you?"
She froze. How did he know?
Brother Chen smiled gently. "I'm old, child. And I've learned to read what isn't said. The way you look at empty spaces. The way you sometimes nod as if answering someone. You have the sight."
Slowly, Amelia nodded again.
"It's not a curse," he said. "It's a gift. One day, you'll understand that. But for now, you need safety. Stability. I'll write to an old friend who runs a different kind of orphanage. One for children with special gifts."
Amelia's heart sank. Another orphanage. Another place to be labeled and locked away.
But she had no other options.
-----
Brother Chen died in his sleep that night.
Amelia found him in the morning, still peacefully resting in his bed. His spirit stood beside his body, looking serene and content.
*Don't be sad,* his spirit said. *I've lived a full life. And I was able to help one more lost soul before I went. That's all an old monk can ask for.*
*Everyone I care about dies,* Amelia thought bitterly.
*Everyone dies eventually, child. That's not your curse. That's just life.* His spirit began to fade. *But you… you're meant to help others with their dying. To ease the transition. To guide lost souls home. That's your gift. Remember that.*
And then he was gone, moving on to whatever came next.
The other monks found Amelia sitting beside Brother Chen's body, tears streaming down her face. They assumed she was grieving normally.
They didn't see her whispering goodbye to someone they couldn't see.
They didn't notice the marks on her wrists glowing faintly in the morning light.
And they didn't realize that the girl they'd sheltered for two weeks was about to change the fate of three realms.
But that awakening was still years away.
For now, Amelia was just an almost twelve-year-old orphan, alone again, with nowhere to go and no one to help her.
The story of the calamity child continued.
And things would only get worse.