She wiped the nib on the cloth, set the pen exactly where she’d found it, and crossed the room in two quiet steps.
She pressed herself into the shadowed corner behind the door as it creaked open.
The light tread of a servant crossed the soft carpet. Aoife recognised Alton, his back to her as he placed something on thedesk. Aoife pulled the door open a fraction more; if he turned to his left, he would see her. She waited with bated breath as he wrote something on a sheet of paper. He stood, put down the pen, and turned to his right.
The door closed again, and Aoife let out the breath she’d been holding.
Only when she could hear no more footsteps in the corridor did she slip out, easing the door shut with her fingertips and barely a whisper.
She walked away with steady steps, though her heart rattled like loose iron inside her chest.
She had changed a single number.
Not much.
One more barrel of grain. That was more than enough to make a difference.
Or to start something she could not yet fathom.
Outside, the world still smelled of yesterday’s storm: wet earth, soaked bark, and the ghost of lightning in the air. Aoife followed the long route between the hedges, staying out of sight of the windows. Every few steps she paused, checking behind her, the length of the lawn, the shadows beneath the trees. Fear made her careful. Purpose made her bold.
The outhouse stood alone at the treeline, its low roof dripping, the latch hanging crooked where the wind had battered it. She pulled the door open and slipped inside.
The dim space smelled of dry grain and old wood. Barrels crowded the walls. More than nine. Far more. She walked up the line; the barrels had symbols scratched into the wood. She was certain most of these were alcohol. But at one end she found them: nine barrels carved with a primitive drawing of grain.
She placed a hand on the nearest one, fingers tracing the cool curve of the wood. The barrel was heavy, absurdly heavy. Enough to feed a household for weeks.
Aoife braced her shoulder against it and tried to lift.
It didn’t budge.
She grimaced, shifted her stance, and rocked it instead. The barrel shuddered and groaned before rolling a fraction. She gritted her teeth and did it again.
Come on.
It moved slowly at first, leaning gently as she strained against it. When it reached the tipping point, Aoife grabbed for it, trying to prevent it falling too hard. It slipped through her fingers, and the thud as it landed echoed in the tight space. She froze, listening.
Silence.
Aoife exhaled, heart pounding.
Rolling it was far easier than lifting it. She nudged it forward on a wobbly path toward the door. The wooden staves scraped against the threshold.
The open stretch between the outhouse and the woods lay ahead, fifty yards of open ground. Too much space. Too many windows looking out over it.
Aoife crouched low, scanning the manor.
There was no movement. No figures at the windows.
She pushed.
The barrel lurched forward, rolling over the wet grass with a deep, muffled thud. She half-ran after it, half-steered it, trying to keep her body between it and any watching eyes. The barrel veered sharply, and she had to throw her weight against it to keep it on a path towards the woods.
But she made it to the treeline.
The canopy swallowed her at once. Damp leaves brushed her shoulders. She let out a breath.
Too soon.
