Mylene had never slept in a room with a window before.
The room on the east side wasn't large. The walls were old, the bed was modest at best, and the desk legs were slightly uneven. Yet, every morning, a thin stream of light filtered through the window, painting the wood grain of the floor white. Here, she didn't have to fear the sound of footsteps outside her door in the dead of night. It was worlds away from those nights spent curled up in a kitchen corner, eyes squeezed shut while she tended the fire, knowing that if she overslept for even a moment, she'd be doused with water.
But the soft bed was frightening.
She felt she had no right to such comforts. The mere thought made her body tense up, chasing away sleep. Clutching her bandaged right hand to her chest, Mylene opened her eyes time and again. Her master had ordered her to rest. He'd forbidden her from entering the kitchen. But at her previous home, she'd been taught that a maid who didn't work was nothing more than a broken tool.
Mylene was not the one who had stolen the silver plate.
An older lady-in-waiting—the mistress’s favorite—had made off with a silver plate from the drawing room. She’d likely intended to sell it to some merchant at the back entrance, but Mylene had happened to spot the bundle. Her white hair made her an easy target, and her quiet nature meant she wouldn't talk back. With no family to speak for her, she’d been the perfect scapegoat.
The labels followed quickly. Silver plate thief. Sticky-fingered girl. Gloomy, unlucky white-haired girl. As those insults took hold, people stopped using her name entirely. If she had a fever, she worked. If she cut her finger, she wrapped it and kept going. Crying only invited more rage. Only after a thousand apologies would her day finally end.
So yesterday, when she'd cut herself on the chipped knife, she'd hidden the wound without a second thought. Fear of being cast out had arrived long before the pain.
After he’d taken her in... after he’d promised her a room, food, and even a salary... If he decided she was useless now, she would truly have nowhere left to go. The terror of her master finding out had far outweighed the stinging of the wound.
And yet, Vain had been angry.
He hadn't been angry that she was hurt; he was angry that she’d hidden it.
"A human hand isn't a tool that just fixes itself. I need your hands to keep this mansion running. Don’t treat them like garbage."
Those words had echoed in her mind all through the night.
Necessary hands.
Mylene gently cradled her right hand. In her previous life, these hands were slow. They were hands that made mistakes. They were the hands of a "thief," struck, pinned down, and plunged into freezing water as punishment.
But her master said he needed them.
Mylene understood how frightening that was. Being needed brought joy, but it also brought a chilling fear: what would happen the moment she was no longer necessary? She had to work harder. Even if she was ordered to rest, she could surely find something to do with just her left hand.
Mylene slipped out of bed, holding her right hand close to her chest to keep the bandage dry. The floorboards let out a soft groan. The mansion was silent in the morning. With the previous staff gone, the building felt far too large—hushed and still, like it wasn't quite breathing yet.
For Mylene, that silence was a mercy.
◇
The water she’d drawn yesterday was still in the jar in the kitchen.
As long as she didn't use her right hand, she’d be fine. She lifted the small pot with her left. Using the flint was a struggle, but the fire eventually caught in the hearth. She boiled the water and measured out the tea leaves. It took longer with one hand, but it wasn't impossible.
Master had told her not to do this.
But Master looked forward to his morning tea. Despite his silver hair, his villainous face, and the way his brows were always knit in a scowl, his eyes had softened—just for an instant—when he drank his tea yesterday morning. He’d even complimented her. "The tea isn't bad," he’d said. In her old life, those few words would have been enough to erase a whole day’s worth of suffering.
That was why she wanted to brew it again.
It wasn't just to repay his kindness. It was a way to ensure she wasn't thrown away. Mylene tried to convince herself of that, still too afraid to trust the warmth blooming in her chest.
As the steam began to rise, a low voice spoke from behind her.
"...What are you doing?"
Mylene nearly dropped the pot. She lunged to steady it with her left hand, then spun around while shielding her right.
Vain stood in the doorway, his silver hair slightly disheveled from sleep. Even so, his features were sharp and striking, lending him a strange, imposing air in the dim kitchen. His gaze was harsh, his mouth set in a thin line of displeasure. But his eyes weren't on the pot—they were fixed directly on her bandage.
"Master, you're awake. I'll have your tea ready in—"
"I believe I told you not to brew any."
Mylene felt a lump form in her throat. She’d angered him. Disobeying an order had been a mistake. At the previous mansion, she would have been slapped by now. Making excuses would only make it worse, so she simply bowed her head.
"I am terribly sorry. I believed I could manage with one hand, and I didn't want to disrupt your morning routine. Neither the fire nor the water touched the bandage, I assure you."
"That's not the point."
Vain stepped into the kitchen and glanced at the pot on the fire, then at the tray where she’d neatly arranged the tea set. The furrow in his brow deepened.
"Listen, Mylene. I told you to rest. When people don't follow instructions, I have to waste my breath repeating myself next time. It's a hassle. Just do what you're told the first time."
"Yes... I'm sorry."
"And your apology is wrong too. If you strain your hand, it won't heal. If it doesn't heal, it'll be ages before you're useful again. That means I lose out. Do you get it?"
Mylene kept her head down.
His words were cold—they should have been—and yet, this felt nothing like the screaming she was used to. He wasn't angry because she was useless; he was angry because she was risking her recovery. He wasn't scolding her for her inability to work, but for her refusal to stop.
She’d never been scolded like this before.
"Master... would it truly trouble you if I couldn't work...?"
"Obviously. I hired you so I can take it easy. Tea, cleaning, the linens—eventually, I’m dumping everything on your plate. If you ruin your hand on day one, my entire plan goes up in smoke."
Vain spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His words were harsh—talk of using her, dumping work on her—and yet, they made her heart ache with warmth.
These weren't the words of a man looking for a reason to throw her out. You don't talk about the "eventually" with someone you plan to fire tomorrow.
"...Do you intend to keep me for a long time?"
Vain’s expression grew even more menacing. "What kind of idiot pays for a room, wages, and a doctor's bill for a short-term hire?"
Mylene bit her lip, fighting back the urge to cry. Don't cry. Crying is a nuisance. Maids who cry are hated. Those lessons were ingrained in her. But her eyes stung. The reassurance she’d never received at the other house, no matter how much she begged for forgiveness, was being tossed at her with blunt irritation by this young noble.
A long time.
To Mylene, those words sounded like a home.
"Stop that. If you cry, people will think I'm the villain here."
"I'm sorry... I'm... not crying."
"Your voice is shaking. If you're going to lie to me, at least be convincing."
Vain moved to the hearth and lifted the pot off the fire. Seeing a noble’s hands touch kitchenware was shocking; Mylene moved to stop him, but a single sharp look silenced her. The silver-haired "villain" focused on his task.
"I'll handle this today. Go back to your room. And don't you dare touch those tea things. You're banned from the kitchen until the apothecary looks at you tomorrow."
"But, Master, your tea..."
"Drinking one bad cup of tea won't kill me. It's a much bigger loss if you push yourself and end up sidelined for a week."
Loss.
That word was her salvation. If he’d called it kindness, she would have feared its end. If he’d called it mercy, she would have expected it to vanish. But because he framed it as his own loss, she found she could trust him. Vain was honest about his own self-interest. Because of that, there were no hidden lies.
At the very least, he wasn't the kind of person who would step on her fingers with a smile.
Mylene bowed low. "Master. I promise to heal quickly. I will make sure I can run this house perfectly, so that you may take it easy."
"...Is it just me, or is your loyalty taking a weird turn?"
"No. It is exactly as you said, Master."
Vain looked like he wanted to argue, but he sighed instead. For the first time, Mylene found his silence comforting rather than frightening.
◇
Back in her room, Mylene sat in the chair by the window.
She rested her bandaged hand on her lap. The morning sun caught the white of her hair and cast soft shadows across the floor. Though her body was resting, her mind was racing.
Master insisted he wasn't a good person. He claimed he only hired her for his own convenience. And perhaps, on the surface, he wasn't a kind man. His face was terrifying, his eyes were sharp, and his scowl suggested he was always plotting something wicked.
But Mylene knew better now.
The moment he saw her injury, his first thought was her recovery. He’d offered to pay the bills. He’d scolded her for working while hurt. He’d given her a room with a window. Even though he hated tears, he’d reproached her for her recklessness, not her emotions.
Even if it was all for his own convenience... if that convenience included a future where she stayed by his side, it was more than she had ever dared to hope for.
The scars from the previous mansion wouldn't fade overnight. She would still flinch at a raised voice; her heart would still hammer at the sound of clattering plates. The fear of being discarded the moment she slipped up wouldn't vanish easily.
But today, she had learned something new.
In this house, she didn't have to hide her wounds.
That realization felt warmer than the bandage around her hand.
From down the hall, she heard the faint sounds of someone in the dining room. Master was likely struggling with the tea. It was unheard of for a noble to serve himself; the tea would probably be undrinkable. A small, genuine smile touched Mylene's lips.
Tomorrow, she would make him the best tea of his life.
Not out of fear. But because she wanted to see that "villainous" man look at her and say "not bad" just one more time.