The lunch rush felt like a blur of steam, shouting, and heavy trays. By the middle of the afternoon, my legs felt like they were made of lead, and my hands were red and raw from the hot dishwater and the rough vegetable peeler. Every time I thought I was getting faster, another group of hungry hunters walked through the door, and the chaos started all over again.
Agnes was everywhere at once. "Mary Ann! You're daydreaming again! Table eight needs more ale, and the floor by the bar needs a mop! Move, girl!"
I grabbed the heavy wooden mop, my back aching. As I hurried past the bar, I saw Katya, the other server, effortlessly carrying three full mugs of ale in each hand. She gave me a sharp look as I struggled with the mop bucket.
"You're blocking the path," Katya hissed. "The customers aren't paying to watch you clean; they're paying to eat. At this rate, Agnes is going to run out of patience before the sun sets."
"I'm doing my best, Katya," I whispered, my voice tight.
"In this village, 'best' isn't enough," she replied coldly. "You have to be fast, or you're just in the way."
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the tavern finally grew quiet. The last of the travelers had moved to their rooms upstairs, and the fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers. I leaned against the kitchen counter, my breath coming in tired sighs.
Agnes walked into the kitchen, carrying a small leather pouch. She looked exhausted, but her eyes were still sharp as she sat at the heavy table.
"Manya, come here," Agnes called out.
Manya stepped forward. Agnes reached into the pouch and pulled out several shiny silver coins. "You worked well today, as always. You kept the kitchen moving when things got messy. Here is your full pay."
"Thank you, Agnes," Manya said with a respectful nod, tucking the coins into her pocket.
Then, Agnes turned her gaze to me. She didn't look angry, but she didn't look happy either. She reached into the pouch and pulled out a handful of silver coins, but then she began setting some of them aside, back into the bag.
"Now, for you, Mary Ann," Agnes started, her voice firm. "The Eldress told me you were a hard worker, and I saw that you tried. But in this business, trying doesn't pay for the waste."
I felt my heart sink. "What do you mean?"
Agnes pointed a finger at the ledger on the table. "You dropped a bowl of stew—that's the cost of the meat and the broth. You moved too slow for table six, and they left without paying for their bread. And then there's the plate you chipped while washing. Everything has a price here."
She counted out the remaining coins and pushed them toward me. There were only two silver coins sitting on the wood.
"Two silver?" I whispered, looking at the tiny pile. My eyes stung with tears I didn't want to show. "I worked for ten hours. I pulled the garden, I stacked the wood, and I served all those people..."
"And you cost me money while doing it," Agnes said, not unkindly, but without pity. "The tavern doesn't run on hard work alone; it runs on results. These two silver coins are what's left after your mistakes are paid for."
Manya looked at me with a worried expression, but she didn't speak. She knew the rules of the village better than I did.
Suddenly, the back door creaked open. Mikhail was there, carrying a fresh crate of supplies from the market. He stopped and looked at the table, his eyes immediately landing on the two lonely coins in front of me.
"Is that all she earned?" Mikhail asked, his voice low.
"It's what she kept," Agnes replied, standing up to put her apron away. "She'll learn, or she'll starve. That's the way of the world."
Mikhail looked at me, and for the first time, his gaze wasn't just cold—it was almost a challenge. "I told you," he said quietly. "The village is not the house. Here, your mistakes have a weight."
I didn't look down. I gripped the two silver coins until the metal bit into my palm. "I know," I said, my voice shaking but determined. "And tomorrow, I won't owe you a single copper, Agnes. I'll be faster. I'll be better."
Mikhail didn't say anything, but he lingered for a moment longer than usual before turning back to his work.
The cold night air hit my face as we stepped out of the tavern, but it didn't cool the stinging heat of shame in my chest. Manya walked beside me, her footsteps steady on the cobblestones, while I clutched the two lonely silver coins in my pocket as if they were pieces of broken glass.
We stopped at the small market stalls near the village square. The vendors were packing up, their lanterns casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls. Manya began picking out a few shriveled carrots and a small bag of grain, her brow furrowed as she calculated the costs.
I looked at the meager pile of supplies, then at my hands. A sob finally escaped my throat, one I couldn't hold back anymore.
"I'm so sorry, Manya," I choked out, the tears finally spilling over. I pulled the two coins from my pocket and held them out to her, my hand trembling. "I was supposed to help. The Eldress trusted me to bring back enough for the winter supplies, and all I brought back was... this. Because I'm clumsy. Because I'm slow."
Manya stopped what she was doing and turned to me. The orange glow of a nearby lantern softened her face.
"Mary Ann, look at me," she said gently, but I kept my head down, watching my tears disappear into the dirt. "Look at me."
I finally looked up, my vision blurred.
"Two silver is more than zero," Manya said, reaching out to close my fingers over the coins. "Do you think I was fast on my first day? Do you think I didn't break a plate or spill the ale? Agnes is a hard woman because this is a hard life, but she didn't fire you. She told you to come back tomorrow. That is a victory, even if it doesn't feel like one."
"But the children," I sobbed, wiping my face with my rough sleeve. "Dasha needs a new blanket. The boys need boots. I wanted to be the one to provide, to show Mikhail I wasn't a burden. Instead, I just proved him right."
Manya stepped closer and pulled me into a brief, tight hug. She smelled like woodsmoke and rosemary. "Mikhail sees the world through scars and winter storms. He doesn't see the heart. You didn't quit, Mary Ann. When the stew spilled, you didn't run away. When Agnes yelled, you stayed. That is the kind of strength we need in the house."
She took one of my silver coins and used it to pay the vendor for a small bundle of dried herbs.
"Tonight, we eat the soup we have," Manya whispered, handing me the bag of herbs to carry. "And tomorrow, you will be one second faster. And the day after, two seconds. We are 'The Forgotten,' remember? We don't survive because we are perfect. We survive because we don't stop walking."
I took a deep, shaky breath, the cold air stinging my lungs. I looked at the one silver coin left in my hand. It wasn't much, but it was earned.
"Okay," I whispered, wiping my eyes one last time. "One second faster."
Manya smiled and linked her arm through mine. "That's the spirit. Now, let's go home. Dasha is probably waiting by the door, and she'll know you've been crying if we don't hurry."
As we walked back toward the dark forest path, I looked back at the lights of the village. I was exhausted, poor, and hurting—but for the first time since I woke up in this century, I didn't feel like a guest. I felt like a fighter.
The forest path was pitch black, illuminated only by the small lantern Manya carried. By the time the silhouettes of the orphanage appeared against the moonlight, my legs were trembling from exhaustion.
As we approached the heavy oak entrance, a tall, dark figure moved in the shadows. It was Mikhail. He was leaning against the stone doorframe, his arms crossed, his face partially hidden by the darkness. He didn't move as we drew closer. He didn't ask how the day went, and he didn't ask why my eyes were red and swollen from crying.
He simply pushed the door open for us, his gaze lingering on the small bag of meager ingredients Manya held. After we stepped inside, he closed the heavy latch with a dull thud and walked past us toward the kitchen without a single word. His silence felt heavier than any lecture he could have given.
Inside, the house was filled with a different kind of energy. Since Manya and I had been at the tavern, the other children had taken over the chores. Petr, a boy only a few years older than Dasha, stood by the hearth, carefully stirring a pot of thin porridge and roots. Dasha and Vanya were on their hands and knees near the long table, using rough cloths to scrub the floorboards until they gleamed.
"Sestra Mary Ann! Manya!" Dasha chirped, dropping her cloth and running to hug our knees. "Look! We cleaned the whole hall! Not even a speck of dust!"
"It looks beautiful, Dasha," I said, forcing a smile despite the ache in my heart.
We sat down to a very humble dinner. Because I had only brought home two silver coins, the meal was smaller than usual. Every time I heard a child's stomach growl, I felt the weight of my mistakes in the tavern kitchen. I could hardly swallow my own food.
After the meal was finished and the children were sent to get ready for bed, I knew I couldn't sleep. I walked down the quiet, drafty hallway toward the heavy door at the end. I knocked softly.
"Enter," the Eldress's voice rang out.
I stepped inside. Her room was simple—a desk, a bed, and hundreds of books and scrolls. She was sitting by a small candle, writing in a ledger. She didn't look up immediately.
"The village is a loud place for a quiet soul, is it not?" she asked softly.
"Eldress... I came to say I'm sorry," I started, my voice cracking. "You trusted me to help provide for the house, but I was slow. I broke things. I spilled food. I only brought back two silver coins after Agnes took out the costs of my mistakes."
The Eldress stopped writing and finally looked up. Her eyes weren't angry; they were deep and filled with a strange kind of wisdom.
"And did you walk away when it became difficult?"
"No," I whispered.
"Did you let Agnes's shouting drive you out of the kitchen?"
"No. I stayed until the end."
The Eldress stood up and walked toward me, her wool dress rustling on the floor. "Mary Ann, look at the moon through that window. It does not become full in a single night. It grows sliver by sliver."
"But the children are hungry," I argued. "Mikhail is right to look at me the way he does. I'm a burden."
"Mikhail sees the world as a hunt—you either kill or you starve," the Eldress said, placing a cold, thin hand on my arm. "But I see this house as a garden. You are a new seed in frozen soil. The fact that you did not break today is worth more to me than twenty silver coins."
"I don't feel strong," I admitted, a fresh tear escaping.
"Strength is not the absence of failure," she replied firmly. "Strength is returning to the tavern tomorrow morning knowing exactly how much it will hurt. Do you intend to return?"
I thought of Dasha's smile, Manya's kindness, and even Mikhail's judgmental silence. I thought of the life I left behind and the person I wanted to become here.
"Yes," I said, wiping my face. "I'll be there before the sun is up."
"Then you have nothing to apologize for," the Eldress said, a small, rare smile touching her lips. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow, the 'city girl' must find her rhythm."
I left the Eldress's room feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and quiet resolve. The hallway was dark and the air was biting, but her words stayed with me. I wasn't a burden; I was a seed in frozen soil.
I moved quietly toward the room I shared with Manya and Dasha, trying not to let the floorboards creak. The house was finally still, the only sound being the distant whistle of the wind against the stone walls. When I pushed the door open, the moonlight was streaming through the tiny window, painting a silver path across the straw mattresses.
Dasha was fast asleep, her small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Manya was also tucked under her covers, her back to me, already deep in the sleep of the hardworking.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, my muscles screaming as I finally pulled off my heavy, dirt-stained boots. My feet were throbbing, and my hands felt stiff from the cold dishwater at the tavern. I reached for my thin blanket to pull it back, but my hand brushed against something hard and wrapped in a scrap of rough linen.
I paused, my heart fluttering. I carefully unwrapped the cloth.
Inside was a thick, generous crust of rye bread. It wasn't the thin, watery porridge we had for dinner—it was a real piece of bread, the kind that was usually saved for the hunters or the Eldress. It was fresh enough that I could still smell the faint scent of grain.
I looked at Manya, but she didn't stir. I looked toward the door, thinking of Mikhail. He was the one who managed the pantry and the supplies. Had he seen how little I ate at dinner? Or was this Manya's way of making sure I had the strength to keep up with her tomorrow?
I didn't know who put it there, but as I took a small bite, the salt and the grain tasted like the greatest kindness I had ever known. I chewed slowly, savoring every crumb, feeling the warmth of the food settle in my stomach.
Someone in this house believed I would wake up tomorrow. Someone believed I was worth the extra food.
I tucked the remaining half of the bread under my pillow, lay down, and pulled the scratchy wool blanket up to my chin. For the first time since the car crash, I didn't feel like a ghost wandering through someone else's story. I felt like I was starting to belong.
I closed my eyes, and as sleep finally pulled me under, I didn't see the cemetery or the car lights. I saw the tavern kitchen, the steam, and the fire. And this time, I wasn't afraid.