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Gavan’s gaze flicked away, towards the corridor beyond. “I will see that you are given proper tools,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “You need not do every task with just hands already harmed.”

Sorcha’s eyes did not soften, not in that overt way that would ease his pride, but something in them settled, like a wary bird allowing its feathers to relax just a fraction.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

The words were simple. No flourish. No warmth. But Gavan felt them all the same.

He turned then, preparing to leave.

Before he reached the hall, Sorcha spoke again, softer this time. “You need not pretend this is mercy.”

Gavan paused in the doorway, weighing those words. Good, he thought. Let her believe I do not flatter her with false kindness. And yet, beneath the stubborn armour of his pride, something in him gentled. Not forgiveness. Not acknowledgment of softness. Acknowledgment of shared pain.

And for Gavan Munro, that was enough.

*

Sorcha could not go back to sleep after Gavan’s visit. Instead, she went to the empty kitchen and unwrapped her hands. Finding water, she filled a small basin, then returned to her chamber to bathe herself. A hiss of pain escaped her lips when her hands met water. Pressing her lips together, she pushed past the pain and reached for a scrap of cloth to clean herself. When she was done, she donned her dress once more.

Back in the kitchen, she found an apron in the corner and put it over her gown to protect it from the dust and grime that would probably be her new companions today in the attic.

Instead of eating food from the kitchen, she returned to her chamber and ate the remainder of the portion Destiny had given her. Using her fingers as a brush, she combed out the worst of the knots in her hair, then gathered it into a mass at her nape, securing it with a scrap of linen that had been given to her to dress her hands.

When she felt more presentable, she sat on the edge of her bed and once more smeared her hands with lard before wrapping them in linen. Her fingers were less swollen this morning, and the stinging had eased. A day of not scrubbing would serve her well. She wondered why Gavan had changed his mind. Had it been because she had helped him in his pain last night?

She shook the thought away. Gavan Munro was not so sentimental as that. He probably had another nefarious reason for changing her work assignment this morning.

She stood and moved towards the hallway. The house was different in the morning—quieter, but not empty. Before she had gone much farther, she heard footsteps overhead, measured, deliberate.

Gavan.

Her shoulders tightened as she continued towards the attic. The attic ladder creaked beneath her feet, and then the door above opened. Pale winter light spilled down, thin and dusty. Sorcha climbed slowly, careful of her hands, emerging into the low-beamed space that smelled of old wood, wool, and time itself.

Gavan stood near a stack of trunks, sleeves rolled, coat abandoned somewhere below. Dust motes floated between them like held breath.

“You are early,” she said, because silence felt dangerous.

“So are you,” he replied. There was no sharpness in his voice. That alone unsettled her.

He gave her instructions, and they worked at first without speaking. Sorcha sorted through folded linens, shaking them out, stacking what was sound and setting aside what had gone too thin with age or wear. Gavan lifted trunks, opened lids, and handed her contents without further comment. She noticed the way he favoured his right arm, the way his jaw tightened when he shifted weight. She told herself not to look. She failed.

“I owe you words,” he said, breaking the silence.

Sorcha stilled, cloth in her hands. Slowly, she turned to face him.

Gavan stood very still, as if he had already decided to say this and feared that any movement might undo his resolve. “I treated you as less than I should have,” he said. “As if pain were a thing I alone had earned.”

Her throat tightened.

“I told myself it was discipline,” he went on. “Justice. Instead, it was cruelty.” The word landed between them, heavy.

Sorcha did not answer at once. She waited, letting him finish.

His gaze dropped, then lifted again, steady and unflinching. “I am sorry.”

Not for the floors. Not for the work. Just I am sorry. It was enough.

Sorcha let out a slow breath. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For saying it.”