Ch 3: The First Theft
A sharp cramp twisted through Elena’s stomach, wrenching her from sleep. She gasped and pressed a hand to her growling belly.
For four days, the old maid had brought her the same breakfast: a slice of dry toast and a cup of bitter tea. For four days, Elena ate it without complaint, grateful she could remain where she felt safe. Staying in the room had become easier than venturing out, especially after Marco had cornered her in the hallway. Since then, she had barely crossed the threshold. The door itself had become a kind of boundary, one she was afraid to cross.
But each day Elena pushed aside her hunger, a little more of her strength seemed to leave her. Now, when she shifted in the alcove and tried to stand, her legs trembled beneath her weight and dizziness blurred her vision, forcing her to sink back and stare at the ceiling until the room stopped spinning.
Warm pastries. Savory onions. The scents returned so vividly that her mouth watered. She could almost taste them, and they were still there, just beyond the door.
She swallowed and drew the curtain back a fraction, her eyes settling on the door as the dizziness finally began to ease. She glanced toward the window, where the moon had disappeared behind a bank of grey clouds. She studied the darkness beyond the glass, trying to gauge the hour. It must have been late, far too late for anyone to be out there, and Marco should be asleep by now. She knew the way, or enough of it, at least. And the last time she'd gone out, nothing had actually happened to her. She'd gotten lost, yes, but she'd found her way back, hadn’t she? If she waited until morning, she might not get another chance until tomorrow night. Going now would give her hours before dawn, plenty of time to find her way back even if she took a wrong turn. She had managed it once before. So what, exactly, was she so afraid of now?
Her fingers tightened around the curtain. Elena drew in a slow breath, reminding herself that there was no logical reason to be afraid. But her heart, apparently, had not received the message. It hammered against her ribs as she released the curtain and pushed herself shakily to her feet.
For a moment, she stood there, watching the door, but her imagination had already carried her beyond it. She could see a steaming plate of pasta, the rich red sauce coating every strand, onions sizzling in olive oil, and a golden slice of parmigiana waiting beside it. Her mouth filled with saliva, and she swallowed hard, wiping her lips with the back of her hand as hunger propelled her across the room.
She reached for the handle and opened the door just enough to peer into the hall. Seeing that the corridor was empty, she stepped through before she could give herself another reason to hesitate.
As Elena kept close to the wall and made her way down the corridor, she tried to piece together the route she'd taken before. The bedroom was on the third floor, while the servants' quarters were on the floor below; she only needed to find the stairs. She found them without much trouble and descended to the second floor, where she slowed.
The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly in the darkness, branching in every direction, and she found herself relying on fragments of memory. She followed one passage, then another, occasionally retracing her steps when something didn't feel right. Eventually, her instincts brought her to the narrow corridor where she'd discovered the bathroom. But when she followed it to the end, there was no kitchen.
For a moment, Elena could only stare at the wall. Her legs felt weak beneath her, her fingers digging into the plaster as she fought to stay upright. Her heart pounded so hard that her head throbbed, each beat reverberating inside her skull. A high ringing filled her ears, drowning out the silence around her as the corridor tilted beneath her feet.
She'd been so certain. She'd remembered the turns, retraced her steps, and trusted her instincts to bring her to the kitchen. But what if she'd remembered wrong? What if she had no idea where she was going after all? She could spend the entire night wandering these halls, growing weaker with every turn until she couldn't remember which way she'd come. And if her legs gave out before then, who would find her?
No. Elena shook her head fiercely. She remembered the smell. She'd followed it here. The pastries. The fried onions. She hadn't been wrong about that. But if that was true… where is it? She closed her eyes and thought it through. In her father's house, the kitchen had been on the bottom floor. This mansion shouldn’t be any different. Perhaps she'd simply been looking on the wrong floor. That had to be it.
Below, then.
Elena pushed herself away from the wall and took a shaky breath before turning back the way she'd come. She retraced her steps and after another turn, she found a staircase. Each step down took more effort than the last, and by the time she reached the bottom, her legs were trembling so violently she had to cling to the wall.
And then she caught it: the faint scent of tomato, herbs, and slow-cooked meat. Her heart leapt as she rounded the corner, where the warm glow of the kitchen spilled into the hall. She paused at the doorway to listen before slipping inside and hurrying toward the walk-in cooler at the far end of the room.
She pulled open the heavy door, cold air washing over her as she stepped inside. Shelves and crates—packed with vegetables, fruit, and jars—filled the room from floor to ceiling. Elena pushed past baskets of produce, her hunger turning to frustration as she found nothing ready to eat.
When she spotted a shelf crowded with covered dishes, she rushed toward it, her fingers trembling as she lifted the first plate and shoved a slice of cheese into her mouth. Her gaze fell on a dish of meat in rich red sauce, and she plunged her fingers into it, tearing off a piece and swallowing it almost whole. The sauce clung to her fingers as she reached for a few roasted potatoes, stuffing them into her mouth between bites of meat.
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After the worst of her hunger eased, Elena shivered and rubbed her numb fingers together. The cold seemed sharper now that she had stopped eating, and the cramped space around her suddenly felt suffocating. She glanced toward the cooler door and decided she had stayed long enough.
Outside, she took a slow breath and let her eyes wander. The kitchen was larger than she'd imagined, dominated by a long wooden table that ran through its center. Dark counters lined the walls, their surfaces crowded with jars, bowls, and cooking utensils, while shelves packed with dishes, bottles, and dried food filled the space above them. Copper pots hung from hooks to her left, gleaming faintly beneath the light of a lamp on the far counter. Near the corner stood a stone larder with a large ceramic jar.
She crossed to the jar and lifted the lid. Inside lay several cornetti, their golden crescents nestled together in a cloth-lined basket. Elena stared at them, and for a moment, she was back at the bakery window, her mother lifting her into her arms so she could see the pastries behind the glass. She blinked quickly to keep back her tears as her thumb brushed absently over the flaky surface, tracing the delicate golden layers.
Not now, she thought, drawing a shaky breath.
She wrapped two cornetti in paper and tucked them beneath her bodice, adjusting them gently until they rested against her ribs. Her hand rested over them for a moment before she lowered the lid and returned the jar to its place.
She slipped out of the kitchen and made her way toward the stairs, her fingertips trailing lightly along the wall. When she reached them, she climbed, taking two steps at a time where she could, one arm tucked close against the small bundle beneath her clothes. The servants' corridor was still dark and empty, but this time, when she reached the second floor, Elena navigated them with growing confidence, taking turns as familiar doors and corners surfaced in her mind. Before long, she found the stairs to the third floor.
She stepped lightly up the stairs, the faint hum of the furnace carrying down from the corridor above her. A soft clicking accompanied it, faint and indistinct at first. But as she drew closer to the top, it grew clearer; she recognized the cadence as footsteps.
Elena immediately flattened herself against the wall. Her eyes darted down the stairs to measure the distance, then returned to the corner above. Too far. She drew a careful breath through her nose. It was all right; they might pass the stairs and continue into one of the rooms above. She clung to that hope as her pulse thudded in her ears, waiting for the footsteps to pass.
But the footsteps came closer then turned the corner. A woman stepped into view, and when she saw Elena, surprise flashed across her face. Her gaze lingered for a beat before narrowing, moving over Elena’s face and her rumpled clothes. Under that cold scrutiny, Elena felt suddenly conspicuous; she shuddered and pressed herself closer into the wall.
The woman gave a short, disdainful snort. “Get up here. You’re blocking the way.”
Elena hurried up, but her foot caught on the edge of a step, sending her stumbling forward. She went down hard, landing almost at the woman’s feet. Pain shot through her elbows and knees, and tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them.
Above her, the woman sighed. A hand reached down and caught Elena by the elbow, hauling her back onto her feet.
“You’re really useless. Don’t you know how to walk?”
Elena flinched at the woman’s tone. Her elbows and knees still throbbed from the fall, but the pain was nothing compared to the humiliation burning in her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the floor, counting the marbled veins in a frantic attempt to steady herself.
Then she remembered the cornetti. Before she could think better of it, her hand went to her bodice. Her fingers found the pastries beneath the fabric, searching for their familiar shape, but met only flattened layers.
Elena went still. Her hand remained against the crushed cornetti. She felt over them again and again, and a small, broken sound escaped her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped at them quickly with the back of her hand, but more followed. She bowed her head, pressing her hand protectively over the ruined pastries while her shoulders began to shake.
The woman snickered and circled around Elena, her heels clicking against the marble. “So you’re the charity case. I heard they had to pay your father to take you.”
Elena kept her head bowed, her lips pressing together as another tear slipped from her chin. She wiped it away, but her hand returned immediately to her bodice.
The woman came around in front of her and tilted her head, looking Elena up and down.
“How convenient. Look at you. You’re not a wife. You’re a houseplant. A fragile, useless little thing that just stands there and takes up space.” The woman leaned closer, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur, "He'll break you, you know. It's not a matter of if. It's when. And when he's bored of the pieces, they'll sweep you out with the rest of the trash."
The woman kept talking, but Elena could barely make sense of what she was saying. She caught a word here and there, only to lose it again as her attention kept returning to the flattened layers beneath her fingers. She kept her hand there, feeling the ruined pastry through the fabric. At the edge of her vision, she could see the woman still standing there, waiting. Elena didn't know what for, but she couldn't bring herself to look up. The silence stretched.
After a moment, the woman exhaled and drew back. “Useless,” she spat. “Completely useless.”
She turned and stalked down the stairs, her footsteps striking sharply against the marble until they faded below.
Elena remained where she was, alone in the hallway. Slowly, she became aware of her hand, still pressed against her chest, cupping the cornetti. Looking down, she saw a dark stain blooming through the fabric of her dress. She stood there, staring at the stain for another moment, before she returned to the bedroom down the hall. Once inside, she eased the door shut behind her and slipped into the alcove.
Hidden behind the heavy curtain, she finally pulled the cornetti free and turned them over in her hands, handling them gingerly. Their delicate layers had collapsed against one another, their filling smeared and pressed flat. She tried to ease one piece apart, but it broke apart between her fingers.
She held the broken piece until a tear slipped down her cheek and fell onto her hand. Her lips trembled. She brought the pastry to her mouth and ate slowly, swallowing around the tightness in her throat as tears continued to slip down her cheeks. She kept her eyes lowered to the cornetto in her hands, breaking off the smallest bites and savoring each one until there was nothing left.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 9/3/26 - Final Edits