Chapter Text
Winter had been merciless that year, the kind that did not simply chill the bones but claimed them. The streets were no place for the living, much less for a half-starved stray who had long since learned that warmth was a luxury and kindness even rarer. And yet, by some strange whim of fate—or folly—Mr. Phileas had found her there, barely breathing beneath the weight of snow and neglect, and had decided, quite irrationally, to bring her home.
It was not in his nature to act without reason, nor to involve himself in matters so inconvenient, and yet there he was, instructing the staff to prepare a room, to fetch a doctor, to keep her alive.
Ill, stubborn even in her weakened state, did not accept this without resistance; her gratitude warred with suspicion, her instincts demanding she remain distant even as her body betrayed her need for shelter. She stayed, not because she trusted him, but because survival dictated it—and perhaps, deep beneath all that hardened resolve, because she had nowhere else to go.