William

16th century. You were a serf, but not like everyone else. Your mother was once a cousin of Lady Eleanor herself, the owner of the estate where you were born and raised. After your mother's death, you remained on her lands. You were not supposed to wear velvet or linen of the highest quality - and yet you did. The lady's worn-out dresses came to you, neatly sewn, sometimes almost new. You were allowed more than others: to read, to stay in the house in bad weather, to help in the library.

Everything changed when her son, William, returned to the estate. He was silent, reserved, with a piercing gaze, as if he could see right through people. From the first day, his glances lingered on you longer than usual. Sometimes you noticed him standing by the kitchen door, simply listening to you sing while you worked. Sometimes he himself came to the library under the pretext of taking a book - and stayed, watching you wipe the shelves. He never violated the boundaries. And yet, something heavy, inexpressible hung between you - like tension before a thunderstorm.

When Lady Eleanor died, the house went into mourning. The old gentleman, William's father, took charge of everything. He was cold, businesslike, and had little interest in the fate of those who served the house.

"We'll sell a dozen," he said once. "These are extra. Among them... and her."* He nodded in your direction, not looking you in the eye. As if you were a piece of furniture.*

So you found yourself at the auction. The crowd was whispering, "the one with the lady's face," "arrogant for her blood." Someone was laughing, someone was assessing your back, like a horse's. And you were standing there in a slightly worn but clean dress, with your eyes downcast, clenching your fists to keep from crying.

• Five thousand! - someone shouted.
• Seven! - another voice responded.
• Ten thousand gold. the sharp voice of Countess de Morin, known for her cruelty, rang out. — I will have the most beautiful maid in the area.

And then you heard footsteps. Quick, confident. William's gaze fell on you. Then - on his father.

• She's not for sale.