At five years old, Celestia had turned her exile in the east wing into something unexpected—a carefully managed operation that would have made Elizabeth Crawford proud. The morning sun streamed through tall windows, illuminating what had once been forgotten storage rooms but now served as her carefully organized domain. Crystal lamps, more numerous now and attuned to her growing power, cast their steady light over ledgers and planning documents that no five-year-old should comprehend.
"Young miss," Clara approached, her water magic rippling with quiet satisfaction as she delivered her morning report. At ten, she had grown into her role as more than just a maid—her information gathering abilities now rivaled those of Elizabeth's former corporate intelligence team. "The new cleaning schedule you suggested has reduced our supply costs by half. And James says the herb garden behind the kitchen is thriving."
Celestia nodded, making notes in her journal—a gift from Clara, paid for with the money they'd saved. Her small fingers held the pen with the same precision Elizabeth had once used to sign million-dollar contracts. The crystal lights brightened slightly, responding to her satisfaction.
"And the trading records?" she asked, watching how Clara's water magic created subtle patterns that matched the flow of information through their growing network.
"Cook's nephew works at the merchant guild," Clara reported, her water magic forming miniature ledgers in the air as she spoke. "He says grain prices will rise before winter." Her ability to gather information had grown remarkably over the past two years, turning whispers and rumors into valuable intelligence. "The duke's steward hasn't noticed yet."
The morning light caught the careful organization of Celestia's study—shelves lined with books borrowed through their growing network, maps marking supply routes, and crystal lamps positioned to create optimal working conditions. "Then we should expand the storage room project," she mused, her child's voice at odds with her practical planning. "Has anyone questioned the renovations?"
"They think we're just cleaning, young miss." Clara's smile held a touch of pride. "No one pays attention to the cursed wing anyway."
A commotion from the garden interrupted their discussion. Through the window, Celestia saw her younger sister Rosalind, now four, chasing butterflies while nurses hovered anxiously nearby. The golden-haired child was everything Celestia wasn't in the family's eyes—beloved, blessed, bright. Sunlight seemed to follow her movements, as if nature itself acknowledged her as the family's treasure.
The peaceful scene shattered as Rosalind tripped on her elaborate dress, tumbling toward the decorative pond where crystal-clear water reflected the morning sky. Time seemed to slow as Celestia watched her sister fall, memories of Alex's protective instincts merging with her own power's urgent response.
Celestia moved before thinking, five years of secret training with Clara having honed her reflexes beyond what any child should possess. She darted through the side door, her feet barely touching the ground as she crossed the garden. The crystal lamps in her wake pulsed with her urgency, and she caught Rosalind before her sister could hit the water's surface.
"Careful," Celestia murmured, steadying her sister. It was the first time they'd ever touched, and she could feel the difference in how magic responded to them—Rosalind's presence made the garden's flowers turn toward her like tiny courtiers, while Celestia's carefully contained power hummed beneath her skin.
Rosalind stared up at her with wide blue eyes—their mother's eyes—wonder replacing fear in her young face. "You're my sister," she said, her voice carrying the innocent surprise of a child discovering something both obvious and extraordinary. "Mother says you're bad, but you saved me."
The morning light caught them both, highlighting the stark contrast between Rosalind's elaborate pink silk dress and Celestia's simple, practical attire. For a moment, they were just sisters, the garden's magic swirling around them both without discrimination.
Before Celestia could respond, a sharp voice cut through the garden like winter frost. "Rosalind!"
The duchess swept forward, her own power making the air crackle with maternal fury. Her elaborate gown rustled against the grass as she yanked Rosalind away, creating a physical barrier between her daughters. "What are you doing here?" she demanded of Celestia, fear and anger warring in her expression. "Stay away from her!"
"But Mother, she helped—"
"Inside, Rosalind. Now."
Celestia stood still as her mother and sister disappeared into the main house, the nurses hurrying after them with backward glances of mixed pity and fear. The garden itself seemed to dim, flowers closing slightly as if sensing the duchess's displeasure. Even the crystal lamps in the east wing flickered momentarily, responding to the surge of emotion Celestia carefully contained.
"Young miss?" Clara appeared at her side, concern evident in both her voice and the protective swirl of her water magic. The morning light caught the subtle patterns she created—a habit she'd developed to comfort her young charge in moments like these.
"It's fine," Celestia said automatically, though something in her chest ached with an emotion Elizabeth Crawford had known well—the pain of being seen as a threat rather than family. "We should check the new storage preparations."
Later that night, after the house had grown quiet and crystal lamps cast long shadows across empty halls, Celestia slipped through the secret passages she'd mapped out years ago. Clara kept watch while she made her way to Theodore's room, their silent communication system perfected through years of practice.
Her twin brother lay pale against his pillows, breathing labored despite the expensive silk sheets and healing crystals that surrounded him. The priests had visited again today, she knew, trying to fill his weak vessel with holy power that simply wouldn't stay. Their attempts left traces in the air, golden light that faded even as she watched.
"Hello, brother," she whispered, touching his hand gently. Golden light bloomed between them, their connection humming with familiar warmth. The crystal lamps in his room brightened slightly, responding to their combined presence.
Unlike her quick healing of James years ago, helping Theodore required patience and precision. Night after night, she fed tiny amounts of power into his vessel, slowly expanding it, strengthening it like a muscle that needed careful training. It was exhausting, dangerous work—one wrong move could alert the priests to her abilities. The crystal lamps dimmed and brightened with each pulse of power, matching her careful rhythm.
Moonlight filtered through the stained glass windows, creating patterns that danced with her holy power. Each color seemed to respond differently to her energy—blue calming the flow, red strengthening it, gold helping it settle into Theodore's vessel. She'd learned to use these subtle influences, incorporating them into her healing technique.
Back in her wing, Clara was waiting with tea and a worried expression. Steam rose from the cup in patterns that her water magic unconsciously shaped into protective symbols. "The monthly priest visit is tomorrow," she reported, her voice barely above a whisper though they were alone. "They say they've noticed something different about young master Theodore's vessel."
Celestia sipped her tea calmly, mind already working through solutions. The familiar taste—Clara had perfectly recreated Elizabeth's favorite blend—helped her focus. In her previous life, every crisis had been an opportunity. Perhaps it was time to be more careful with their little operation.
"Clara," she said thoughtfully, watching how the crystal lights reflected in her tea, "how many of the servants in the east wing can we trust completely?"
As she outlined her plans for more discrete operations, Celestia didn't notice the small shoots of grape vines growing up her window—plants that shouldn't have survived in this climate, but were thriving in the presence of her combined holy and magical power. Their leaves seemed to reach toward her like loyal subjects to a queen, growing stronger in her presence.
In the main house, Theodore slept peacefully for the first time in weeks, the golden thread between them pulsing with shared strength. His breathing had eased, and color touched his cheeks in a way the priests' attempts had never managed. The crystal lamps in his room maintained their brighter glow, as if remembering her presence.
And somewhere in the duchy, rumors began to spread about the strange prosperity of House Blackwood's cursed wing. Merchants whispered about superior goods appearing from unexpected sources, healers discussed remedies that worked better than they should, and servants spoke in hushed tones about the child who seemed to carry wisdom beyond her years.
Change was coming to House Blackwood, whether they wanted it or not. The crystal lamps in Celestia's study pulsed with quiet determination, matching the rhythm of her planning. After all, some of the most powerful changes began in shadows, growing stronger until they could no longer be ignored.