Charlotte was sure of it. She was dreaming again.
In a desolate field, she was once again running away from something. With each breath, the cold air filled her nose and mouth. The merciless north wind whipped her endless, long, dark green skirt.
Her instinct whispered: she had to run away, she must not be caught.
Panting, she ran and ran, not knowing what she was running from. Her breath was ragged and her chest heaved. To make matters worse, her unkempt, tangled black hair, loosened by the wind, strangled her throat like a rope.
Desperation spurred her on, but the wet earth from a recent rain clung to her shoes with every frantic step. The wind howled, whipping her tangled hair and whipping the already low-hanging fog into a frenzy. It choked the once-silent wilderness, turning it into a swirling white abyss that swallowed the world whole.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her legs burning with exertion. The feeling of being trapped intensified as the fog obscured her vision, making her feel like she was running blindfolded. The weight of unseen danger pressed down on her, a crushing sensation that made her feet feel like lead.
Then, a voice. “Charlotte.”
It was a young man’s voice, deep and melodious, but laced with an unsettling charm. It sent shivers down her spine, reminding her of a siren’s song – beautiful, captivating, but ultimately a death knell.
Against every fiber of her being, she forced herself to keep running. But the chilling whisper returned, closer this time, laced with an icy possessiveness. “You can’t escape me.”
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her heart. Charlotte gasped and clutched her left chest. Even then, her instinct kept whispering.
She had to leave. Leaving was the right thing to do. She had to leave to survive.
Then, she saw a man shimmering like an illusion in front of her eyes.
“You’re mine forever.”
The moment she instinctively reached out to him, she woke up from the dream.
***
A hand shook Charlotte’s shoulder, jolting her awake. Disoriented, she blinked open her eyes, finding herself still in the confines of the carriage. It wasn’t the most comfortable journey to say the least.
The wrinkled face of the old woman from the front seat peered down at her. “Miss? Are you alright? You were tossing and turning so much in your sleep, I worried I’d have to wake you.”
“Ah,” Charlotte mumbled, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you. I must have had a bad dream, but I can’t seem to recall it.” It was true. The dream had been vivid, leaving a lingering unease in its wake, but the details were already fading. A recurring theme in her sleep, unfortunately.
Reaching out, she pulled back the worn curtain, revealing a seemingly endless panorama of fields stretching towards the horizon. It was the same landscape that had greeted her since leaving the bustling city two days ago. Traveling such a distance, especially in the confines of the bumpy carriage, wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Her carefully styled hair was probably escaping its bonnet, and her backside was numb from the unrelenting wooden seat. Any attempt at adjusting her position with less than the utmost decorum would surely earn disapproving glances – the price one paid for maintaining the facade of a proper lady.
Despite her lack of a “ladylike” profession – a washerwoman wasn’t exactly high society – Charlotte held her head high. Starting as a maid at thirteen, her seven years of experience made her a valuable commodity, and she took pride in her work. But it was the sudden news of her mother’s illness that propelled Charlotte, ever the capable one, towards the countryside, just before the bustling Saint Michaela’s Festival.
Charlotte’s mother, Cynthia, held a unique position: wet nurse to the heir of Gredel Hill, the Earl of Kensington. Twenty-seven years ago, when the Earl’s precious second son was born, a telegram seeking a wet nurse echoed through Ethelwood. Freshly a mother herself, Cynthia fit the bill. Her husband, the family patriarch, lay injured from his work, and money was tight. So Cynthia left, leaving behind her own newborn’s cries.
Born seven years later, Charlotte enjoyed a peaceful childhood for three years under her mother’s care, a stark contrast to her sister’s upbringing. But peace rarely lasts. One ordinary day, another telegram arrived from Gredel Hill. The Earl’s eldest son had finally fathered a child after over a decade, and Cynthia was needed again.
Back to Gredel Hill she went. The Countess, determined to breastfeed, re-employed Cynthia as a dry nurse1a dry nurse is someone who is caring for the child without having the need to breastfeed., and Cynthia never returned. Not after seven years, not after seventeen. It seemed the Earl and Countess, perhaps in a twisted sense of atonement, kept having children, one after another.
Now, with three young children under her care, Cynthia remained the youngest’s wet nurse. Since her mother’s second departure, their visits were limited to four a year: major holidays or when the young master and his wife visited their maternal home. Sometimes, when the postman serving Gredel Hill fell ill, Charlotte would visit the Earl’s house in his place.
These visits were cherished moments. Charlotte brought family letters, and Cynthia, in return, sent money to support her young daughter. The two-day journey by horseback meant they could spend a cozy night together under one roof upon arrival – precious memories Charlotte held close.
Grief gnawed at Charlotte. Just last year, her sister perished in a mountain accident, and the year before, her father succumbed to gambling debts and despair, taking his own life. Now, her only remaining family, her mother, lay gravely ill. Exhausted from the long journey, Charlotte closed her eyes for a brief moment as the carriage rumbled to a halt.
“Gredel Hill, miss,” the coachman announced, his voice booming through the stillness.
A gentle voice broke through Charlotte’s fatigue. It was the kind old woman, the midwife, who had shared the carriage ride. “Didn’t you say you were getting off here?” she inquired, explaining she was on her way to see her soon-to-be-born grandchild.
“Oh, thank you,” Charlotte murmured, mustering a grateful smile. She adjusted her coat and bonnet before the coachman helped her down. The damp, heavy air clung to her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the carriage. Stepping onto the uneven terrain, a shiver ran down her spine.
“There you go!” the coachman barked, tossing her luggage onto the ground before flicking the reins and disappearing with a clatter of hooves. Charlotte stood alone in the wilderness.
Unfurling the worn map, Charlotte’s heart sank. It was practically useless in the swirling fog. Following a narrow path that meandered like a lost thread, she soon saw faint outlines of houses through the mist. But they seemed impossibly far away.
Fortunately, Charlotte traveled light. Anticipating a swift return after visiting her ailing mother, she packed minimally. Now, her biggest concern was navigating the dense fog to find the Earl’s mansion.
“I’ll figure it out somehow,” she muttered, taking a deep breath and continuing her trek. Relying on hazy childhood memories, she pressed on, but the path seemed endless. Despair gnawed at her. Had she strayed off course? Was she lost?
Just as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, a flicker of movement in the distance caught her eye. Squinting through the fog, she saw… something.
Panic flared. Raking her mind, she wondered if the Earl’s house kept hunting dogs. But the sight before her defied that notion. This wasn’t a leashed canine with a master; this was a ferocious beast, teeth bared, emerging from the mist. A wild animal.
Instinct kicked in. Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, the primal fear of a predator unmistakable. Goosebumps erupted on her skin, and her body screamed at her to flee. But her feet remained rooted to the spot, as if paralyzed by terror.
The creature, a wolf shrouded in fog, lumbered closer. Its gray fur confirmed her worst fear. Trembling, she muttered, “This can’t be happening!”
But it was, and the situation only worsened. More wolves materialized from the mist, two, maybe even three, a hunting pack. The alpha, its eyes glinting with savagery, locked gazes with Charlotte. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was alone, utterly defenseless. The chilling image of being torn to shreds by the pack sent a wave of icy sweat down her spine.
Suddenly, her foot caught on a hidden rock, sending her sprawling onto the damp earth. This was her chance, the wolf’s chance. A guttural growl resonated in the air, and Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.
But the attack never came. A deafening crack echoed through the stillness, followed by the pained howls of wolves. More shots rang out, and then – silence. Cautiously, Charlotte opened her eyes. The pack, whimpering, retreated into the fog.
The sound of approaching hooves filled the air. Charlotte lifted her head, a sliver of hope flickering within her. There, at the end of the path, silhouetted against the mist, stood a man on horseback.
🍉🍉🍉
Notes: I will keep Gredel Hill as the translation for 그레델 힐, some sources will say it’s Grendel Hill but it should be 그렌델 for Grendel and not 그레델, which is the text directly referenced from the raws.
Please let me know if there are other mistranslations of the titles, names, and places that I might have missed, or if there are inconsistencies with the terms. Rest assured, I edit my chapters thoroughly before posting them to maintain consistency.
Lastly, I will update the tags as I go along. I’m sure the story contains mature themes, but I am not quite sure yet what exactly. Thank you for your understanding, the next chapter will be out tomorrow.
Desde já, obrigada pelo seu trabalho de tradução 💖.