The wind howled outside the crumbling walls of the Ward cottage, rattling the warped shutters and sneaking through the gaps to chill the bare, dirt floor. Inside, a single oil lamp flickered on a splintered table, casting a weak, trembling glow over the sparse room. The air hung heavy with the sour stench of damp straw and yesterday's stale bread. Emily Ward sat on a wobbly stool, her thin frame hunched forward, her hands twisting the frayed hem of her patched apron. Before her sat a chipped earthenware bowl, half-filled with cold gruel that had long since congealed into an unappetizing lump. "Useless girl!" Margaret Ward's voice pierced the silence, sharp and venomous as a whipcrack. She loomed over the table, her bony hands planted on her hips, her gaunt face etched with lines of bitterness and greed. Her greying hair was pulled into a tight, unkempt bun, and her faded dress—once a servant's uniform from better days—clung to her skeletal frame. "The Blackwoods live in a bloody palace, drowning in gold and silver, and here we are, scraping by like rats! Can't you use that thick skull of yours and bring us something worth a shilling?"