The Maid’s Mother: The Root of Sin

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?"