A weak morning sun filtered through the small window, casting elongated shadows across the worn wooden floorboards. Nyelle stood before a dented copper mirror propped against the wall, studying her reflection with analytical precision. The dress Elina had laid out—her best, with only one carefully mended tear at the hem—hung on her thin frame like a costume. In many ways, it was exactly that.
"Remember to curtsy properly," she murmured to herself, executing the movement with graceful precision. Nirei had once spent three months studying aristocratic mannerisms to infiltrate an exclusive investment club. The principles translated surprisingly well to this medieval context.
For two weeks now, Nyelle had been cultivating her plan, ever since overhearing gossip at the market about Lord Greymoor's scandalous past. A noble with three legitimate children and reportedly several illegitimate ones, scattered throughout Lower Yorkton and beyond. A man known for occasional fits of guilt-induced generosity toward the city's less fortunate.
The perfect mark.
She had mapped his residence, observed his household's routines, and catalogued the comings and goings of his staff. The kitchen maid, Marta, had proven particularly valuable—lonely, talkative, and easily manipulated with small gifts and attentive listening. Through careful questioning disguised as childish curiosity, Nyelle had gathered enough details about Lord Greymoor's history, preferences, and family to construct a convincing narrative.
"Nyelle?" Elina's voice carried from the main room. "Are you ready? We need to deliver Lady Meredith's mending before midday."
"Coming, Mother." She smoothed down her dress, adopting the eager expression of a child anticipating a rare outing to the better parts of town.
The walk to the Upper Quarter took nearly an hour, Elina maintaining a brisk pace despite the heavy basket of completed garments. Nyelle used the journey to finalize her plan. Today, while Elina was occupied with Lady Meredith, she would make her first approach to Greymoor's residence.
"Remember to wait in the servants' parlor," Elina instructed as they approached the imposing stone townhouse. "Lady Meredith's daughter may want to see you—be polite, but speak only when spoken to."
"Yes, Mother." Nyelle adopted her most innocent expression, the one she'd practiced extensively.
Once inside, as expected, Elina was escorted to Lady Meredith's private chambers to discuss the garments and receive new commissions. Nyelle sat primly on a wooden bench in the servants' waiting area, hands folded in her lap, the picture of obedient patience.
The moment Elina disappeared up the grand staircase, Nyelle slipped away. The back exit led to an alley connecting the row of wealthy townhouses—including Lord Greymoor's residence three doors down.
Heart pounding with familiar anticipation, she approached the service entrance to Greymoor's home. This was the essence of the con—the calculated risk, the performance, the manipulation of human psychology. After weeks of disorientation in this strange world, she was finally operating on familiar ground.
The heavy door swung open before she could knock. A harried-looking kitchen boy nearly collided with her, a large basket of scraps in his arms.
"Watch yerself," he grumbled, sidestepping around her.
"I'm looking for Marta," Nyelle said, projecting shy hesitation.
"Scullery." He jerked his head toward the interior before hurrying away.
Perfect. Nyelle slipped inside, navigating the bustling kitchen with practiced invisibility. A child in a busy household was easily overlooked among the servants rushing to prepare the midday meal. She located Marta scrubbing pots in a corner alcove, her hands red and chapped from hot water and lye soap.
"Hello, Marta," Nyelle said softly, materializing beside the young woman.
Marta started, nearly dropping a copper pot. "Saints preserve us, child! You scared years off my life." Her irritation softened into a smile. "Brought me more of those mint leaves for my teeth?"
"Better." Nyelle produced a small paper twist containing dried chamomile flowers—a remedy for the headaches Marta frequently complained about. "But I need a favor."
Marta pocketed the herbs with a conspiratorial nod. "What's it this time? More stories about his lordship's hunting parties?"
"I need to see him," Nyelle said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Just for a moment."
The scullery maid's eyes widened. "Lord Greymoor himself? Impossible, child! He doesn't speak with kitchen visitors, let alone children from the Lower Quarter."
"Please, Marta." Nyelle allowed her eyes to fill with practiced tears. "My mother's dying wish is for me to meet my father, just once."
Marta's jaw dropped. "Your... Sweet merciful mother, are you claiming to be one of his—"
"My mother worked in his hunting lodge eight summers ago," Nyelle continued, reciting the backstory she'd constructed from Marta's own gossip. "Before he married Lady Emmeline. She never asked anything from him, never told a soul except me, on her deathbed last week."
The timeline would match perfectly with Nyelle's apparent age, and Marta herself had mentioned Greymoor's notorious season at the hunting lodge before his advantageous marriage.
"Child, this is dangerous talk," Marta whispered, glancing around nervously. "If Lady Emmeline heard such rumors..."
"I don't want money or recognition," Nyelle insisted, allowing a single tear to track down her cheek. "Just one moment to see him. To know what he looks like. Mother said I have his eyes."
She blinked deliberately, showcasing the unusual amber flecks in her dark irises—a feature she'd noted matched Lord Greymoor's distinctive gaze, based on Marta's previous descriptions.
The scullery maid's resistance visibly crumbled. "Wait here," she whispered, drying her hands on her apron. "His lordship is in his study. Sometimes I bring his tea myself when Hemmons is busy with the silver."
Nyelle waited in the scullery, mentally rehearsing her approach. The key to any successful confidence scheme was absolute conviction—the mark must believe you believe every word you're saying. Nirei had elevated this principle to an art form, and now Nyelle would apply it to Lord Greymoor.
Marta returned fifteen minutes later, her expression a mixture of anxiety and excitement. "He's agreed to see you for exactly three minutes," she whispered. "I told him you were the daughter of a seamstress from the Lower Quarter with an urgent message. That's all! I said nothing about... you know."
"Thank you, Marta." Nyelle squeezed the maid's hand. "You've given me a gift beyond measure."
Marta led her through the servant's corridors, up a narrow staircase, and along a carpeted hallway adorned with hunting trophies. She paused before an ornately carved door.
"Remember, three minutes only," Marta warned. "And if anyone asks, I never brought you here."
The door opened to reveal a sumptuously appointed study. Leather-bound books lined mahogany shelves, richly colored tapestries adorned the walls, and a massive desk dominated the space. Behind it sat Lord Greymoor—a striking man in his early forties with dark hair streaked with distinguished silver at the temples.
"This is the child with the urgent message?" he asked, his tone indicating he was already regretting the interruption.
"Yes, my lord," Marta curtseyed deeply. "I'll return for her shortly."
As the door closed, Nyelle stood perfectly still, allowing Lord Greymoor to observe her. The first moments were crucial—she needed him to notice the similarities she'd carefully prepared: the set of her chin, the color of her eyes, the particular way she clasped her hands before her.
"Well?" he prompted impatiently. "Speak your message and be on your way. I have correspondence to complete before luncheon."
Nyelle took a careful step forward, tilting her face to catch the light from the window. "My name is Nyelle Harringer, my lord." Her voice carried the perfect blend of nervousness and determination. "My mother was Lydia Summerton."
The name—invented but plausible—produced no immediate recognition in Greymoor's expression. Not surprising, if his indiscretions were as numerous as rumored.
"I don't know any Summertons," he said dismissively. "If you're seeking charity, applications are accepted through the temple on—"
"She worked at your hunting lodge during the summer festival eight years ago," Nyelle continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "She never asked anything of you, my lord. She raised me alone until fever took her last week."
Lord Greymoor's expression shifted subtly—the first flicker of unease replacing irritation. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face more carefully.
"Many people seek advantage through false claims," he said, but his tone had lost its dismissive edge. "What proof have you of this connection?"
Nyelle reached into her pocket and withdrew a small pendant—a trinket she'd acquired through careful observation of Greymoor's house. An identical piece hung from a hunting trophy in the hallway outside, bearing the Greymoor falcon crest.
"My mother kept only this to remember you by," she said, presenting the pendant on her palm. "She said you gave it to her as a token, the morning you departed for your betrothal celebrations in the capital."
The lord's face paled slightly. The timing would align perfectly with his arranged marriage to Lady Emmeline—information Nyelle had gleaned from Marta over weeks of casual conversation.
"This proves nothing," he said, but uncertainty had crept into his voice. "Such trinkets are distributed to all hunting lodge staff."
"Of course, my lord." Nyelle dipped her head respectfully. "I didn't come seeking recognition or support. Mother made me promise before she died that I would simply look upon my father's face once, so I might know the other half of myself." She raised her eyes to his, deliberately showcasing their similar color. "Now I have fulfilled my promise to her."
She turned as if to leave, employing the strategic retreat that had served Nirei so well in complex negotiations. Three steps toward the door, then a pause, shoulders slumping slightly with perfectly calibrated dejection.
"Wait." Greymoor's command stopped her. "Turn around, child."
Nyelle obeyed, keeping her expression carefully neutral despite the surge of triumph in her chest. The hook was set.
He rose from his desk, approaching with measured steps. His scrutiny was intense as he circled her, noting her features, her posture, her carefully selected mannerisms.
"You have the look of her," he said finally, his voice soft with what might have been genuine reminiscence. "Lydia was... petite, dark-haired. She had a distinctive laugh."
Nyelle remained silent, allowing him to fill in the blanks with his own memories of various women from his past. The vague description could match dozens of servants who had passed through his lodge.
"My wife must never know of this," he said abruptly. "The scandal would devastate her, and my legitimate children's standing would suffer."
"I understand completely, my lord." Nyelle lowered her eyes respectfully. "Mother raised me to expect nothing and to preserve your reputation at all costs. I live with my adopted family now—good, hardworking people who took me in despite their own poverty."
The implication hung in the air, unspoken but clear.
Lord Greymoor returned to his desk, opening a drawer with a small key from his waistcoat. He withdrew a velvet pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins.
"For your discretion," he said, extending the pouch. "And perhaps... for necessities, from time to time. If you find yourself in dire circumstances."
Nyelle accepted the offering with perfectly executed reluctance. "You are too generous, my lord. Mother always said you had a kind heart beneath your noble bearing."
The flattery landed precisely as intended. Greymoor's posture straightened slightly, his expression warming with the particular glow of a man who believes himself more virtuous than his peers.
"Where can a message reach you, should I wish to inquire after your welfare?" he asked.
"The Harringer residence in Cooper's Lane," she replied. "Though perhaps any communication might be directed through Marta? For discretion's sake."
He nodded, clearly relieved at the suggestion. "A wise precaution." He checked the ornate timepiece on his desk. "You should go now. My steward will be arriving shortly for our weekly accounts review."
"Thank you for seeing me, my lord." Nyelle curtseyed deeply, a perfect imitation of noble etiquette. "Knowing my father's face brings me peace I cannot express."
As if on cue, a soft knock announced Marta's return. The timing was perfect—long enough for their conversation but not so extended as to arouse suspicion.
"The child is leaving now," Greymoor told Marta. "See that she exits discreetly through the service entrance."
"Yes, my lord." Marta curtseyed, gesturing for Nyelle to follow.
As they descended the servants' staircase, Marta whispered urgently, "What happened? You're carrying his lordship's personal coin pouch! I recognize the embroidery!"
"He was very kind," Nyelle said simply, keeping her expression innocently grateful. "He said I reminded him of someone he once knew."
Marta's eyes widened with understanding. "Sweet merciful mother," she breathed. "You truly are his get, aren't you? The resemblance must be strong for him to acknowledge it so quickly."
Nyelle neither confirmed nor denied, allowing Marta's imagination to strengthen the deception. The best cons were those where the marks convinced themselves.
"I must return to Lady Meredith's before my mother discovers my absence," Nyelle said as they reached the service door. "Thank you, Marta. I'll never forget your kindness."
She slipped away before the maid could ask further questions, cutting through the connecting alley and reentering Lady Meredith's house through the servants' entrance. She reached the waiting parlor just as Elina descended the main staircase, her empty basket over one arm.
"There you are," Elina said. "Were you well-behaved while I was working?"
"Yes, Mother." Nyelle tucked the velvet pouch deep into her pocket. "I sat quietly the whole time."
The walk home passed in comfortable conversation, Elina describing Lady Meredith's commission for new festival garments and the generous payment offered. Nyelle listened attentively, calculating how Lord Greymoor's coins would supplement the family's income. The weight of the pouch suggested at least twenty silver pieces—more than Torvald might earn in two months of dock labor.
Her first major con in this world had succeeded brilliantly. The rush of satisfaction was familiar, reminiscent of Nirei's triumphs in boardrooms and exclusive clubs. Yet something felt different—a strange undercurrent of emotion she couldn't immediately identify.
That evening, after the family had retired, Nyelle carefully counted the coins by candlelight. Twenty-seven silver pieces in total—a small fortune for a Lower Quarter family. She set aside seven coins in a separate pouch for her own purposes, then considered how to present the remaining twenty to the family.
The problem was more complex than she'd anticipated. Simply producing such wealth would raise suspicions. A story would be needed—plausible, verifiable, and consistent with her established character.
As she tucked both pouches into a hiding spot beneath a loose floorboard—not Torvald's hiding place, but one she'd discovered near her sleeping area—Nyelle finally identified the unfamiliar emotion that had nagged at her since leaving Greymoor's study.
Guilt.
Not over deceiving the nobleman—he was a legitimate target, using his privilege and power without sufficient caution. No, the guilt stemmed from involving the Harringers in her deception. The story she would craft to explain the money would be yet another lie to the people who had shown her nothing but kindness.
"It's for their benefit," she whispered to herself, echoing justifications Nirei had used countless times. "They need the money more than Greymoor."
But as she settled onto her straw mattress, watching the dying embers in the hearth, Nyelle couldn't fully silence the uncomfortable thought that the real Nyelle Harringer—the child whose body she now inhabited—might have made different choices.
The irony wasn't lost on her. After a lifetime of executing cons without a moment's moral hesitation, Nirei Harringer now found himself troubled by the implications of deception. Perhaps something of the real Nyelle remained in this body after all, influencing her thoughts in unexpected ways.
Or perhaps living among people who valued honesty was having an effect she hadn't anticipated.
Either way, as sleep claimed her, Nyelle's last conscious thought was of Lord Greymoor's study—not in triumph over her successful manipulation, but in calculation of how soon she could reasonably approach him again for additional support. The scheme had only just begun, and a good con artist knew how to nurture a profitable connection.
The guilt would simply have to be managed, like any other inconvenient emotion.