The burly, grizzled blacksmith whose name she'd already forgotten rummaged through her father's toolbox with thick, meaty fingers and a scowling sneer. He stank of smoke, ash, and sweat, and his smithy looked no cleaner than a coal scuttle.
              "I don't think so, wench," the smith said.
               "My name is Miss Adella Hester Cumberbatch," Adella said. "These were my father's tools, and a better man and carpenter God never made."
              The smith frowned, lifted three wood-chisels out of her toolbox, examined them closely, and then set them back inside. He drew out a wood-handled iron drill and cranked it once.
              "Four crowns and five shillings," the smith said.
              Adella faltered in disbelief.
              "Sir, these are worth pounds ...!" Adella insisted.
              "I'm a smith. Metal is all I care for. If you want more, sell to a carpenter."
              "There's not a carpenter in the city ...," Adella complained.
              "They're all at Marleigh," the smith said.
              "Where ...?"
              "Marleigh Manor, ten miles up North Road, just south of Lake Prescott," the smith said. "Lord Middleton Marleigh is adding a new wing to his estate. Every carpenter in three districts is there, trying to beat the winter snows. They'll pay twice what these are worth, but it's a long ways from here."
              "Sir, thank you very much," Adella said. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."
              With one hand, the muscular smith lifted the heavy wooden toolbox and held it out to her. Adella needed both arms to take it.
              "Can you cook?" the smith asked, eyeing her appreciatively. Adella shook her head.
              "My father was a carpenter," Adella said. "Everything I know I learned from him."
              "Too bad," shrugged the smith.
              Lugging the toolbox, Adella departed. She'd no interest in blacksmiths, especially one looking for a wife. She'd always had plenty of men wanting her that way, but she wanted a better life than a dumb brute's slave and whore. No man had ever been kinder to any woman than her father had been to her mother; she wanted such a man.
              Yet marrying men were rare, especially as she'd followed her father from job to job, living out of their tent until he'd saved enough to buy his own tools. Less than a year ago, they'd rented a room and settled down, living under a solid roof for the first time since her mother had died of influenza. Then her father fell ill. She'd sold all they owned to purchase medicines that proved useless; Diphtheria left her an orphan. She was desperate; rent was due, her coin-pouch empty, and she had nothing left but her father's tools.
              The chill morning was still fresh, so Adella began walking up North Road. Ten miles was a long journey carrying a heavy toolbox, yet she had no choice. She'd eaten the last of her food, and if she couldn't pay rent in two days, she'd lose her only shelter ... and soon it would start to snow.
              Amid colorful fall leaves blowing in every direction, dropping from countless trees, North Road appeared briefly barren, then grew suddenly crowded with carriages and wagons. From each carriage stared clean faces, not deigning to speak to her. Wagons rolled northward laden with lumber. Some drivers were eating or drinking; Adella was hungry, yet she refused to beg. The stigma of begging would stain her reputation for life; she hoped to avoid begging as long as she could.
              If she were a man, she wouldn't sell her father's tools. She'd helped her father since she was six, sorting nails, straightening them, waxing, sanding, and edging dovetails. She could haul, frame, and finish as well as the best, but no one would hire a woman carpenter.
              Selling his tools would only delay her fate. No matter how much she got, to survive more than a month, she needed an honest job or a good husband ... and both were rare as diamonds.
              Gritting her teeth, she constantly switched the handle of the toolbox from one arm to the other. Its burden cut into her thin arms, yet she trudged on, mile after mile.
              A shrill, lewd whistle blew from a creaking wagon behind her; she kept her face averted. She was a mile from the last farmhouse, alone on an empty road surrounded by thin woods and grazelands; screams would die unheeded. Even looking at the driver might be considered encouragement ...
              The heavy, creaking wagon pulled alongside her, and its horses suddenly slowed.
              Adella silently cursed. She stepped farther off the road, into the leaf-covered tall, dry grasses that rose past her knees. Long skirts made pushing through tall grass harder, but ...
              "Would the young lady care for a ride ...?" voiced a robust baritone.
              Adella stepped away, pushing deeper into waist-high weeds.
              "Now, I wouldn't call that friendly ...," the driver deepened his voice. "No one's a'harming anyone, is they ...?"
              His horses stopped, and with scrapes and squeaks, his heavy cart ground to a halt.
              Adella stumbled over rough, unseen ground, almost dropping her father's tools. Yet she righted herself and kept walking. She reached a line of thin trees, and slipped between their narrow trunks. Low bushes blocked her path, yet she crashed through them.
              She risked a backward glance; the grimy driver, wearing a wispy beard, ragged clothes, and a leering smile, had dismounted and was following her. He didn't look much older than she.
              Squirrels darted off, and tiny birds took wing as she approached. Wishing she could escape as easily, Adella followed their retreats. Even jumping grasshoppers evaded perceived threats better than she ...
              "Leaving a lady helpless in the wild would be ungentlemanly ...!" he called to her.
              She kept her eyes looking ahead into thickening wilderness.
              "No gentleman would pursue a frightened lady!" Adella shouted, pushing through thick weeds and bushes, trying to avoid the thorns raking her long skirt.
              Sarcastic laughter came from closer behind than she'd expected. Rapid footfalls; he was chasing her.
              "A gentleman would teach you a lesson in manners!" Adella screamed.
              "Maybe you need a lesson in kindness ...," the man was right behind her.
              Adella couldn't outrun him, especially not while lugging the heavy box of tools, which she couldn't abandon. Adella reached into the wooden box, lifted out an adze, and turned to face her pursuer. She raised her weapon warningly.
              His amused eyes frightened her. His laugh stabbed like icicles.
              Adella screamed as loudly as she could.
              He paused and spread his arms, smiling and showing empty hands.
              "No one here but us," he said.
              His long arm shot out overtop the small bush separating them. He grabbed her blouse roughly.
              Adella swung like a carpenter ...!
              Her adze struck hard and deep. Blood spewed, spraying both sickening red. He staggered and cried out, yet yanked her in close, right up against his chest, and knocked her toolbox from her hand; it crashed noisily upon leaf-strewn bushes. She struggled, but ...
              Slowly his grip weakened. He fell against her, to his knees, looking up in horror as blood from his leaking skull trickled into his round, unseeing eyes. Horrified, she stumbled backwards ... onto dry leaves, fallen branches, and twigs ... and tripped, toppling onto a hard, spiky bush.
              He fell with her.
              She kicked to break free of his deathgrip on her dress ... her stiff shoes kicked against his face, but elicited no reaction. On palms and heels, she scrambled away.
              She froze, trembling ...
              He wasn't moving ...
              Adella jumped to her feet, then startled to realize she was still tightly gripping her bloody adze. She'd never used one; her father had done rough cuts, yet she swung hammers with practiced expertise. She tried to drop the adze, but her bloody fingers seemed locked upon its handle.
              His blood dripped from her ...!
              She pried her fingers loose; her adze fell into a leafy bush. She staggered.
              Had she killed the driver ...?
              Sufficient blood painted them to assure he'd never rise again. Yet she foundered; she knew nothing about dead men ... except that lawyers hung murderers. If they found her, who'd believe her, a woman soaked in a man's blood ...?
              No one had seen ...!
              She had to get away ... far, far away.
              But she had no ...!
              A horse snorted.
              Adella glanced at the wagon.
              It was her only hope ...!
              She dared not touch the corpse; if he weren't dead, then he might awaken. Wiping her hands on a dry spot on her skirt, she hesitated just long enough to retrieve her adze and wipe the blood off it, then she dropped it into her toolbox, and picked up her other spilled tools. She couldn't leave evidence behind; she checked to make sure no other tools had spilled, and then hurried back toward the wagon.
              She kept glancing behind her, assuring herself that he wasn't following.
              She lifted her heavy toolbox onto the driving bench and climbed aboard. Without hesitation, she grabbed and flapped the leather reins, watching the still woods. The dead driver was hidden by weeds, yet she knew he was there, and someone was sure to find him when crows gathered.
              The horses whinnied, but she shook the reins repeatedly, and eventually the beasts began moving. The creaky cart resumed its journey, rolling slowly away. Adella didn't dare urge the two horses faster; she'd seldom driven a cart ... never without her father sitting beside her.
              Minutes passed like prison terms, yet slowly she departed the site of the attack. She was still trembling, but she was getting away ...
              Painted in blood ...!
              His blood ...!
              Anyone who saw her ...!
              Her few remaining clothes and everything she owned, even her comb and brush, lay back in her room in town. The road was too narrow to turn the horses around, and if she tried, she might get stuck. She was still too near the corpse ...!
              A strange bag lay at her feet. Wiping her hands again, telltale blood still accusing her, she leaned down and opened the bag. Half a loaf of brown bread, some apples, and a flask lay on top. Pushing those aside, she felt underneath.
              She pulled out a thin, oiled leather half-cloak; drivers wore these in the rain. Wearing this, with its hood up, she could disguise herself slightly, but the bright red wetting her hands and skirt would easily reveal her crime. She dug deeper, pulling out a ragged, torn man's shirt and dirty breaches.
              Adella glanced about. Seeing no one, she began pulling off her bloody dress and chemise. As the horses pulled her along, she redressed in the dirty driver's clothes and hooded rain-cloak. After she wiped her hands clean on the back of her dress, she ran a finger across her forehead, unsurprised to see blood on her finger tip. Using a clean spot on her dress, she scrubbed with her own spit, and scraped at her face until no more blood came off, wiped her hands one last time, and then balled up her dress and stuffed it under the seat.
              Lastly, she pulled the hood of the thin, oiled leather half-cloak as low as she could, her long hair tucked inside.
              Disguised, she urged the horses along. She glanced back at the cart's heavy load of lumber, doubting if these two horses could pull it faster, and certain it'd be dangerous to try.
              Eventually a fancy carriage appeared on the road ahead, coming toward her. Adella didn't know what to do; how would they pass? The road wasn't wide enough for two. Should she pull off to the side?
              Fortunately, the other driver knew their business. He pulled off to the side, and her horses squeezed to the side of the road without their wide wheels going off, as if accustomed to traffic. She kept her head low and didn't look at the driver or his passengers.
              Shortly afterward, she came to a fork. She'd no idea which road led to Marleigh Manor; she didn't dare go there. Finally she chose the right fork, and hoped it would take her in the opposite direction. The last thing she wanted was to arrive where somebody would recognize the cart.
              She rode a ways farther, and saw a small stone bridge ahead.
              A stream ...!
              Adella halted her horses and jumped off the wagon. The stream was wide and strong, and she knelt before it and washed as best she could. The underbrush pressed against her, yet she scrubbed vigorously, face and hands, and ran fingers through her hair, washing off every trace of blood.
              Dripping, she ran back to the wagon, unhampered by a full skirt for the first time in her life. Her bloody dress was the last evidence that she'd killed anyone; she yanked it out and returned to the stream. The woods were thick; she shoved her dress underwater until the stream soaked through, then let it go. The strong current quickly washed the last evidence downstream, into parts overgrown, hopefully out of sight of human eyes forever.
              Forcing the reluctant horses to drive over the stone bridge, a plan formed in her mind. If she could find a sizable city, then she could abandon the wagon and disappear. She might have to sell her father's tools for a pittance, but better poverty than jail ... or a short drop off a gallows.
              Her wagon creaking, she rode along, realizing her breaths were starting to calm. Yet fears grew as her alarm lessened. She was unaccustomed to having to fight for her life. She felt as if a noose were loosening around her throat.
              She dared not return to the scene of her crime.
              It hadn't been a crime ...! she told herself. He would've violated her ...!
              Yet judges didn't consider testimony by a woman equal to words spoken by a man.
              Going back would gain her only two last nights in her rented room, and then she'd be broke.
              She'd starve ...!
              Bread and apples; she hadn't eaten in a day. Although disgusted, she reached into the bag and grabbed an apple; it wasn't firm, yet she devoured it ravenously. Then she ate the rest of them.
              Her dresses back home weren't worth her life. She could buy new combs and brushes. For that matter, with her father's tools, she could make combs. Glancing back, she wondered if she could build whatever she needed ... or sell the lumber ... and the cart itself ... and the horses ... she could live for months off of the sale of the horses! Yet someone might recognize them ... and the punishment of horse-thieves was no different than the doom of murderers ...
              She heard a noise and glanced behind. Another wagon was rapidly approaching. Adella shook her reins, urging her horses faster.
              If they caught up ...!
              A tall hill rose before them. Her horses strained to pull the heavy wagon. Behind her, a whip cracked; she spied a carriage whip on the floorboard, yet she'd never used one. She kept shaking her reins, hoping it would be enough.
              As they topped the hill, the noises and sight startled her.
              She'd taken the wrong turn ...!
              Marleigh Manor was huge. Atop the next hill, Marleigh Manor shined, wide, three stories tall, with multiple wings branching off its main structure, built of squared masonry and painted beams. It was the grandest building she'd ever seen, surrounded by manicured gardens and paved walkways.
              Off to one side worked a vast construction crew, at least fifty men. Familiar hammerings echoed; when she was young, her father and she had often camped at sites like this ... but never at a project so big.
              The beauty of Marleigh Manor was amazing, yet desperate thoughts chilled her. She'd chosen the wrong fork, and arrived at the one place she'd likely get caught. Someone would recognize the wagon, know she wasn't its driver, realize she was a woman, wonder why she was wearing a man's clothes, demand to know where she'd gotten them, ask if she'd stolen the wagon, and question where its real driver was ...
              A hangman's noose awaited ...!
              The other driver was right behind her; she'd be seen if she jumped off the wagon and ran for the woods. She couldn't escape a search; around here, there was nowhere to go for miles. She couldn't drive past the work site; the narrow, downhill road led only toward the manor.
              Her only hope was that no one would notice her.
              Horses pulled her loaded wagon over the hillcrest and down the long slope toward Marleigh Manor. The jarring of her creaky wagon, and her downhill speed, jostled her load and nerves.
              She pulled her hood lower.
              Two loaded wagons, with horses still rigged, stood nearby. One wagon was full of lumber, the other being unloaded by four men. Adella steered her horses beside the loaded wagon, and pulled their reins until they halted. Immediately a man walked toward her, so she dismounted on the other side, pausing only to grab her father's heavy tools. She also grabbed the bag with the half-loaf of bread and flask.
              Keeping her head down, she walked as fast as she could. Her upbringing had accustomed her to busy worksites; she navigated with ease. No one spoke to or looked at her. She steered toward the back, seeking any escape. Yet the closest woods were far away, and several workmen stood near a privy-tent outside their half-built project; she couldn't escape unnoticed. She turned her steps onto a wooden ramp, and ascended into the new addition.
              Inside, the hammering was deafening. The framing was finished, the roof overhead being shingled, and inner walls being completed. The floor was solid, ready to be planed, sanded, and waxed. Some rooms were already fully-walled, with doors fitted. At this rate, with this many carpenters, she estimated the whole project might be finished in two months.
              The new wing was only one story, yet stretched long and wide, two parallel hallways with rooms against each outer wall, and pairs of inner rooms squeezed in the middle. Yet Adella couldn't explore; she found a finished room with a large closet; both the room and its closet had doors.
              Although doorknobs had yet to be installed, she closed both doors and hid inside the closet.
              Cowering in the dark, hours flowed like rivers of molasses. She nibbled on the dry, almost-stale bread, and sipped from the flask, which stung her tongue; her father had never allowed her hard liquor. Yet the burning liquid helped her swallow the dry bread. She hoped it would calm her.
              Bangs! of hammers and skrrrrtts! of saws died, as they always did at dusk, which meant suppertime. Somewhere a cook was ladling gruel or stew into bowls for hungry workers, who would eat no matter how it tasted. Many times she'd stood in line, her father beside her. Now she didn't dare.
              In the middle of the night, silence fell. Adella left her father's tools in the dark closet and crept around the worksite. Windows were being framed. No glass was yet installed, so she could hear nearby snores from outside. Watchful for any guards that might've been set, unlikely at a site this secluded, she snuck through the half-constructed building, absently noticing evidence of shoddy workmanship and shortcuts.
              To escape, she'd have to get back to the fork in North Road and take the other route. She didn't dare return to town; she'd be recognized ... and no other avenue existed. Yet traveling at night was difficult and dangerous; evading a second attack seemed unlikely ... and the idea of having to kill again twisted her stomach.
              If she'd had another dress, then she could hide in the woods by the road, and appear as if she'd walked the whole way, and sell her father's tools. However, she couldn't arrive wearing the dead driver's clothes ...
              She couldn't hide on an empty, departing wagon, or travel afoot, without food. Stealing a horse was unthinkable. She was trapped ... until she found an escape.
              She peeked into a dark, inner room, lit only by moonlight shining from the open doorway of the room opposite it. This room was mostly-paneled, save the back wall. Through its bare wooden framework, she saw the back of a stone fireplace facing the room on its far side, with a closet on each side, but was mostly dead space. She wasn't surprised; all large buildings have dead spaces, this one to protect the wooden walls from the heat of the fireplace's stones. Yet she saw nothing helpful, so she continued.
              The rest of the site was similar, with scattered bent nails and sawdust littering the floors. No one else was awake, so she wandered the length of both hallways. She peered out windows across the sleeping campsite on one side, and out the other side, into gardens behind the huge manor.
              The cook's big pot was sitting by the low-burning fire in the center of camp. It held food, mostly being kept to mix with breakfast, the pot slid just far enough away from the fire to keep it from burning.
              Adella pulled her hood low and walked outside, down the wooden ramp, out of the new wing. She knew construction sites; in the dark, if anyone saw her, dressed like a workman, they'd dismiss her as sleepless. Some carpenters slept under blankets around the fire; the poorest didn't have tents. They'd crawl under wagons when it rained. Their chorus of snores echoed, hiding her quiet footsteps.
              She reached the table by the cook's wagon, snagged a bowl, and quietly lifted the thin metal lid off the huge pot. Inside was a ladle; she couldn't see what she was scooping into her bowl, yet she didn't care; food was food when you'd worked all day ... well, that's what her father had always said.
              She couldn't see any clean spoons, and didn't dare search, so she hurried back as quickly as she could, found her little closet, and sat beside her father's toolbox. She tore some small hunks of dry bread from her diminishing loaf, and dipped them in what turned out to be oat gruel, which was barely warm, yet she ate with relish. She'd taken a large serving, more than she could finish, expecting to need it tomorrow. Every night she'd have to steal more ... until she found a way to escape ... or got caught.
              The night seemed endless ...
              The first hammer strike awoke her, yet she couldn't leave her closet. If anyone came in, she'd be caught, but the carpenter's priority would be to keep working on the roof, outer walls, and windows, until the new wing was secured from detrimental weather. The likelihood of someone searching mostly-completed closets was small ... yet, once the finishing began, then she'd have nowhere to hide.
              All day she listened to gruff voices and familiar sounds of carpentry; nailing paneling, laying shingles, installing doors and windows ... and cursing, as she called it, blue fire. Yet no one discovered her. Later that afternoon, despite her fears, she fell asleep.
              Silence awoke Adella, yet a quick glance outside her closet showed the sun still beaming its last rays over the horizon. She ate her final bites of gruel, wondering how she could wash out her bowl, when she heard deep voices. Two men were walking down the hallway outside her room.
              "If you please, sir, the men are working hard," one man said. "This is the strongest roof I've seen in forty years, and these floors are ready to be sanded ..."
              "How much longer?" barked a gruff, stern voice.
              "A few months, not a day more ...," the first voice said.
              "Hire more workers!"
              "Begging your Lordship's pardon, there's not a carpenter within fifty miles who isn't here. Woodworking skills take training, and we've no one to spare. One novice could put us days behind ..."
              "You have two months from today, not a minute longer."
              "As you command, sir, but I don't know how we'll manage. If we do shoddy work, your Lordship will be even more displeased ..."
              "I catch anyone doing shoddy work I'll flog them! Wake your cooks earlier, so the workers start at first light, and drive them until darkness. Focus on the exterior; when it's done, we'll provide lanterns so they can continue after dark ... all night, if needed."
              "As you command, sir."
              "We won't be giving this wing to the Berkeley-Marleighs; they can have our older rooms. Real Marleighs will be moving in here, which means this wing must be the finest. Any slipshod masonry or carpentry will be severely punished."
              "I give you my word, sir."
              "I expect ...!"
              The two men wandered out of earshot, yet Adella had heard speeches like this before. Within days she'd have no place to hide ... and no hope of escape.
              She considered hiding in the woods, yet she'd probably be caught there, and drenched when it rained. She considered just walking away, yet even if she reached the fork, it might be thirty miles to the next village; she'd starve. She couldn't leave carrying her father's tools, and even if she could sell them here, she'd have no place to stay; she'd end up sleeping in alleys ... and winter was coming.
              No matter what she did, she'd be a beggar by spring.
              Adella forced herself to remain calm. She had two months before the Marleigh family would be moving into this new wing, two months before the workmen would leave. Eventually she'd find a way to escape ...
              She needed a better hiding place ...!
              She needed ... the room with the dead space ...!
              The next morning, as soon as the first hammer struck, Adella began pulling nails. She pried free three wide paneling sections on each side wall, closest to the dead space. Then she nailed the six removed panels to the back wall, covering the back wall, and blocking all view of the chimney from the doorway. Slipping into the dead space through the unfinished closet, she found more evidence of shoddy work; the framed wall was only held in place by two big nails at each end ... and it wasn't load-bearing. Working quickly, Adella freed the back wall, and scooted the whole wall three feet farther from the fireplace, widening the dead space. The wall slid to partially fill the gaps of the six side panels she'd removed. Then she nailed all four big nails into different beams, securing the back wall in its new location.
              Unless they remeasured the room, no one would know she'd made it smaller!
              She paused to admire her work, then opened the closet door, closed it behind her, and looked around.
              She'd built a secret room. The dead space behind the stone fireplace, which had only been a one foot gap, was now four feet wide. It ran the length of both rooms from the closet of the room with the fireplace to the closet of the room she'd shortened.
              She peered out of her secret room; thin cracks between the paneling allowed her to see into the rooms on either side.
              No one would ever know she was there ...!
              Working in the dark, by feel alone, she started shifting the framing of one closet to abut the moved closet door. Once she'd walled the closet, and built and installed a secret door, she could get in and out with ease. Her widened dead-space would be a perfect hideaway.
              Adella smiled. Until she found a feasible method of escaping Marleigh Manor, Adella had built herself a secret, comfortable home.