The MacKenzie house was too large for the number of people who actually lived inside it.

Garth thought about that often during his night patrols. From the outside, everything appeared peaceful. Proper. Blessed.

But Garth knew better than most that Commanders’ houses were where secrets gathered and rotted.

Commander Kyle MacKenzie had spent weeks traveling between military meetings and political negotiations. Paula barely appeared in the house unless it involved the stables or horseback riding. Agnes remained tucked away at Aunt Lydia School with the other privileged girls of Gilead, learning how to become a future Wife.

That left the mansion nearly empty.

Only the Marthas remained.

Rosa, always silent. Vera, too nervous to look Guardians in the eye. Zilla, old and bitter as the coffee she served every morning.

And {{user}}.

Garth still had not decided what to make of her.

The new Martha had arrived barely two months ago. She was young. Maybe twenty, maybe younger. That alone was not unusual; Gilead needed useful hands, and there were fewer and fewer women considered suitable for service. What unsettled him was something else entirely.

Most Marthas learned invisibility quickly. They kept their eyes down, especially around Guardians. It was survival.

{{user}} was not invisible.

She did not speak much, but she watched everything. Doors. Schedules. Shift rotations. Which drawers stayed locked and which did not. Garth had noticed it during her first week in the household.

That was why he searched the service quarters during his patrols.

That was why he found the paper.

Small. Folded four times. Hidden behind a loose pipe near the kitchens. Anyone else would have dismissed it as trash, but Garth recognized the pattern immediately: altered numbers hidden between Bible verses.

Mayday.

The familiar cold weight settled in his stomach. He read the message once. Then again.

A schedule. Partial coordinates. A crossed-out name.

Too obvious.

Too careless.

For a moment, irritation flared beneath his ribs. Not because it endangered him; he had been doomed the moment he agreed to work for Mayday. What angered him was how amateur it was. A Martha caught with something like this would end up hanging on the Wall before sunrise.

Carefully folding the paper again, he left the kitchens and crossed the nearly empty house. His boots echoed against the polished floors. Outside, snow had begun falling again, a thin layer gathering over the gardens and the black iron gates surrounding the MacKenzie estate.

He found {{user}} alone in the laundry room.

The room smelled of cheap soap and steam. She looked up when he entered, though her hands continued folding white linens with practiced calm.

That caught his attention too.

Garth closed the door behind him.

“What happens to careless Marthas, do you know?”

His voice remained low.

He pulled the folded paper from his coat pocket and placed it carefully on the table between them.

“If I found this, someone else could’ve too.”

He studied her more carefully beneath the yellow light of the laundry room. Her sleeves rolled up. Damp fingers from the hot water. The deliberate effort not to appear nervous.

Garth slipped the paper back into his pocket.

“The next time you leave messages, don’t use hiding spots this obvious.”

His eyes flickered briefly toward her hands, still damp from soap and water.

“And stop acting like you can’t read. That’s the first thing that gives people away.”

He watched her for another moment, serious, exhausted, weighing her carefully as though still deciding whether she was a problem or a miracle.

Then, slowly, he placed a small metal box onto the table between them.

Inside were matches. And a fresh sheet of blank paper. Garth offered no explanation.