The days of laboring like livestock on the Baron's manor were monotonous, heavy, and filled with ubiquitous danger. But for Elara, each day also became a cautious exploration and experiment.
Her "inheritance"—the knowledge and experience from another world—began like seeds quietly sprouting in the darkness, trying to carve out a tiny sliver of vitality for her in this barren land.
Weeding the fields or being sent to the edge of the woods to gather firewood were rare moments when Elara could slightly evade the notice of Steward Gregor and others. While working, she would quickly scan the plants at her feet with the corner of her eye.
Relying on hazy botanical knowledge from her past life, perhaps impressions left from documentaries or popular science books, she was pleasantly surprised to find that some plants dismissed as useless weeds by the locals were treasures in her eyes.
For instance, a plant with serrated leaves and small yellow flowers (like a dandelion) – she remembered its young leaves were edible, and the root likely had some value too. Another common low-growing weed with broad leaves and distinct veins (like plantain) seemed to have medicinal properties. She even found a plant with fleshy leaves and a slightly sour taste near a wetland water source (like purslane), recalling it might be edible and could reduce inflammation.
She didn't dare act too obviously. Only during brief lulls in work, when no one was looking, would she quickly pluck a few tender dandelion leaves or dig up a small piece of plantain root, hiding them in her worn tunic pocket. Back in the crowded hovel, she would rinse them with (relatively) clean water. Sometimes she mixed them with her meager portion of black bread before swallowing, supplementing with negligible vitamins. Other times, when given a bit of watery vegetable soup, she'd secretly stir them in, adding a touch of "green" that was better than nothing.
Once, Thomas, the boy who tended the hounds, was scratched on the arm by an angry dog while feeding it. The wound wasn't deep, but infection was a serious risk in these unsanitary conditions. Steward Gregor merely cursed him for being "useless" and ignored it. Seeing Thomas wincing in pain, wiping the blood with a dirty rag, Elara hesitated, then, under the cover of night, secretly mashed some plantain leaves she had found and applied the poultice to his wound.
Thomas jumped, looking at her warily. Elara just whispered, "When I was little, back in the country, my grandmother said this weed helps wounds heal faster. Try it." She used the slightly timid, vague tone from the original Elara's memory, trying to sound natural. Thomas was skeptical but didn't refuse.
Besides utilizing plants, Elara also began paying attention to basic hygiene. She noticed most people on the manor drank directly from the river or well. She, however, tried her best to find cleaner water sources, like streams further upstream, away from the stables and living areas. When helping with the fires in the kitchen, she would seize opportunities, using a small, cracked pottery jar to secretly store extra boiled water after it cooled, taking it back to drink herself. When treating the occasional scrape from tools or bruises from Gregor's beatings, she insisted on cleaning them with (her stored boiled water) and bandaging them with slightly cleaner strips torn from the inside of her own tunic.
These actions might have seemed 'odd' to others, but because Elara was always very discreet and her explanations ("Grandmother said so," "an old country remedy," "just trying to be clean") fit within the cognitive scope of a low-born serf, they didn't immediately arouse serious suspicion from Gregor or others. At most, they thought this new serf girl was a bit "dim-witted" or "unnecessarily fussy."
She even started applying her past life's experience in reading people. By carefully observing Gregor's expression, tone, and body language, she could roughly gauge when he was in a foul mood (requiring extra caution to avoid trouble) and when he was slightly more 'normal'. Once, when her firewood pitchfork broke and was unusable, she chose a moment when Gregor seemed slightly pleased after receiving a word of praise from the Baron, and timidly requested a replacement tool. Surprisingly, she succeeded—though Gregor still cursed her impatiently a few times.
Of course, every attempt carried immense risk. Elara knew well that in this superstitious and ignorant era, being 'different' often equated to being 'heretical' or 'unlucky'. Any action slightly beyond common understanding could be magnified, even interpreted as evidence of witchcraft. So, every step she took was like walking on thin ice, her heart filled with fear of the unknown and anxiety about exposure.
But when she found the wound on her leg healing faster and hurting less after applying the herbs; when she felt the discomfort in her stomach ease slightly after consistently drinking boiled water for several days; when she avoided a beating by steering clear of Gregor's wrath... those tiny, yet real improvements brought her a secret sliver of hope and the motivation to continue.
These seeds of knowledge, though faint, had quietly taken root in her desperate life. She didn't know if they would eventually grow into towering trees providing shelter, but at least, they showed her a glimmer of light to keep struggling through the darkness.