Eleanor Ashcroft's thick lashes fluttered open, her fingertips brushing the gilded pocket watch on the nightstand. Oak beams cast jagged shadows above, echoing last night's storm warning from the brass speaking tube. As she burrowed into goose-down pillows, the clatter of riding boots echoed through the stone corridor.

"Lark! Cook's prepared truffled poulet au pot." Her mother's knock sent jasmine perfume swirling through the carved oak door.

Silence answered, save for the fireplace's crackling whispers.

"Oh, and Professor Thorne from Cambridge telephoned regarding..." The deliberate pause hung like cobweb silk.

The four-poster bed creaked in protest. When the door swung open, the Baroness gasped at her daughter's chestnut curls – a tempest-tossed nest worthy of lightning sprites.

"What did he say?" Amber eyes still clouded with sleep mist.

"Your private tutorial begins at nine." The Baroness hid behind her lace fan. "The youngest quantum mechanics professor in St. Michael's history. No wonder girls duel with slide rules."

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Eleanor snatched a tortoiseshell comb. "Mother, I've no designs on Professor Thorne."

"Of course, my pearl." The Baroness' wink sparkled. "Though they say his grandfather was the Duke of Devon's..."

The grandfather clock's chime severed her words. Eleanor clutched the silver tureen close, its warmth seeping through woolen cloak. Beyond leaded windows, Yorkshire skies darkened with devouring clouds.

This peculiar family ritual began on her snowy birthnight. A gypsy seer had crooned over crystal spheres: "When seven times seven kindnesses are done, blue fire in the storm shall claim the pure..." For seventeen years, Ashcroft Manor dispensed daily alms, like this broth for the blind weaver.

Elms twisted into hag's claws in the gale. Eleanor raced over slick cobblestones, puddles mirroring phantasmal clouds. Sudden silence fell, even the ravens holding their breath.

In the lightning's ghastly glare, she saw the crone beneath blazing elderwood – bone-dry yet wreathed in cerulean flames.

"Madame! Stay clea..." Thunder devoured her cry. Milky blue eyes crinkled as bark-like hands caressed her cheek.

When the sulfurous bolt struck, villagers swore they saw two figures waltzing in phoenix fire, dissolving into rain-soaked smoke. Only the silver tureen remained, its lid spinning slowly in mud until the Ashcroft crest settled on the engraved virtue: Benevolence.