She had been walking around the gardens on that first day, admiring the neat layout that had been so carefully tended in order to give the impression of year-round perfection. Really this was only a place for those who wanted a breath of air to come during the balls that they threw at regular intervals, and for the ladies of the house or their visitors to wander through when it was the height of spring and summer’s warmth would not yet overwhelm them, but Ilona enjoyed walking through it on all kinds of occasions. She had persuaded her tutor to allow her to take her books into the garden that day during the session of quiet learning that had been planned for her, but she had long since left the tomes behind on one of the white benches that gathered closer to the house. A few willow trees were placed here and there next to the paved walkways, shading further benches alongside them, and as she stepped further towards the limits of the garden she knew that there was only one window in the house from which you could be seen by those inside. Finding a bench that was almost completely sheltered and much more to her taste, she sat down: it was late August, the heat of the summer sun beating down just before the colder part of the year arrived, and she was glad of the shade. Here she could sit and daydream a while; after all, her lessons would be finishing soon, on her sixteenth birthday, and she saw no real point in pushing herself any further to understand them. All she learnt about was geography and history, the kinds of things she had gone over a hundred times, as well as two extra languages and the study of poetry, other disciplines having already been left by the wayside, and she tired of them.

She had been sat, thinking in this way, for nothing more than ten or fifteen minutes when a noise at the other end of the garden drew her attention. Neat flowerbeds and rose bushes divided the area from a small section of land that was kept tidy but otherwise left as it was, and beyond that the fields started. The Breckenridge estate grew a number of different crops, and profited heavily in particular from one food grain that could be grown all year round but only in certain soil types; soil of which they owned a good twenty five percent of the entire world’s store. It was from the direction of those fields that a certain rustling noise came, and a low muttering started up soon afterwards – a noise that seemed to draw nearer.

Within a few moments she could make out the shape of a person coming towards her through the branches that lay across her field of vision, and she knew immediately by the rough and simple clothes that it was one of the field hands. He was holding his arm strangely and limping a little bit, and though her first reaction was of complete wonderment to see a servant here in the garden, she stood and moved out of the shade of the trees so as to be in his line of sight.

He stopped as soon as he saw her, an expression of horror coming over his face. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t think there’d be anyone here at this time of year!’ he blurted out quickly, obviously mortified at having been caught sneaking through the gardens. There was blood on his sleeve, however, and now that she looked at him she realised that he was only perhaps two years older than her. A few loose leaves and even a thorn torn off from the rose bushes revealed both the source of the rustling and the muttering – he must have thought he could take a short cut to the servants’ quarters this way.

‘Are you hurt?’ she asked rather than reprimanding him, taking a step forward since he seemed determined already to slink back the way he had come.

‘It’s nothin’, I’m sorry, I’ll just go back to the fields and –’ he began hurriedly, but she cut him off, stepping forwards with a smile.

‘Nonsense. If you are hurt, you need to get the injury seen to, or it could get worse. Let me see it, at least,’ she said, holding out a slender hand towards him.

‘It don’t hurt much, my lady, really,’ he protested, still reluctant to allow her to examine or even approach him. There was something in his eyes that reminded her of a frightened woodland creature – a rabbit or even a fox, when they were cornered by one of her father’s hunting parties – and she felt a strange sense of responsibility in the situation, despite clearly being younger than him.

‘The correct word is “doesn’t”, in that context,’ she replied primly, stepping forward again and laying a determined hand on his arm. ‘Now move your hand, and let me see what the damage is, for goodness’ sake.’

‘... Yes, my lady,’ the boy replied at last, having the good sense to take her words as an order and doing as he was told. There was a brilliant patch of red across his shirt sleeve there, where a cut slashed a perfectly straight line through the fabric and also through his tanned, muscled arm. He grimaced a little, and it was clear that, despite his words, he really did feel pain from it.

Ilona gasped a little, then tutted. ‘How did you get a wound like this?’ she demanded, half in wonder and curiosity over what could cause such an injury as well as half in concern.

‘The reaping scythes, my lady. We’re... s’posed to go in a line, but it’s hard to judge and sometimes you get too close to someone,’ he replied, looking a little embarrassed to admit that the error may well have been his own – or more likely, she decided, covering for someone who had done it on purpose.

‘Well, we should get it seen to at once. I shall send someone to fetch the doctor,’ she announced primly.

‘Please, miss!’ the boy replied, looking pained. ‘We’re not to have such special attention in the fields. Not for something as small as this. It’ll get better, I just need to wrap it is all.’

Ilona hesitated. No doctor? She knew from experience that a wound like this on her own arm would be a cause for much fuss, for special ointments and careful bandages that the doctor would come back to change every day, and stern instructions from her father to avoid overexertion. ‘What is your name?’ she asked after a moment, deciding to go along with what he said if he was older and had more experience in this area.

‘Griffin, my lady,’ he told her, and the way he glanced at her and away again was enough to inform her that he had no need to be told of hers.

‘Then, Griffin, what kind of wrappings are you going to get, and who is to put them on for you?’

He shrugged, looking a little sheepish. ‘My sleeve is ruined anyway. I was going to rip it off and use that,’ he explained, and she did not fail to miss the fact that he was planning to do it all himself.

She turned her expression stern, and pointed to the bench. ‘Sit here,’ she commanded him, ‘And wait for me. I am going to fetch you some bandages, and water, and then we are going to clean and wrap that wound properly. Don’t imagine for a moment that I won’t complain to Lord Breckenridge if you’re not here when I get back!’

Somehow, he knew to smile at the threat rather than to take it seriously, and he sat on the bench as he was told, clasping his hand back over the cut to make sure that he did not drip blood on the stone.

Somehow, no one noticed that the bandages were gone, or found it odd that his arm had been wrapped properly. Everyone just seemed to assume that someone else had been responsible for it, and so their secret was safe; certainly, neither of them had any cause to mention it to those around them - and with the solemn command that he come to see her in the garden in a couple of days, their next meeting was set.

Ilona stopped her story with tears in her eyes despite the smile on her face, and Swallow did not press the matter further as they gathered up their washed clothes to hang them for drying. That task done, they headed next to another part of the yard to perform another job, and the day moved onwards in slow learning on one part and overworking to compensate on the other – though between them now rested a quiet understanding, and it made the work go all the easier.