Ophelia pulled down her hood.

A hand ran over her hair and adjusted the loose strands back into the tight bun. She rolled her eyes around the room and let out her chest. Statues, portraits, and curios littered the space. The prized collection of to-scale architectural models displayed behind glass meant nothing to her. She had been in the room so many times, the things that should have caused her awe, now caused boredom.

Ophelia tilted her head as she walked across the parlor to a marble statue. “Hey George,” she mumbled, her voice low and flat. She looked it over. “You’re looking well.” She stepped into him. “Shh,” she bopped him on the nose, “today’s not the day.” Once more, she examined the form, and as it had always and would always be, it sat still and lifeless. Her shoulders fell and she sighed.

Silence filled the room once more.

Ophelia broke away from the statue and into the middle of the parlor. She rocked back and forth on her feet. Fingers drummed over the satchel and her straw hat in her hands. When she heard a commotion from the back door, she pulled off her glasses. Thinking it was the Viscount, her posture straightened.

The Parlour Maid slipped through the backdoor and bowed politely to her. In her hands, she carried in a silver platter. Atop it, a decanter packed with various fruits in cool water, a plate of finger foods, and a small vase of a single flower. She placed it on the low table before the plush couch.

“Honorable.” She nodded and tipped her capped-head towards Ophelia. “I set those blackberry leaves out to ferment like you said. The tea was delicious, thank you for the recipe.”

“It’s a favorite of mine, especially for the summer.”

“If you’re staying long, Chef has a pudding cooling off.” The Parlour Maid leaned down and poured the drink into a crystal goblet.

Ophelia gave a polite smile as she took the glassware. “I will consider it.”

From the same back doorway, a head poked in. Umber-brown eyes fell over Ophelia, then a wide mischievous grin. Second son, Baccus Manchester, lifted a finger to his lips as he tip-toed into the room. Under the arm of his garnet-red suit, he cradled a bottle of wine. A smaller vial between his fingers. He slipped behind the maid, tapped her shoulder and dove in the opposite direction. She stiffened with a squeak as she turned over. Baccus smiled wider when the maid looked over to him, hand to her heart.

She chuckled and huffed. “Gave me a proper fright, sir.”

His grin was vivacious. “You are too easy to scare, Mirin.” Baccus shifted the things in his arms. He handed over the vial. “Here, to keep your strength up. --Does your hip still hurt?”

Mirin, the Parlour Maid, took the vial from Baccus. She nodded her head. “Ever since I slipped.”

“If it still does after the week, come find me.”

Mirin nodded and looked to Ophelia who had been watching the two. “Sir. Honorable.” She tipped her capped-head again before leaving. Baccus ran a now free hand through his shoulder-length sienna-brown hair. The soft curl of it immediately coiled.

“What did you give her?”

“Nothing special. Vitamins and such.” Baccus turned. “What are you doing here?”

“Why do you think?”

He cocked a brow. “I haven’t had lunch yet, but--”

“--Your father called me.”

“Oh,” escaped him. His brown eyes lilted off her for a moment. “Are you…intending to linger afterwards?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

Baccus turned to the platter of drinks and food. He picked up the decanter and smelled it. “Hhm, could use some gin. --Well, if you do, the favors for the van Croix party are finished.”

Ophelia didn’t have a reply. She let her gaze fall over him briefly before turning from him and taking a small sip. She looked to the floating pieces. “You’re right.” He perked up to her. “It could use some gin.”

Baccus huffed and held his hand out to her. She passed him the drink. He sipped, smacked his tongue, and then sipped again. “Not some gin, a lot of gin.” He laughed and it filled the entire room, from tall ceiling, to rugged marble floors.

As he handed it back to her, they turned to the double-doors. The House-Butler and a tall man in a beautiful, embroidered suit filled it. His red hair streaked with grey was pulled into a single, small tail. His face clean shaven. His eyes were calculative, observant, and though he was a pillar of a man, he was amicable.

Baccus’ lively aura zapped away the second he saw his father. The Viscount gave a polite smile to Ophelia first, expecting to see her, then narrowed his gaze on his son.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be studying for your reevaluations, Baccus.”

“The tutor fell asleep, again.”

“Or, did you slip them something?”

Baccus huffed. “What’s there to study? Unless we all decide to grow tree roots for bones, nothing’s changed.”

“You will lose your license if you do not--” The Viscount stopped himself. He exhaled. “Do not waste the skills you’ve learned.”

“I’m already titled before twenty-five, do not worry, father, the family’s honor is still intact.” Baccus looked to Ophelia. “My offer stands if you change your mind. Excuse me.” He stormed out of the room, pulling the bottle from his arm and wiggling the cork.

Viscount Gregor Manchester took a deep breath and exhaled out his anger. Then, he turned to Ophelia. “If you could follow me.”

She followed the Viscount through the house, the House-Butler in their wake. They walked quietly. At the glass doors that led to the back garden, he turned to her and waited as she pressed her lenses and straw hat on. He gave a nod, then the two strolled down another expansive lawn to the beginnings of a topiary maze.

“I’ll settle your payment when you’ve finished. I’ll be in my study. Hopefully by then, I will have wrangled Baccus.” The Viscount motioned a hand out for her to enter as the other tucked behind his back.

Ophelia held her tongue and nodded. Together, they traversed the winding turns. Ophelia could have done it with her eyes closed. The thought made her chest ache. Viscount Manchester stopped at the threshold of the clearing.

“I’ll leave you to it,” was all he said, nodded to her, and turned away.

She slipped into the grove and held back a smile. A giant tree shaded a carved bench. Flowers bloomed and shuffled in the wind. The petals they lost drifted into the little fountain pond where ducks and ducklings swam. One of them waddled to Ophelia and quacked. She slipped a hand into her satchel and threw down a treat for it.

“Hi, George,” she said to the duck. It quacked, ate the treat, and followed her begging for more. She tossed it another before it finally turned off.

Ophelia watched for a moment before she exhaled and looked over her shoulder to the flower bed. She pulled off her cloak and draped it over the bench. The satchel slipped down to the grass at her feet. She pulled her petticoat back to kneel in the dirt. Her hands scooped it and brought it to her nose, where she inhaled, before she tossed it over the plot like a baker would flour. Ophelia twisted to the mask and affixed it to her face. She inhaled. Her eyes closed for a moment.

You are not forgotten.

Then, she leaned forward, her arms extended, fingers splayed. A familiar crinkle of power and magic washed over her. It flitted and crackled.

In the plot at her knees, hidden in the twists and turns of the Manchester’s garden, the body of the maid dissolved and decayed