Ophelia wove through the maze and onto the back pathway.

On the lawn, the groundskeepers looked to her then quickly returned to work. Calls for ‘the Gardener’ after another employee supposedly quit caused rumors that flooded the château for days.

The sight of Ophelia only fueled the speculations.

She tilted her head down so the wide-brim of her hat blocked her face. They had seen her white hair and blanched skin. They knew, under her tinted lenses, her eyes were as red as the roses they pruned.

She ascended another stone staircase. Inside the house once more, Ophelia moved down the halls and around the housestaff. For the most part, they ignored her. She eased through the back hallway, lined with more portraits, statues, and trophies, and to the tall, ornate doors of the Viscount’s office. She could feel the beaming sunlight on her back from the line of giant windows. It tingled, and she ached to be tilling in dirt again.

She pushed her lenses in the pocket with her gloves. Her hat she tucked under her arm. As she lifted her fist to knock, she froze. Inside, someone burst from their chair. The squeak of it made her shoulders twinge into her head.

“This is lunacy.”

“I will handle this family as I see fit. I am the head of this household, not you.”

“I am a sitting representative on the council, father. If they dig up our grounds, not even my title could save us. They will want to execute him and all of us for allowing it.

“That will not happen.”

“Be reasonable.”

“I am. There are things at work that even you are not privileged to as heir-apparent, and you will not be until you are the head of this house. As I am still the head, my decision is final.”

“Father--”

The Viscount slammed on the desk. “Enough, Mavus. You are just going to have to trust me.”

There was a huff. Ophelia stepped back as a body moved towards the door. It jerked open and the fuming face of the eldest Manchester son startled her. Tall and elegant, Mavus was the pinnacle of Vista Values. He was well-read, intelligent, forthright, and indomitable. Though most would address him as heir-apparent, ‘Mavus the Unyielding’ also carried substantial weight. His normally prim and styled strawberry blond hair moved across his moss-green eyes. His suit, the shade of marigolds, trimmed perfectly to his muscular form. His angular jaw tensed before he realized who stood before him.

“Ophelia?” He deflated and smiled affably.

“Good afternoon, heir-son.”

“Please,” he stepped further out of the doorway, “don’t call me that.”

“You have a title, I’m required.”

“As do you, but the last time I tried to, I was certain you’d never speak to me again.”

Viscount Manchester’s head curled around the door. “Is that the Gardener?”

“Yes,” she answered him, though her eyes were locked on the son.

“She has a name, father,” Mavus corrected. Then, he turned his green eyes on her and stepped as she moved. “Will you join me for tea afterwards?”

Ophelia kept her eyes to him as she slipped into the office, and still, as she closed the door without an answer.

“I’ll have it warmed up,” he said to the door.

In the study, Viscount Manchester stood with his back to her. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves and little models hung from the ceiling. Down a corner, a long, curling line of a fern caught her attention.

The Viscount didn’t greet her. He waved his hand in and moved a painting to the side directly behind his desk. “I presume your services are complete for the day?” He plucked a key.

She pulled the clipping from her bag and placed it on the desk. “Yes. Hydrangeas.”

He moved to a bookshelf and pulled a set of fake books back. “The usual?”

“This is the second time you’ve called on me in a month.”

The statement froze the Viscount. “I’m aware.” He forced the key in.

“If this projection continues, soon you won’t be able to afford me.”

The Viscount, Gregor Manchester, turned over with a bite and snarl. “We can afford your prices without a flinch.”

“I meant no offense; only that Goldie requires me to relay it.”

Viscount Gregor Manchester turned back to the key and twisted. With a push on the bookshelf, it slid back. He stepped in for a moment, muttering to himself. When he returned, he held out a small bag of coins.

“Maybe I was not clear.” Ophelia took the payment. “If you’re requiring me to garden as often as I have been, payment will have to be more than gold.”

The face of the Viscount twisted into a threatening glare. “I have paid in gold. I have paid for housing and furnishings which I know you do not use. I have paid to keep us at the top of whatever hierarchy Goldie requires. What else do you want?”

Her gaze did not meet his. “That’s not up to me. Goldie handles all of that.”

They stood in silence, until an exhale from Viscount Manchester broke it. He collapsed onto the edge of his desk. A hand ran over his face and hair. Wholly a defeated man required to keep going, his stern countenance faded.

“If I may impart a small bit of advice,” he turned worried eyes up to her, “do not have children. They only serve to disappoint.”

“One of them is a good man.”

“And yet, the other two will see to our ruin.” He put a hand to his forehead to rub the stress away. “I truly hope the next time I call on you, it will be to tend the gardens, and not to fertilize them.”

Ophelia opened her mouth to say more, but he waved her away. She nodded, stuffed the payment in her satchel, and slipped out the door.

She walked through the rest of the house, lost in thought. Her shoes clacked across the marble floors. It echoed and reverberated, and it made the house seem larger and emptier.

Ophelia rounded a corner where someone called out to her. She turned to the grand staircase in the expansive foyer. On the landing, the unnerving smile of Johannes, the youngest of the three Manchester sons greeted her.

As tall as Mavus, but slimmer, Johannes was a pillar. His soft blue suit shimmered more than his two older brothers and twisted with every turn of him. His blond hair was slicked over his head with pomade and was the brightest of the brothers. The first time she saw it, it reminded her of goldenrods. Hazel-green eyes piercing and abyssal lingered on her. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured, like pulls of a bow across a violin.

“Ophelia.” He smiled wider and Ophelia felt a curl up her spine. “Leaving so soon?