As discussions spiraled in silent contemplation, Adams broke the pause with a gentle smile. "Let's reconvene another day." He then decreed the fate of the Howard family: Steve and Paul Howard, found guilty of treason, were condemned, sparing only those under ten who would face exile to distant lands.

Mary Howard was stripped of her titles, demoted to servitude, imprisoned in solitary quarters. Yet her young sons, spared by their innocence, were reduced to common civilians and ordered to leave Washington, never again to return.

William George furrowed his brow, finding the punishment too lenient. "Mr. President, to uproot a problem, one must be thorough—complacency is fatal."

"My decision stands," Adams responded calmly. "Given the Howards’ past service to our nation, sparing a lineage seems balanced. Not everyone among them lacks discernment."

This decision was not mere leniency. The Howards, long entrenched within military ranks, risked sowing discontent if severely punished. By preserving their lineage, Adams hoped to blend mercy with strategy, ensuring the allegiance of Howard loyalists and thwarting future conspiracies.

Secretary Smith quickly affirmed, "Compassionate justice, indeed."

Others chimed in agreement, leaving even William George to relent despite lingering reservations.

Adams then shifted to a critical matter: "Has there been news of the mystical butterfly?"

Many officials present had witnessed the eerie creature's terror, a sight seared into memory. Adams enforced silence on the ordeal, forbidding public mention of the incident while ensuring relentless pursuit.

Harry Brown, entrusted with the task, reported, "Nothing yet."

Adams cautioned, "Remain vigilant—such a threat must not plague the populace."

"We will comply," came the resolute reply.

After the lengthy meeting adjourned, Adams returned promptly to the White House and consulted his head secretary, Jane. "Has Scarlett awoken?"

Jane bowed slightly. "Not yet."

Sighing, Adams made his way to the private quarters. The White House—mansion of presidents, nucleus of national power—teemed with staff, many serving the president tirelessly.

Four aides helped shed his formal attire for something more comfortable, while another proffered warm water and towels for washing, and a further attendant delivered hot tea and light refreshments.

Here, Adams felt the full weight of his power and prestige. Yet, he harbored no taste for such indulgence; he gestured dismissively, sending them away, before heading alone to her bedside, gently lifting the bed curtains.

Scarlett lay asleep still. Three days had elapsed since she succumbed to slumber, with no sign of waking. Doctors assured it was only deep sleep, no cause for concern.

Recalling her prior recovery methods through rest, Adams didn’t worry too much, but visited daily, anxious to be present when she stirred.

Today, he arrived at just the right moment: "How long was I asleep?"

Momentarily caught off guard, Adams quickly replied, "Three days."

"Hmm," she murmured, head propped on her hand, her brow furrowing. "And the butterfly?"

"No sign of it yet," Adams reassured. "Don’t worry. Should I call a doctor?"

"No," Scarlett responded, rubbing her temples as if needles pierced her mind. "I need more sleep. Have you managed well?"

Adams tucked her in with a gentle touch, responding with warmth, "Everything here is fine, never fear."

"Good," she sighed, surrendering to somnolence once more.

"Rest easy," Adams whispered, watching her sleep, "I'm here."

Now, it was his turn to watch over her.

Scarlett remained in her comatose state for more than a fortnight, briefly awakening only to drift off soon after.

In this interval, the debate over the next First Lady reached resolution—most officials, preferring not to relinquish advantage to rivals, compromised by endorsing Scarlett's position as the President’s closest confidante.

An enigmatic figure with no strings to a powerful clan seemed more palatable than reviving Mary's influence tethered by lineage bonds.

Thus, upon Scarlett’s extended arrival in consciousness, the opening query presented itself: "I wish for you to be my partner—will you accept?"

Perhaps groggy with sleep, Scarlett asked, "What role?"

Adams pursed his lips, his voice solemn. "I promised you—I intend to keep my word."

The memory came surging back to Scarlett, leaving an amused sweetness. "There's no need."

"What do you mean, 'no need'?" Adams frowned, serious in demeanor. "We pledged ourselves, haven’t we?"

Scarlett pondered deeply. Initially, Adams's proposal seemed driven by practicality; in today’s settled matters, it signified something true.

Because his sincerity was apparent, she couldn't deceive him: "I am a practitioner of the mystical arts."

He inquired, "And who says you can't continue here? Should you grow weary, I'll find you a more conducive place."

"It's not that simple. My path takes me far, very far," Scarlett struggled to explain the rift between mortal terrain and the mystical domain. "Like crossing the Atlantic Ocean."

Adams froze momentarily.

She hoped for his understanding. Yet, Adams's response was a composed laugh, "And when will that be?"

"When I..." She hesitated, "When I recover."

Once healed, she intended to dispatch the butterfly and find her pathway home.

"Do you have kin there?" Adams asked.

A bittersweet smile crossed her face. "I don’t know." Memory eluded her; why she was there, the nature of her injuries, the route for return—all remained veiled mysteries.

"How about this," Adams suggested, holding her hands. "Stay, recover, and seek your road back gradually. If ever you feel compelled to leave, discretion awaits."

She laughed, finding joy amidst sadness. "Leaving means severing ties. Why burden us further?"

"Futures remain elusive; death's shadow hangs over all," Adams, unhurriedly, "If refusal arises from reluctance, discussion ceases. Otherwise, be assured—where there's a will, a way isn't far behind."

In prior lifetimes, she received proposals driven by romance, vested interests, authority; yet all came too late. Upon facing mortality, she engaged lovers, yet marriage never ensued.

Should she accept Adams? His declaration stretched boundaries unreasonably; refusal lacked nowany evident justification.

"Why, then?" Her voice, aged by inquiries past, sought fresh clarity.

Adams saw simplicity in complexity, "I relish you and wish to marry." In others, calculations commandeered, yet with her, affections dictated—no artifice, pure intent.

"So be it," she consented with a smile.

Can love span eternity? She pondered. Lifetimes sprawled lengthy and indeterminate. One might not promise one partner forever, but here and now, authenticity sufficed.

***

Arrangements had been underway since before Scarlett awoke. Her nod sufficed; Adams swiftly coordinated with officials to select propitious dates, commissioned measurements for celebrations.

Nationwide, preparations burgeoned, domicile joy prevailed, faces brightened anew. Spring infused the air with hope and contentment, casting a sugary confectionery sheen.

One day, Adams brought architectural plans of the White House, suggesting accommodations: "The Lincoln Room housed venerable First Ladies, yet bears interminable reminiscences of yore. It merits refurbishment—better suited elsewhere."

Delight glimmered in his eyes, merriment emanated from his gaze. "Might the Roosevelt Room suit? Near the Oval Office, it affords convenient visits."

Aware the hours together would be as fragile as glass, Scarlett savored this moment, smiling brighter still, "The president's endorsement suffices indeed."

Clearing his throat, Adams mapped the Roosevelt Room, adding, "What to cultivate in the garden? Pomegranates abundance, roses fragrant, plum blossoms unyielding, or osmanthus scented?"

"Osmanthus," she laughed.

Adams nodded approvingly. "Osmanthus bodes well; come mid-autumn, round flowers and full moon harmonize festively."

As warmth returned, the seasonal thaw began, sunlight shone radiant, gentle smoke curled from censers. Adams lounged by the desk, crafting drafts, his visage alight with serene satisfaction.

Watching him from her repose, Scarlett felt her heart suffused with a bittersweet jubilation.

This was a tender dream, ephemeral as dawn’s dew.

Yet, despite knowing the ending, they plunged willingly into its embrace.

***

Following the turmoil's storm, the White House reclaimed its habitual tranquility. With his aid, every official affair resolved comprehensively.

Trustworthy allies rallied beside him; reunited, the steadfast partners persevered. He used gentleness to overcome all obstacles; her intellect and resolve surmounted cryptic puzzles. Life evolved into amusing reflections, hopes distilled into perfect simplicity.

May this shared life remain untarnished.