At last, the day had arrived—the day I would officially resume work inside the mansion. I found myself standing opposite a young woman whom Madame Marsala had personally appointed to oversee and guide me.

Not only that, she had expressly instructed the girl to keep a close watch on me, as though I were bound to invite trouble wherever I went. I lifted a brow at the thought.

Was I truly that problematic?

Her name was Flores. She appeared a little older than I was, her posture rigid and precise, moving only when commanded, every motion measured and exact. She carried herself like a finely wound clockwork device, never wasting a gesture.

As expected of someone trained directly under Madame Marsala. Detached, and disciplined—another obedient hound of the Westwond estate.

I let out a quiet sigh. It seemed my brief taste of ease had never been meant to last.

Flores stepped toward me at last, her movements so composed that my irritation wavered. I had always disliked people who walked and spoke as though they had been constructed for ceremony rather than life.

She raised a hand, clearly offering a greeting. Startled, I instinctively stepped back, my gaze flicking between her outstretched hand and her face. There was no expression there at all.

Her eyes were flat and unreadable. An unsettling sort of person. And I had no desire to clasp hands with her.

She noticed my hesitation at once and inclined her head, withdrawing her hand without comment.

“I understand,” she said evenly. “My name is Flores. I will be your colleague from this day onward. We will proceed to the Rosethorn Parterre, where I shall introduce you to the others and explain your duties.”

With that, she turned and began to walk. I followed automatically.

I sighed inwardly. I could only hope these new companions would not be as prideful and unbearable as the last.

We passed deeper into the mansion, entering a wing I had never once encountered before. It was quieter here, wrapped in a sense of calm that felt almost sacred. At the far end, we stopped.

Before us stood an immense glass structure—less a door than an entire wall wrought of clear panes, rising nearly to the ceiling beams. It was so broad and tall it might well have been mistaken for a transparent façade rather than an entrance.

Elegant and finely crafted, yes—but what truly captured my attention was what lay beyond it.

The garden visible through the glass was breathtaking.

Far more exquisite than the grounds outside the mansion walls.

I think, in that moment, I fell entirely in love with a garden.

Flores pushed the glass open and stepped inside, pausing to keep the door ajar for me. I offered her an awkward smile and a soft word of thanks.

She inclined her head and continued forward.

A wave of fragrance drifted through the air, rich and delicate, and I nearly melted where I stood. Never in my life had I encountered such a scent.

The flowers were vibrant and immaculate, tended with extraordinary care. Many of them were species I had never seen before, not even in illustrations or records.

I had never known the world held so many beautiful blooms.

The garden itself was vast—far larger than I had imagined. This must have been the pride of the household, cherished by the head lady, and the Dowager Marchioness of Westwond.

Soft, carefully trimmed grass carpeted the ground, with a stone-laid path winding through the center. Every corner was alive with blossoms. Farther ahead stood a small tea pavilion, its overhead trellis adorned with climbing flowers. Four chairs encircled a stone table, reached by a short flight of steps.

To one side rested a swing entwined with vines, and beyond that, a graceful fountain pool shimmered quietly.

What a sight.

No wonder the head lady spent so much of her time here.

I immediately regretted ever calling Madame Marsala a witch. How could I have been so miserable at the thought of working here? I welcomed the assignment now with genuine delight.

Simply standing in this place lifted my spirits. I found myself almost skipping behind Flores, who seemed to notice the shift in my mood but made no remark.

We stopped near two figures—one a girl, and to my surprise, a boy.

I stared.

I hadn’t realized boys were assigned to garden work. Then again, why not? Service was not bound by gender, only by ability and strength.

“Hello… my name is Clare,” the girl said.

What—?

She burst into laughter at my expression. “Just kidding. I’m Ivy.” She extended her hand, and I quickly recovered, smiling as I accepted it.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Flores giving me a peculiar look. Oops.

Ivy was tall, with a sharp, almost masked presence. If one were careless, she might be mistaken for a young man—though her figure clearly marked her otherwise. Her hair was cropped short, and her manner carried an energy often associated with boys.

“Clare, right?” the boy said. “You can call me Taggart. As you can see, I’m the only man here. Surprised?”

He smiled with effortless charm—handsome, certainly, though not enough to leave me dazed.

I shook my head, then nodded, then realized how foolish I looked. What was wrong with me? I was behaving like an infatuated adolescent.

“See?” Taggart declared suddenly. “I told you she’d fall for my charm. I really am flawless.”

Before I could react, he had positioned himself near the fountain, striking dramatic poses and admiring his reflection as though performing for an invisible audience.

I blinked.

What a menace.

Ivy noticed my expression and laughed softly. “Ignore him. He’s just obsessed with himself and assumes every girl is smitten.”

I nodded slowly. That explained why he’d been placed here—this garden was clearly the safest location for him.

I snorted. So much for charm.

He was still preening, speaking to his own reflection, twisting into poses that were frankly disturbing.

What on earth was this place?

Had I truly wandered into some strange dream? Was it too late to beg Madame Marsala for mercy?

I sighed.

This was my life now. I would have to adjust.

As though reading my thoughts, Ivy spoke again. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. He’s not a bad person—just… flawed. He has a generous heart.”

I nodded, relieved. Then paused.

How did she always know what I was thinking?

“Relax,” Ivy laughed. “I can’t read minds. You’re just terribly transparent—your thoughts are written all over your face.”

I gasped.

Was I really that obvious?

It seemed I had much to work on.

“Ah—sorry I’m late!”

That voice.

Familiar. Far too familiar.

I turned sharply—

“Ariana?!”

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