---------------

On his way back to the east wing, Henry saw Anita in the courtyard again.

She’d been in the same spot, smoking, only this time she was sitting on the stone steps that connected to a side exit of the vestibule.

Their eyes locked as Henry slowly made his way over to her.

She greeted him with a small smile and offered him a puff of her cigarette. Henry waved her gesture off and took a seat next to her.

Examining her out the side of his eye.

She was a lot calmer today and she certainly looked better.

Her complexion had returned, but the dark bags that remained under her eyes cast a worrying shadow over her face.

While they sat in a comfortable silence, Henry made the decision that rather than pretending nothing happened the other day, he should simply acknowledge it.

“Anita, you must have been through something difficult, I’m glad to see you looking a bit better,” He said.

Anita didn’t offer him an immediate response. Instead, she took another long draw from the cigarette between her fingers.

A slow breathy exhale escaped her lips, resulting in a large amount of smoke that resembled rolling mountains of soft grey.

“It seems that way doesn’t it?” She responded flatly.

“Do you want to speak with me about it?” Henry asked, immediately assuming her answer was going to be no. 

After a brief moment, Anita responded.

“To be truthful, everything–,”

DISSOLVE TO:

Anita is cornered and caught by Maisy in Lady Isadora’s walk-in closet. An unlikely and unwilling alliance is formed. 3PL POV.

–everything that’s happened is a direct consequence of your own actions, Anita.” Maisy said, staring down at the string of white pearls, the rose overtone shining in the light.

“..p-please, I didn't steal them, the Lady gave them to me,” Anita said with her hands up defensively.

Maisy glared at her with her big brown eyes.

“Taking advantage of a sickly noblewoman is quite vile, Anita,” Maisy said, taking a step towards her, causing Anita to flinch.

“I-I didn’t mean to–” Anita lied, blatantly like all the other snakes Maisy had come across in her life.

“Shhh, it’s quite fine, Anita. I have much use for a vile woman like you,” Maisy said, the ends of her mouth curving up into a smile.

She stared wide-eyed as Maisy extended the string of pearls to her.

Anita, eyes filled with tears, had no choice but to accept.

WIPE TO:

The Alistair countryside estate east wing courtyard. A footman and a housemaid converse over a cigarette that is not shared. 3PL POV.

“–everything that’s happened is a direct consequence of my own actions,” Anita said with a heavy sigh.

“What do you mean by that?” Henry asked, confused. 

What could she possibly mean by ‘actions’ and ‘consequences’?

Anita didn’t respond.

She simply took another puff of her short stump of a cigarette, before putting it out in the grass.

Henry couldn’t help but imagine Basil’s reaction to seeing Anita use his precious grass as an ashtray.

She pulled out an ivory cigarette case that Henry immediately remembered to be the same one Maisy had before.

He watched her take a thin, expertly rolled cigarette and light it with a small tinder box.

Henry waited and watched her, without judgment.

He knew it wasn’t his business to pry for details. His curiosity was certainly not more important than her comfort.

It was up to Anita to decide what, when, and how much she wanted to share with him.

If that meant this conversation was just the two of them sitting in silence, Henry was willing to provide that comfort.

“Have you ever seen Lady Isadora?” Anita finally spoke.

The question came as somewhat of a shock, but more so stirred some confusion in Henry.

“Nothing, other than the portraits adorning the walls of the manor,” He answered.

It was true, he had never met the young woman in person, even as her footman.

“...that girl up there is the shell of something,...” Anita said, trailing off.

She brought her cigarette to her mouth again, even though she was at a loss for the correct words to describe what she’d seen upstairs.

Henry didn’t respond, he just waited for her to continue.

“For the past few days, that girl hasn’t stopped crying or vomiting. The whole thing just seems unnatural," She recounted, realizing that she must not be making a lot of sense to poor Henry.

“Lady Isadora kept saying things, like we “assaulted” and "tortured" her,” Anita explained.

“But given the circumstances, I suppose that’s rather true,” Anita continued.

Henry nodded slowly in agreement.

The Lady had come to the countryside under the pretense that she had gotten impregnated by a stable boy.

She then had to endure tests of validity.

Every single person in this estate had confirmed in their mind that she was not only impure but that she was with child.

Only to find that none of those claims were true.

For a young Lady to have been put in a situation like that, Henry couldn’t imagine how violated she must have felt.

It would have certainly seemed like torture, brought upon her by a bunch of strangers.

“Lady Isadora told me, she’d give me anything of value to help her. A string of white pearls that Maisy later caught me with,” Anita admitted, staring down at the end of her cigarette burning bright red.

Henry didn’t respond, he simply shook his head.

Anita knew better than to accept something like that, especially since there was really nothing she could do to remove the lady from this manor.

This must have been what she meant by ‘actions and consequences’.

“Anita!” Anita flinched, quickly snuffing out her cigarette, as Maisy’s voice called from out of sight.

Henry watched her stand up, brushing the fallen ash off her apron. She gave Henry one last fleeting glance before running off toward the vestibule.

Henry sighed and stared down at his black shoes, which now sported small specks of grey ash.

He sat there for a while.

So long that his rear had begun to grow numb.

He had completed all his tasks for the day, but his reluctance to go home and confront Lyra was strong enough to keep him rooted to this very spot.

---------------

Henry watched in silence as the sun's golden hour started to fade.

The soft, warm light created a beautiful, illuminating glow that surrounded the estate.

It was just before sunset, when the sun was low enough in the sky to cause the building to cast long distorted shadows upon the ground leaving everything just a dark silhouette against the colorful sky.

Henry stood up, stretching his arms high above his head.

Thankfully, the lingering scent of cigarettes had long since faded.

He entered the east wing through the unlocked vestibule door, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty room.

The kitchen was empty, everyone had gone for the day.

He was just as alone as he had been that morning, simply left with his thoughts and a crackling wood fire that dimly illuminated the room.

“..there were three men, who came from the west, their fortunes to tell, and the life of John Barleycorn as well,”

It was Shelby.

She was singing, her soft voice carried from down the hall into the kitchen.

It was pleasant, but not without its imperfections.

She didn’t seem to always be on key, but her voice had a gentle quality to it that was soothing to the ear.

Their eyes met as she walked into the kitchen.

She didn’t say anything, she just continued singing some sort of folk song he hadn’t heard before.

“𝆕 They laid him in three furrows deep,

Laid clods upon his head,

Then these three men made a solemn vow

John Barleycorn was dead.”

Shelby passed right by Henry, setting her bucket of fresh milk down and scooping up the candle on the table.

Without wasting any time, she lit it and placed it between the two of them.

The flickering flame brightened the room slightly.

 She then stood up, walking toward the counter by the fire and grabbed a large iron pot.

Henry was already feeling internally "buried" while trying to accept the loss of his last remaining family member, Jack.

He wasn’t necessarily sure Shelby’s song choice was going to do him any emotional favors in the long run.

Who sings about death and burial, at work no less?

“𝆕 They let him die for a very long time

Till the rain from heaven did fall,

Then little Sir John sprang up his head

And he did amaze them all,”

Henry watched Shelby in silence as she set the iron pot on the fire, then proceeded to pour the bucket of milk she’d brought.

Without meaning to, Henry had subconsciously become invested in her little folk story. John hadn’t died.

He’d been resurrected, “sprang up” to begin a new life.

“𝆕 They let him stand till the midsummer day,

Till he looked both pale and wan.

The little Sir John he grew a long beard

And so became a man.”

While Shelby waited for the milk to heat up, she made her way over to the cabinets grabbing two wooden cups and placing them on the table.

She dropped a spoonful of sugar into each.

As Henry watched her, his mind couldn’t help but go back to his earlier conversation with Anita. Just like she had failed Lady Isadora, he’d, in a sense, failed Jack.

It was difficult to have to sit there and process the torture and pain they went through.

“𝆕 They have hired men with the scythes so sharp,

To cut him off at the knee,

The rolled him and they tied him around the waist,

They served him barbarously,”

My god, Shelby.

Henry stared at her as she served the warm milk into the cups before them. She gave each one a stir and moved to the silver serving tray on the counter.

Henry could only guess it was for Lady Isadora.

Shelby filled the cup with a spoonful of sugar and covered it with a lid.

Henry picked up the cup of warm milk.

It felt nice against the skin. He hadn't realized how cold his fingertips had become.

Bringing the mug to his mouth, he was surprised to find it deliciously filling.

As though the empty void he’d been feeling all day was suddenly filling up. 

It felt like his grief was somehow being converted into energy.

“𝆕 They have hired men with the crab-tree sticks,

To cut him skin from bone,

And the miller has served him worse than that,

For he’s ground him between two stones.”

“𝆕 They’ve wheeled him here, they’ve wheeled him there,

They’ve wheeled him to a barn,

And they have served him worse than that,

They’ve bunged him in a vat,”

He listened to her song in silence.

Hoping that there was some sort of resolution for poor John.

The fellow really couldn’t seem to catch a break.

“𝆕 They have worked their will on John Barleycorn

But he lived to tell the tale,

For they pour him out of an old brown jug

And they call him home-brewed ale,”

Shelby set her cup down abruptly, blowing out the candle.

Henry watched in confusion as she stood up and grabbed her prepared silver tray.

Was this the end? They turned John Barleycorn into ale? 

In a way, it’s a tale of perseverance, Henry thought.

In the end, he’s stronger, but he’s also still being used for his new accepted purpose, isn’t he?

Henry watched Shelby walk towards the kitchen door.

“𝆕 Fa-la La-la it’s a lucky day!

Sing Fa-la La-a-lay-o

Fa-la La-la, it’s a lucky day!

Singin’ Fa-la La-la lay-o,”

She disappeared out the kitchen door, her singing voice fading down the hallway.

Henry stared after her.

He was left in the same amount of darkness as when he had arrived.

But he suddenly realized there was no reason he had to be.

He shot up and followed her out the door, closing it behind him, leaving the two wooden cups on the table in the dark.