At the main entrance of the mansion, Benedict the steward stood bent low in a welcoming bow. The older man’s impeccably pressed frock coat and decorously folded hands exuded a reliability that can be encountered solely among servants devoted to their craft for decades.

“Welcome to Rosenwald, Lady Azalea, Master Marcus, Lady Elena, and Milady Strelitzia,” his voice rang out evenly and respectfully. “The house is fully prepared for your arrival. The quarters have been aired, the hearths are lit, and the servants have been distributed to their stations and await your commands.”

Marcus merely nodded in silence, carefully shifting his daughter into a more comfortable position. The girl, thoroughly softened from the long journey under the spring sun, buried her nose in her father’s shoulder and sniffled quietly, clenching her eyes tightly shut.

“The little lady wishes to be in her bed. Show the way,” Marcus spoke quietly.

Benedict nodded to one of the maids, and she hastened to execute the assignment. Striving not to disrupt his daughter’s sleep, Marcus stepped neatly around the steward and, with wide, confident strides, carried the child deeper into the house, following the girl.

Elena Rosenthal, visibly fatigued by the inaction of the journey, clapped her palms together. Shedding her light, white fur coat into the hands of a housemaid who had run up to her, she turned resolutely toward the doormen and laborers who had already begun to carry the first heavy boxes into the courtyard. It was time to institute order within the chaos that invariably accompanies a relocation.

“Benedict,” Elena pronounced in a resonant tone that brooked no arguments. “All the long, flat crates bearing the marking of the southern manufacture - immediately to Azalea’s laboratory. Unload them with the utmost caution; there is fragile glass and reagents within. The crates with canvases, easels, and paints, lift to the third floor, into the art workshop. Take care that they are not positioned near the windows. The spring sun is still far too moist.”

Benedict listened closely to the instructions, striving to neglect nothing.

“And what is to be executed regarding the statues, mistress?” the steward inquired politely, pointing toward the massive crates knocked together from coarse planks, which four sturdy men were hauling with difficulty.

“Leave the statues in the wooden crates in the barn for now,” Elena instructed, sweeping a critical glance over the territory of the manor. “The garden is not yet fully prepared, the fountains have not been launched, and there is no purpose for them to get wet in solitude from potential rain along the paths. Let them await their scene in storage. And the books, every single box, carry straight into the library. We shall occupy ourselves with them later.”

She turned back toward the wagon, from which laborers were extracting woven baskets piled to the brim with exotic southern spices, copper utensils, and sealed clay jars.

“This goes to the kitchen, to the head chef. Deliver the wheat, grains, and dry provisions to the overseer at the storehouse. And look alive; everything must stand in its place before sundown.”

While Elena distributed clear, calibrated instructions, allocating the property across the updated corners of Rosenwald, Azalea remained standing upon the porch. She observed intently how her labors, packed in coarse wood and canvas, slowly filled this old stone building, transforming it into a cozy nest.

The comfortable shoes that had replaced her leather half-boots tapped quietly and confidently across the freshly washed parquet of the corridor. Azalea walked with a swift, measured stride, listening closely to the chief maid, who scuttled beside her and hastily acquainted the mistress with the staff of servants assigned to this wing of Rosenwald.

“...In total, there are thirty servants in the main building, Lady Azalea, not counting the kitchen assistants and gardeners,” the woman rattled off rapidly, scarcely keeping pace with the mistress’s swift stride. “All have undergone the strictest selection, as Lady Elena commanded.”

“Is my study already prepared?” Azalea interrupted her calmly, without slowing her pace.

The maid drew herself up textually like a string immediately and quickly reported on what had been prepared within her personal space.

“Yes, Lady Rosenthal! Everything has been executed precisely according to your sketches. The writing desk of dark oak was polished thrice, the ink has been delivered, and the locks upon the drawers have been verified by the finest master. Furthermore, the mechanism for the secret door was enchanted by the engaged mage.”

Entering the room, Azalea paused. She cursorily inspected the spacious premises, which smelled of expensive leather, lacquer, and fresh paper.

“Acquaint Ophelia with the people who will be required for her work. Everyone must know my assistant by sight. And summon the mage to me.”

The maid bowed hastily and vanished behind the door, showing the way for Ophelia.

Left at last alone, Azalea severed herself from all the noise of the grand relocation. She approached the distant wall situated directly behind her writing desk slowly and critically evaluated the relief figures adorning the masonry. Her fingers passed over the complex moldings, verifying whether everything had been executed precisely as she had ordered from the masters.

A low but demanding knock sounded at the study door.

Azalea returned to the writing desk, sat in the deep armchair upholstered in dark leather, and pronounced in a calm, even voice:

“Enter.”

The heavy oak leaf opened slightly, and Magnus Trent stepped into the study. His appearance, to put it mildly, was slightly rumpled. His cuffs were hastily fastened, his hair stood out in different directions, and a sleepy haze still read within his eyes. Nonetheless, noticing the mistress of the house, he strived to fix his face into the most obliging and professional expression.

“Welcome to the capital, Lady Azalea,” Magnus offered a somewhat hasty but perfectly polite bow. “I am sincerely delighted by your arrival. How is your health? How did the family endure this long journey from the Empire? I hope the spring mud did not fatigue Lady Elena and the small mistress Strelitzia excessively?”

Azalea was not in a hurry to respond. She squinted slightly, leaning her elbows upon the polished surface of the desk and interlacing her fingers. Her cold, piercing gaze slid slowly over his not-fully-tucked shirt collar.

“We coped with the journey excellently, Mr. Trent,” she responded in a low voice, and from this calm tone Magnus involuntarily squared himself. “Which cannot be spoken regarding you. Tell me, why did you not welcome us alongside Benedict and the remaining staff of servants at the main gates? And most importantly... why is the garden still not prepared for the Spring Festival? Elena was just compelled to dispatch the marble statues to the barn because chaos still reigns along the alleys.”

Magnus took a guilty breath. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly with his hand, ruffling his already unruly hair, and dropped his shoulders dejectedly.

“I confess, Lady Azalea. I mundanely overslept. The relocation from the old wing and the night labors exhausted me slightly, and I... in short, I lost track of time,” he admitted, catching his breath. “But as for the garden... here the matter is far viler than it appears at first glance. Plant magic is granted to me with immense difficulty. It is simply some sort of curse.”

He took a step forward, as if seeking sympathy, and spread his hands.

“Even with that grimoire you granted me prior to departure, the business scarcely moves. I honestly memorized all the formulas and weaves for accelerating growth, but these fastidious shrubs and buds either wither the subsequent day or begin to wildly overgrow into savage, thorny thickets that the gardeners are forced to hack away with axes. I lack the subtlety of control for living flora. My element is far cruder. Explosions, shackles, that sort of thing.”

Azalea listened to his explanations without a shadow of irritation, but her gaze remained thoughtful. She comprehended perfectly well that altering a predisposition was an impossibility, but this was the sole mage she trusted. The only one currently accessible.