What had once been a beautiful garden now stood as an echo of distant years. A flower may soon bloom, yet blossoms took much time and care, regardless of how many hands could be hired.


    However, she was patient. The world had lasted millennia before her and would continue on for millennia after her. Compared to that, the time it took a tree to grow meant nothing. What beauty the tree would hold was not for her to admire. In truth, little she did was for herself, albeit everything she did was selfish.


    While she knew she may not live to see the blossoms, she knew there were people who would and they would think fondly of her at such a time.


    The page in front of her was a mess of sketches. She had learnt such a hobby as was suitable for her bearing, which now proved particularly helpful as flowers had been a common subject. Her task, then, was to prepare for a spring event, so she sought to arrange such flowers as to complement it. The sooner such a task was done, the easier it would be to make happen.


    “A Mr Jacob has arrived.”


    Her gaze stayed upon the page, seconds trickling by until a minute had piled up, only for her to then move on to a fresh paper. Although her movements lacked the control of dedication, they showed the foundation she had built for herself. Stroke by stroke, she brought out a rough design of flowerbeds and paths and even a pond, all of which loosely followed the existing landscape of the garden. The centre of her design accommodated a gazebo—a place-holder for now, the precise details something she would think on over the coming months before carefully drawing up when needed.


    With that, she finally said, “Bring him around.”


    “Yes, My Lady.”


    The maid returned inside the house. Eventually, a footman led someone over, following the path along the building’s edge.


    Her guest was a young man, lanky and gaunt, mouth stuck in a polite smile while his brow had a perpetual wrinkle. A man with a slight tan, yet callused fingers. He kept his black hair short, a touch of curl to it, while his attempt at a beard gave him the look of a half-shorn sheep. Despite his youth, a heaviness lingered both in his eyes and beneath them.


    He followed the footman over to her, then went to speak, only to bite his tongue and bow his head, for a moment looking like he was considering whether or not to kneel with how he began to squat.


    She let him stew a moment, then broke the silence as she stood up. “This is Mr Jacob?”


    “Y-yes, ma—My Lady,” he said, nodding along as he spoke.


    “I am to understand you are a journeyman carpenter,” she said.


    He hesitated, then, with no more spoken by her, he answered. “Yes, My Lady.”


    Her gaze lingered on him until he dared raise his eyes; instantly, he looked back down, staring at the floor. “You became a journeyman at a young age.”


    “Y-yes, My Lady.”


    “And still are not a master.”


    He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. With no success, he forced out the words anyway, strained. “Yes, My Lady.”


    “Explain.”


    The single word stilled him, for a moment feeling like even his heart dared not beat. “Th-that is, there is nothing to explain, My Lady,” he whispered.


    “I do not recall asking for your opinion on whether or not my question is worth being answered.”


    His eyes prickled, every bone in his body quaking in fear. “I, I don’t know what to say, My Lady. I tried, but I was always told it’s not good enough.”


    “Why?”


    The straight-forward question again dug deep, sharper for how brief it was. “W-well, th-the masters gave their reasons, but….”


    He didn’t want to say more. His heart pounded in his chest, already feeling cold from waiting outside, now chilled by every brush of wind as he grew slick with sweat. However, she would say no more and the silence pulled at him, trying to tug out any words it could from deep within his chest, words he had long learned to keep buried.


    Until it became too much. “My Lady knows why they’ll never make me a master,” he whispered.


    “You think you are worthy of being a master, then?” she asked.


    Whether the cold, whether the catharsis of finally admitting that silent truth, he felt too numb to be afraid, yet was not so dumb to be disrespectful. “Yes, My Lady.”


    Again, silence fell, albeit more comfortable this time. He did not find the same pressure to speak. After a while, she moved around her papers, then found one to present to him.


    “Do you recognise this?” she asked.


    He looked up from the ground and stared at the page. It was a crude drawing, he thought, only to realise it was instead something technical. A drawing with only as many marks as it needed to convey the essential information.


    “A spinning wheel?” he muttered.


    “Indeed,” she said and, reaching farther, handed it to him.


    He carefully took it, pinching the edges so lightly a sudden breeze almost stole it from him. After a moment of panic, he held it tighter, now fretting over accidentally tearing it.


    “I have a simple question: would you be able to build one?”


    He almost laughed, but he was glad that he hadn’t, still very much mindful of his place. “Th-that’s… I’ve mended one before. Making one? I, I’m not sure, My Lady,” he said, his voice distant as his mind whirred with thoughts.


    “I did not ask if you are able to, but if you would be able to. With sufficient time and such funds to cover housing and food, would you be able to understand the mechanism by which a spinning wheel works, thus able to design and construct one?” she asked.


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    For a moment, he didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t the kind of question anyone had ever asked him before. He was often asked what he “can” do, but not what he “could” do.


    It was terrifying.


    “I, I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just copied the part—when I mended it. What, or why, I don’t know. It was wood and needed to be a shape and I’m good at that. I learnt lots of things, but those were… taught to me. I, I don’t know how I can learn what I don’t know. I can copy all the parts and put them together, but if that doesn’t work, I—I don’t know.”


    As if to punctuate his ramblings, a tear fell and blotted on the page, smudging some of the ink. He quickly brought up a hand to wipe his eyes, the other still carefully holding the page.


    “M-my apologies, My Lady,” he said, still hunched over, yet bowing his head further.


    For a moment, there was silence. “Well, it is what it is,” she said, her tone lighter than before as she turned to regard the garden once again. “I already have three others working on this and only reached out to you because Miss Gianna mentioned your name.”


    His head jerked up. “Gianna?” he asked, voice hoarse, and his gaze darted around, only to settle on the young woman beside her. “Gianna….” A whisper little louder than his pounding heart.


    The maid gave no reaction as she stayed standing so very still, her hands crossed in front of her, gaze lowered.


    “Gianna, when I heard—I tried not to go far, always asked, and I ran back. No one told me what happened to you and I—” he said, stopping as his voice cracked. That pause gave him the self-awareness to stop. He mirrored her, his head bowed and gaze on the floor, paper neatly held. “My apologies, My Lady.”


    She tittered and gave a wave of her hand. “Please, do continue. I find your little drama rather amusing.”


    His mouth squirmed, a tremble picking at his self-control. However, when he raised his head and looked once more upon the maid, the wrinkle on his brow left. “Gianna, I didn’t want to leave, but I thought—I wanted to be a master. I wanted to take you away from it all.”


    At last, the maid raised her gaze. He smiled until that gaze of hers met his. “Mr Jacob, do you know what I hated more than my father?” she said, not a whisper, but quiet and clear.


    “What?” he asked, his heart aching.


    “That the same people who had pulled my father off of my mother before, when he had screamed he would kill her—they gave me their condolences. They told me they wished they had done more, that they could have done more. Yet, even when he was held by the bailiffs awaiting trial, they still told me I should plead for him, that he was my father and it was only right for a child to support their father. That she wouldn’t come back, that he wouldn’t do the same to me, that I needed him to live a good life, that I would struggle as an orphan.”


    Her tone never wavered, no pain nor sadness in her voice. She simply spoke. As she did, his tremble returned, face creased with borrowed emotions.


    “All my life, I suffered at his hands and was told to be thankful. It was not the neighbours who saw how vile he was, nor was it his own family who saw responsibility in his actions, nor was it my mother’s family who saw a need to protect me and her. No, it was My Lady who heard my story and, by the morning, my father had found justice.”


    What little composure he had left finally broke. He hunched over, his breaths coming out in shudders, such a pain in his chest that he thought he might die. “I, I didn’t know—”


    “It is a sin to lie.”


    Her words dug deeper into him than any knife could. However much he had lied to himself, God would always know.


    “Oh my,” Julia said, her tone light, “I suppose this drama is a tragedy?”


    The comment helped him to gather his composure once more, albeit his face paler and breaths unsteady. “M-my Lady?”


    “I rather thought this was to be the cherished reunion of childhood sweethearts. Alas, it seems that I am quite mistaken,” she said, a hint of laughter accompanying her words.


    “My Lady is mistaken,” her maid said.


    He brought out the last of his courage to look at the maid once more. There was nothing there to make him smile, yet he still did.


    “Oh well, there is entertainment in tragedy too,” Julia said, then turned to the side. “Mr Cromer, if he could be shown to the servants’ hall while the paperwork is arranged.”


    “Consider it done, My Lady.”


    Jacob almost jumped, the man’s voice coming from right behind him, having never heard a single footstep. “P-paperwork?” he asked, then belatedly added, “My Lady?”


    “It would save us the hassle if you wish to decline. However, given your circumstances, I do not think you are in a position to turn down honest work, are you?” she said, an eyebrow raised.


    He stilled, taking a moment to realise what she meant. “M-my Lady is… hiring me?” he asked.


    “I am. While your answer leaves much to be desired, it is nothing for me to support another person who may provide a crucial insight into a problem I am trying to address. That aside, if Gianna tells me you are competent, I have no reason to doubt her. However, if you prove otherwise… perhaps I shall have to doubt her in the future.”


    At those words, he straightened up. “I’ll do my best, My Lady, honest I will,” he said.


    She slowly turned her gaze upon him, the corners of her mouth rising as she let out a slight sigh of exasperation. “Men are such simple creatures. Pray do not think I would hold her accountable for your mistakes, rather take me at my word.”


    With that said, she gave a small wave of her hand. Her butler cleared his throat; Jacob did not need to be told again, turning around, but his gaze lingered on her maid a second longer.


    Then he was gone.


    Silence but for the wind, she sorted through the pages on the table until satisfied, at which point she walked away. Her maid picked up the pages while a pair of footmen came over to move the table and chair back inside.


    Down from the patio, she walked along the path to a lone patch of colour amongst the autumnal shades.


    “Does Gianna know why these flowers are here?”


    Her maid, coming to her side, looked at them, then shook her head. “I don’t, madam.”


    “My father planted them to commemorate my mother’s birthday. He claimed they were her favourite for this time of year, so they have been planted every year that either he or I have managed this manor,” she said, her voice soft, yet not gentle.


    After a moment, her maid asked, “Madam thinks these were not her favourite?”


    “Who would doubt a loving husband over such a matter?”


    For a while, they stood there in silence, simply staring at the flowers as they shivered in the chilly breeze.


    “As for Jacob…” Julia said.


    Her maid didn’t fidget; no, she stilled. “I truly recommended him because I thought he will be useful.”


    “I do believe you. Rather, I am amused at how I have… influenced your behaviour.”


    No reply came for that, but her maid soon let out a sigh and then spoke. “He liked to make toys. I think he forgot that. When madam mentioned it was about spinning wheels, I remembered he loved carving spinning tops. He’d sit for hours to get the balance just right….”


    With her maid apparently finished speaking, she let out a light chuckle. “My maid certainly does keep her mistress’s interests in mind.”


    “It is my duty to serve madam,” her maid replied without hesitation.


    “Indeed, and it is my duty to be worth serving,” she said, her gaze still upon those chrysanthemums.


    Eventually, she turned away. The walk back to the manor passed in silence and it was only upon her return to her office, her maid placing the pages there for her, that she spoke again.


    “Alas, it is a frustrating thing to be unable to understand that which is understood by others. I may look at this diagram and read a report of how it is that yarn is spun, something which even children do, and my thoughts fail to come together. Without that understanding, I cannot even begin to think of how this process may be improved,” she said, more speaking aloud than talking.


    Knowing that, her maid said nothing, all the more so as she did not know either.


    “Such is life. There are many matters with which I am hopeless and so I must hope that others may take on the work on my behalf,” she said, ending with a sigh. “Then again, even if I must make do with yarn that is not worth weaving, that is certainly something I may make use of. How I yearn to bring the paper-makers here….”


    Her maid could not help but smile; however, she did not think her mistress would notice, almost jumping when she glanced over and found those piercing eyes staring right through her.


    “Is something amusing?” Julia asked, her voice light and gentle.


    Her maid bowed her head. “Madam is very good at using what she has, not what she wishes she has,” she said calmly.


    A smile came to her lips, wide enough that it pinched her eyes. “Indeed.”