: The Garden's Whisper
The old fountain stood at the far end of the garden, half-hidden by a veil of ivy and overgrown hedges. Time had cracked its edges, and moss curled around the base like velvet. Water no longer flowed, but the bowl still held rainwater, reflecting the gray morning sky in its surface.
Eleanor stepped closer, fascinated. The sculpture at the center depicted two stone doves with wings outstretched — one broken at the tip.
"It hasn't worked in years," Nathaniel said from behind her. "No one ever got around to fixing it."
Eleanor looked over her shoulder. "You speak of it as though it's alive."
"In a way," he replied, moving to stand beside her. "Lady Ashvale believes it to be cursed."
She raised a brow. "Truly?"
Nathaniel gave a slight smile. "She claims her husband died two days after it stopped running."
Eleanor shivered, but not from the cold. She studied the birds again. "Do you believe in curses, Mr. Blackmoor?"
"I believe some places carry memory like scent. Strong enough to linger long after the source is gone."
She was quiet for a moment. The breeze rustled the dry leaves, and a crow called out in the distance.
"Are you always so poetic?" she asked, glancing at him.
"Only when I'm bored or around beautiful things," he said without pause.
Eleanor turned fully to him then, her cheeks flushed. "You flatter easily."
"No," he said, voice lower, "I choose carefully."
She looked away, her heart tapping against her ribs. "Why are you here, Nathaniel?"
He seemed surprised by her use of his name — pleasantly so.
But the smile didn't reach his eyes this time. "Because I needed somewhere to disappear for a while."
Eleanor frowned. "Disappear from what?"
"Responsibilities. People. Mistakes."
She studied his face — and for the first time, saw something vulnerable beneath his calm exterior.
"You don't look like someone who runs from things."
"I'm not running," he said softly. "Just... waiting."
"For what?"
Nathaniel's eyes searched hers for a moment, then drifted down to her hand resting lightly on the fountain's edge. He didn't answer.
Eleanor took a slow breath. She didn't like mysteries — not ones tied in silk and silence.
"Well," she said, stepping back, "I hope the waiting is worth it."
Nathaniel said nothing. But his gaze lingered.
---
They returned to the manor just as the sun began to pierce the clouds. Eleanor entered the drawing room alone, unsure of when they had separated in the corridor. One moment he was walking beside her. The next — vanished with the same ghostlike quiet he always seemed to carry.
Lady Catherine was there, seated beside a table with letters in her lap.
"You were gone long enough," she said without looking up.
"I went walking," Eleanor replied. "With Mr. Blackmoor."
Lady Catherine's pen paused mid-line. "That man will break something in you, if you let him."
Eleanor stiffened. "He's done nothing improper."
Lady Catherine's eyes met hers now, sharp as pins. "He doesn't need to. Men like him chip away at you quietly. With words. With silence. With secrets."
Eleanor felt the sting of defiance rise. "He was kind."
"So was arsenic, once," her aunt replied coldly. "Until they learned how it killed."
The words sank like lead.
Lady Catherine turned back to her letters. "You are not here to fall in love, Eleanor. You are here to be seen. To be chosen. A Hartwood daughter has obligations."
Eleanor stood very still. "What if I don't want to be chosen?"
Her aunt looked up again, something ancient and tired in her expression.
"Then pray you never regret it."
---
Later that evening, Eleanor found herself standing at the edge of the west corridor, just beyond the music room. She had intended to read. To write. To distract herself.
But instead, she stood frozen.
Someone was playing the piano.
The notes were soft, hesitant at first, then grew surer — a melody full of longing and unfinished thoughts. It wasn't a song she recognized. And it wasn't perfect. A few keys were missed. A few pauses came too soon.
But it was beautiful.
She peeked around the doorway.
Nathaniel sat at the piano bench, head bowed slightly, fingers moving with quiet focus. The light from a nearby candelabra flickered against his face.
He hadn't noticed her.
She stayed.
Watched.
Listened.
And in that music — unspoken and fragile — she felt something stir in her that frightened her more than her aunt's warnings.
She wanted to know him.
Not the version he showed in conversation. Not the man who gave sly smiles and mysterious words.
The man who played music in the dark, as if trying to remember something he had once loved and lost.