The village of Harrowbend did not have grand walls or marble halls, but it had something Marian had longed for all her life: a place where the air smelled of loam and cut grass, and laughter was not a rare thing but the very fabric of the day.
Her first morning in the Baron's employ was bright with spring light. The garden stretched like an emerald quilt around the mansion, rows of hedges, patches of wildflowers, and beds waiting for careful hands. The other workers had gathered early, leaning on rakes and watering cans, eyeing the newcomer with curiosity.
Marian felt their gazes but smiled anyway—soft, genuine, unguarded. It was the kind of smile that disarmed suspicion before it even took root.
"I'll take the northern beds," she offered lightly, rolling her sleeves.
"They look like they're wilting from the frost."
One of the older gardeners, an angular man named Ellis, blinked.
"You noticed that already?"
Marian knelt at the edge of the soil, fingertips brushing the leaves.
"Their roots are thirsty. The frost took more from them than we thought. If we mix chamomile with the soil, it will help them settle."
The workers exchanged looks. Chamomile? Most had thought it only a tea herb. But as Marian worked, she spoke with ease—about balancing soil, coaxing growth from stubborn seedlings, how herbs could heal both body and land.
Before long, the others gathered around her, listening as though she were telling stories instead of giving lessons. A maid passing by even paused to watch, smiling at the way Marian's hands moved, gentle but sure.
"You really know your plants,"
Ellis said at last, wonder breaking through his gruffness.
Marian laughed softly, brushing dirt from her cheek.
"It's what my sister and I learned from our parents. For me it became a craft. For her…"
Her smile dimmed, tender but edged with worry.
"…it became medicine. She's often unwell, so I make sure the garden gives us what we need."
The others nodded, sympathy softening their faces. No one pressed her for details. Instead, they welcomed her—offering tools, sharing tricks, even inviting her to eat with them later. By midday, Marian felt as though she had stepped into a family she never knew she could have.
And then came the familiar voice.
"Marian?"
She turned, startled. Standing by the stables was Frank, brushing down a dapple-gray horse. His eyes widened as recognition dawned.
"You're working here?" he asked,
half-laughing, half-disbelieving.
"Yes." Marian wiped her hands on her apron, chuckling at his expression.
"And you?"
"Stables," Frank said, almost proudly.
"The Baron trusts me with his horses."
His grin softened.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
Their conversation drew the curious looks of the other workers, but Marian simply smiled, warmth lighting her face.
"Then we're colleagues now."
Frank's ears pinked as he ducked his head, murmuring something about saddles and feed, but Marian only laughed.
The days that followed were threaded with small joys. Marian rose early with the other workers, tending rows of herbs and coaxing vines into bloom. Her presence became a balm—maids lingered in the garden just to talk with her, knights passing by slowed to offer greetings, and the old gardeners shook their heads in fond disbelief at how quickly the plants seemed to flourish under her touch.
Even Rossetta noticed.
Her sister had spent the first days in bed, recovering from the lingering venom of the curse-poison that had nearly claimed her life. But once her strength returned, she insisted on stepping into the garden, pale but steady, her dark eyes sharper than ever.
The workers greeted her with warmth, though she remained cool, almost distant. Where Marian glowed with kindness, Rossetta held herself like a blade—polished, restrained. She nodded politely, spoke little, and yet somehow commanded respect.
"She's different," one of the maids whispered once.
"Like the moon beside Marian's sun."
Rossetta heard, of course. She always did. But she only inclined her head, neither denying nor encouraging the remark.
To Marian's quiet delight, Rossetta began spending her mornings among the flowers, sitting near her sister, sometimes helping with the simpler tasks. She did not laugh easily, nor did she soften her words, but she listened when Marian spoke and tolerated the gentle chatter of the others. For those who had expected a frail invalid, her presence was both surprise and curiosity.
And then there was Frank.
At first, he lingered only by the stables. But as days stretched into weeks, Marian noticed his steps leading more often to the garden. He came with excuses—a bucket of water, a stray tool, a horse in need of herbs. But always, always, his gaze found Rossetta.
It was not bold, not like the stories maids giggled over. His eyes would flicker toward her in quiet moments, watching as she bent to trim a stem or sat with her hand pressed absently to her temple. His care showed in subtler ways—in the way he offered her a chair when no one else thought to, or how he left the choicest fruit near her plate at supper.
The others saw it.
"Frank's smitten," a maid whispered, covering her grin.
"Poor boy," Ellis chuckled.
"She's as cold as winter ice."
But Marian only smiled, a secret amusement in her gaze. For she knew Rossetta well—the way her sister's silences were not cruelty but armor, the way she deflected kindness because she did not know how to accept it. To Rossetta, Frank was likely just another stable hand, another name in a long list she refused to remember too closely.
Still, Marian noticed the faintest cracks—how Rossetta lingered when Frank spoke to her, how her gaze softened when he treated her with unassuming respect.
It was a warmth Rossetta would never admit, perhaps never even recognize. But Marian saw. She always saw.
One evening, as the workers gathered for supper, laughter ringing through the hall, Marian glanced across the table. Frank was speaking animatedly to another knight, but his eyes slid—just for a heartbeat—toward Rossetta, who sat quietly beside her.
Rossetta, oblivious as ever, sipped her tea, her dark lashes lowering in thought.
Marian hid her smile behind her cup.
For the first time in a long while, life felt almost ordinary. Safe. Human. And for that evening, with her sister beside her and warmth all around, Marian let herself believe that perhaps—just perhaps—the world had given them a pause from sorrow.