The night had long since fallen, yet the small lamp in their rented cottage still glowed, casting a warm circle of light against the rough wooden walls. Outside, crickets sang in the grass and the wind sighed through the trees, but within the room, only Marian's soft voice broke the silence.
"Hold still," she murmured, dipping a cloth into a bowl of cool water. The scent of crushed herbs clung to the air, sharp and clean, as she pressed the poultice against Rossetta's arm.
Her sister did not flinch. She never did.
"You're too quiet," Marian went on, her tone laced with worry.
"Yesterday was… strange. Who was that man? A villager? A knight? Or just a traveler caught in the wrong place?" She shook her head, frustration curling at the edges of her words.
"There are too many maybes. What if he comes looking for us? What if someone saw you fight?"
Rossetta sat stiffly on the low stool, her gaze fixed on the darkened window. The faint scarlet glow of her wound pulsed beneath Marian's careful touch, but no sound escaped her lips.
"You always act like nothing matters," Marian whispered, tying the cloth gently in place.
"But it does. It matters to me."
For a moment, the silence grew heavy. Then Rossetta stood. Her dark hair fell across her pale face as she walked toward the narrow door leading to her small chamber.
"Maybe he's one of the Baron's knights,"
Marian added quickly, grasping for answers, for reassurance—anything.
"They say he's arriving soon, with his whole retinue. That man… he fought like someone trained, not just a traveler."
The only reply was the soft creak of the floorboards as Rossetta disappeared into her room.
Marian's shoulders slumped. Her hands lingered over the herbs still spread across the table, their fresh green leaves already wilting.
"You never tell me anything," she murmured to the empty air.
"But one day, silence will not be enough."
The lamp flickered low. She blew it out and sat alone in the darkness, listening to her sister's faint footsteps above.
Morning came bright and gentle. Dew clung to the leaves, and the garden glistened under the kiss of sunlight.
Marian knelt in the soil, hands steady as she trimmed a row of herbs, humming a soft tune that blended with the chatter of birds. Every motion spoke of familiarity, of care. She coaxed the earth to yield beauty as though she had been born to it.
Not far behind, Rossetta stood with arms folded, her eyes scanning the hedges and stone walls. She never knelt, never dirtied her hands in the soil—not because she disdained the work, but because she preferred to watch. To guard.
From the high window of the manor, unseen eyes lingered.
The Baron.
He leaned against the frame, his gaze fixed upon the young woman in the garden—the one who had wielded a branch like a blade the night before. Here, in the light of day, she was… different.
Her hair caught the morning sun, strands glinting like polished Pearl. Her face betrayed no emotion, no strain, only the calm detachment of someone untouched by gossip, unaffected by glances. Even as she stooped slightly to adjust a basket for Marian, there was a grace to her movements that made his chest tighten in a way he could not name.
"Who are they?" the Baron asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the garden.
The butler bowed behind him.
"The younger is Marian, our new gardener. Skilled, from what the others say. The older is her sister, Rossetta. She is… unwell, often bedridden, but insists on helping when she can."
The Baron's brow furrowed.
"Is she employed?"
"No, my lord. Only Marian is under contract. Rossetta is considered a dependent."
The Baron turned, his sharp profile lit by the morning light.
"Should I dismiss her?"
The butler hesitated. He had served long enough to recognize the tension in his master's voice—not suspicion, not yet. Something else.
"Shall I give the order, my lord?"
"No." The Baron's reply was clipped, final.
His gaze slid back to the window, to the figure kneeling in the soil.
"Let them stay."
The butler bowed deeply and withdrew, leaving his master alone with his thoughts.
Down below, Marian laughed at something one of the maids said as she handed over a bundle of herbs. Rossetta, however, did not laugh. She straightened slowly, her blue eyes lifting—cold, steady.
Their gazes met.
The Baron felt the jolt like a physical thing. Those eyes… unreadable, unshaken, as though she had known all along he was there. No surprise, no fear. Only silence, like the surface of a lake hiding depths unfathomable.
For a heartbeat, neither looked away. Then Rossetta turned, breaking the connection, her focus returning to Marian.
The Baron drew the curtains shut, his chest inexplicably tight.
The garden, that day, was livelier than usual. Marian's presence had already warmed the workers. She moved with ease among them, her aura soft, approachable, her laughter light. Even the knights paused when passing by, nodding respectfully at the sight of her tending to herbs that would later ease their aches.
"You've a good hand for plants," one of the stable boys remarked, leaning on a spade.
Marian smiled.
"It's nothing. My sister and I used to grow herbs at home. It helped with her health… and with everything else. When you care for the soil, it cares for you back."
The boy grinned, cheeks reddening, and hurried off when another worker called him.
Rossetta, standing beneath the shade of an old tree, overheard it all. Her expression remained unreadable, but something in her chest eased at Marian's ease with others. It was safer, she thought, for her sister to blend in. To belong.
It was then she noticed him.
Frank, the stable hand, tending to the horses at the edge of the yard. He glanced toward them often—toward her, though she did not realize it. His eyes lingered when he thought she would not notice, his hands fumbling once when a colt jerked at the reins.
The other workers noticed. Whispered. Smiled knowingly.
But Rossetta was oblivious, her attention fixed only on Marian, only on the rhythm of her sister's hands in the soil.
Marian, however, saw. She caught the way Frank's gaze softened, the way he straightened when Rossetta passed by, silent and composed as ever. It made her want to laugh, but she bit it back, hiding it behind a polite smile.
The warmth of the day wrapped around them like a fragile peace, a pause from the world's cruelty.
That night, Marian returned home with dirt beneath her nails but joy in her eyes. Rossetta sat by the window, her face half-lit by moonlight, watching the stars.
"You know," Marian began, placing a small bundle of herbs on the table, "everyone was kind today. They said I have a gift for gardening. I told them it was because of you. That you taught me."
Rossetta did not answer. Her silence was familiar, heavy.
Marian softened, her voice lowering.
"I like it here. For once… it feels like we belong. Even if just for a little while."
Rossetta's fingers tightened slightly against the windowsill, but she said nothing. Her gaze remained fixed on the night sky, where shadows shifted among the stars.
The Baron, in his chambers, thought of the same sky. But his thoughts were not on the constellations.
They were on a pair of cold eyes that had met his without fear.
Eyes that did not belong to a simple gardener's sister.
And though he had told himself to forget, he knew he could not.