The garden was alive that morning, a harmony of colors and scents. Marian moved between the flowerbeds, her skirts brushing against the damp earth as she hummed softly. Bees hovered lazily over blossoms, and the sun painted everything gold.
Rossetta, as usual, stood a little apart, her hands clasped loosely before her. She did not speak, nor smile, nor hum. She only watched—watching Marian prune, watching the petals fall, watching the morning unfold with eyes that revealed nothing.
Then the footsteps came. Heavy boots pressing against the gravel path, deliberate and steady. The air seemed to tighten, the chatter of the other workers softening into murmurs. Heads bowed as the figure drew near.
The Baron.
His presence was not loud, not boastful, yet it commanded the garden as surely as the sun. He walked with purpose, his long cloak brushing lightly against the path. The workers bent to their tasks, eager to appear diligent, though all were aware of him.
He stopped near the herb beds, where the head gardener waited nervously.
"My lord," the gardener bowed, wiping dirt from his hands.
"Shall I show you the progress on the roses first? Or the vegetables for the kitchens?"
"The herbs," the Baron replied, his gaze not on the plants, but drifting—unbidden—toward the two sisters.
Marian's hands froze for a heartbeat when their eyes met. Her breath caught. She lowered her head quickly, hiding the tremor that passed through her shoulders.
Ah. Recognition.
The Baron's lips curved, almost imperceptibly. So she remembered. The fear in her posture betrayed it. She knew he was the stranger they had saved—or at least suspected it.
But the other one… Rossetta.
She did not falter. Did not bow. Did not even look his way.
She stood calm, indifferent, her gaze fixed on a sprig of lavender Marian had dropped. She stooped, picked it up, brushed away the dirt, and set it neatly into her sister's basket. As though the Baron did not exist.
Something twisted in his chest—sharp, unexpected. Pride? Irritation? He did not know.
Did she truly not recognize him? Or did she simply not care?
Surely, anyone else would have demanded thanks, reward, acknowledgment. He was no ordinary man to save—he was the Baron. And yet here was this woman, acting as though he were nothing more than a shadow in her periphery.
His jaw tightened.
The gardener, oblivious to the storm brewing in his master's mind, cleared his throat and began pointing out rows of herbs. "We've added rosemary and thyme, my lord, good for the kitchens. Marian has a fine hand. The garden has thrived under her care."
The Baron hummed noncommittally, eyes straying once more to Rossetta. She stood still as stone, her hair stirred gently by the breeze. A woman rumored to be sickly—yet he had seen her fight, swift and unflinching.
Sick? Or deceiver?
He spoke without thinking. "And the other one?"
The gardener followed his gaze and smiled. "That is Rossetta, Marian's elder sister. If Marian is sunshine, then Rossetta is the moon—quiet, reserved. She does not speak much, but her manners are never unkind. Even in silence, you feel her respect."
The Baron's brow arched faintly.
"Respect? I see no such thing."
The gardener chuckled.
"Ah, my lord, do not mistake her quiet for insolence. Even if she seems cold, she is never discourteous. Her silence is her way. You will find no mockery in her eyes."
The Baron's gaze lingered, his pride stung by the woman's indifference.
"And her illness?" he asked, voice edged with disbelief. "She looks healthy enough to me."
The gardener's eyes softened with sympathy.
"That is the cruel part. On most days, she does seem well. Strong, even. But it comes suddenly, like a storm. One moment she is as you see her now, the next, pale as death. Sometimes she collapses, sometimes she bleeds. Yet she recovers as if nothing happened, carrying on without complaint."
He shook his head, admiration in his tone.
"The two of them are strong, my lord. Alone in the world, yet they face each day together. Whatever burdens they carry, they do so with quiet courage."
The Baron said nothing. His hands clasped tightly behind his back, his mind in turmoil.
Strong? Or simply cunning? Was this woman truly frail, or was she deceiving everyone—perhaps even her own sister? Pretending weakness so she might avoid labor while Marian bore the burden? Or was she something else entirely, her silence masking secrets no one else dared imagine?
He turned away sharply.
"Continue the inspection."
The gardener bowed and led him on, though his eyes, too, had caught the flicker of the Baron's gaze more than once. He had seen that look before—a man drawn toward something he did not understand, something that unsettled him.
That night, as the sisters returned home, Marian exhaled shakily once the cottage door shut behind them. She pressed a hand to her chest.
"Rossetta… did you see? It was him."
Rossetta unlaced her shawl and placed it neatly aside, her expression unreadable.
"He didn't say anything," Marian went on, pacing.
"But I know he knew. I felt it. His eyes—" She shivered.
"He must have recognized us. He must know we saved him. Why didn't you—why didn't you even look at him?"
Rossetta finally met her gaze, calm, steady.
"Because it doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?" Marian's voice cracked.
"He's the Baron! He could reward us, he could—he could punish us if he thinks—"
"He will do what he wishes," Rossetta said quietly.
"Our actions are not for reward."
Marian clenched her fists, torn between frustration and fear.
"Sometimes I don't understand you."
"You don't have to."
The silence that followed was heavy, fragile. Marian turned away, biting her lip, while Rossetta sat by the window, watching the night.
Her eyes, distant and cold, reflected the moonlight—eyes that had once seen far darker things than Barons or gardens.
Far beyond the manor walls, chaos stirred.
In the dark halls of the northern keep, whispers spread like wildfire. A group of witches, long kept under watch, had slipped their chains. They had not simply fled—they had taken with them tools, grimoires, and the results of their cruel experiments.
The bodies they left behind told stories of horror: men twisted into beasts, children marked with strange sigils, women robbed of breath and left pale as bone.
"They are loose," a messenger gasped, collapsing before his captain.
"The witches who tampered with flesh and spirit. They head south. They may already be on the move toward the Baron's lands."
The captain swore, rallying his men.
Darkness was coming, creeping nearer with each passing night.
And in the garden, two sisters tended their flowers, unaware that shadows were already walking in their direction.