Taller stems stood behind them, staked with thin twine. At the borders, growth went a little wild where no heavy foot touched it. She slowed down to look. Color softened as the light went. Nothing grand, yet everything looked as orderly as if nature itself had grown the leaves.
A maid walked with her, a slight girl with steady hands and a woven basket on her arm. “Leah,” she had said when Erica asked her name.
She knew the beds well. When Erica bent to a pale bloom, Leah named it and said it took cold better than folks thought. When Erica pointed to a blue spire, Leah said it sulked without sun and would need moving before the first frost.
“What about those?” Erica asked, nodding toward a clump by the wall.
“Sweet rocket,” Leah answered. “They seed where they please. We thin them, or they choke the next bed.”
Erica smiled. “Me maid back home would complain that the lilies arenae lined straight enough.”
Leah did not laugh. Her gaze dropped to the path. Her fingers tightened on the basket handle. “Aye, me Lady.”
It was small as a breath, yet Erica felt it. She filed it away. This house listened for different things. Jokes about order did not land well here.
They walked on. A kitchen boy crossed the far side of the courtyard with a tray and did not cut across the grass. Two guards passed by the postern, counted the garden, then vanished toward the wall walk.
The rhythm was clear. Work first. Talk that served work. No wasted steps.
“Ye like the garden?” Leah asked.
“Aye,” Erica said. “It reminds me that things can be kept if ye tend them.”
Leah glanced at her once, brief as a blink. “Aye.”
A bell sounded from inside the keep, low and round. The note rolled along the stone and settled.
Leah straightened. “That will be dinner, me Lady.”
Erica looked toward the arch. “Aye.”
“Would ye like help choosing a dress?” Leah asked. “I can fetch Anna from the linen room.”
Erica waved her off with a small smile. “Daenae trouble yerself. I’m sure ye have better things to do with yer time.”
Leah hesitated, then dipped into a curtsy. “Aye, me Lady.” She turned toward the door with her basket held tight to her hip.
Left alone, Erica stood one more moment in the cooling light. The silence she had asked for settled more heavily than she liked. She had wanted a breath to think. Now, thought came like a weight. She drew in air slowly, then followed the path back to the arch.
Her chamber had been put in order while she walked. The fireplace held kindling, ready to take flame, and a small jug of water sat on the washstand.
Her eyes eventually shifted to the two dresses lying across the bed. The first was soft and modest. Grey-blue wool, fine enough for a laird’s hall, plain enough to read as careful. The bodice sat high, and the sleeves fell straight. It felt like Bryden in quiet months, when her mother kept feast days simple and no one came to count the silver.
The second held more color. Deep green, cut clean at the waist, the skirt set to fall well when she moved. No show. No glitter. The fit would mark her figure without pressing it. It looked, for some reason, like something Alex would expect her to wear.
She stood with both in view and set her palms flat on the bed rail. Not vanity, but calculation.
What did she want to say? That she was grateful? Cautious? That she belonged? Or that she would not disappear?
She lifted the grey-blue dress first. Wearing this would make her smaller. It would not offend by making any statement she wasn’t ready to make. However, it would not help her hold ground either.
She set it down and took the green dress. It felt steady in her hands. Not too bright or too bold simply for the sake of it. If she wore it, she could meet Alex’s eye and not feel as if she had stepped aside in her own life.
She set it down again.
She crossed to the small table by the window. A pin dish sat there, the heads set out in even rows. Someone had counted them. She liked that.
She poured a little water into the basin and rinsed her hands. Her skin smelled faintly of soap. It came back to her then, Hilda’s quick voice at the gate.
