Irene sat at the heavy mahogany desk, pressing her palm against it. She remained perfectly still before breaking it with her restless finger tapping. Her hand drifted upward to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but her fingers lingered against her temple.
Gazing toward the high glass window, she watched a young man down in the garden below. He was tending to the vast lawn with nothing more than a tiny pair of scissors, painstakingly trimming every single blade of grass one by one. Between the snips, he was erratic: he screamed at the dirt; he stomped the ground like a child throwing a full-blown tantrum; he collapsed flat on his back, staring vacantly up at the grey sky.
"He was really doing it." Irene said softly, her eyes never leaving the erratic scene in the garden. "How many days would you think before he gives up, Clara?"
The woman standing beside her, as still and silent as a shadow, spoke. "... Hard to say, my lady." she affirmed, tone devoid of all warmth.
"Why would he use a pair of scissors? There are shears back in the storage room."
Knock. Knock.
The sound cracked through the quiet room.
"Come in," Irene said, her voice dropping back into its usual smooth composure.
The moment the door swung open, a man emerged gracefully from the deep shadows of the hallway. He was draped in a floor-length robe of pristine, blindingly white silk. The stiff, high collar was cinched tightly at his throat by a heavy silver clasp, with the wide, sweeping sleeves completely concealed his hands.
His footsteps made absolutely no sound against the floor. His face was a mask of serene, porcelain-smooth composure. He didn't look like someone who serves anyone.
Until he broke the silence.
With a lopsided, boyish smile, he casually raised his right hand in a wave. "Yo!"
The sudden, jarring transition from his saintly silhouette to such a common, effortless greeting was deeply uncanny. Irene's tapping fingers froze instantly. She didn't return the smile, instead, she flicked a sharp, silent glance toward Clara.
Clara understood the unspoken command instantly. Offering a low, wordless bow to their unexpected guest, she melted back into the shadows, vanishing completely before the heavy door had even settled back onto its hinges.
Irene turned her full, unblinking attention back to the man in white, her voice taking on an iron edge. "What brings you here, Excellency?"
The man's smile didn't falter at her icy reception. If anything, it widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He began to casually stroll into the room, and his hidden fingers trailed along the leather spines of the bookshelf until he pulled one out, casually flipping through the ancient pages.
"Always so stiff, Irene," He said. "You'll grow into that chair permanently if you don't learn to relax."
He drifted to a stop by the window, peering down into the garden where the young man was still engaged in his frantic, absurd labor. The man in white watched for a quiet moment, wearing an unreadable expression before the boy below let out another muffled screamed that buzzed against the glass.
He idly turned another page of the book.
"Have you taken to collecting lost puppies?"
He finally looked away from the glass and locked eyes with Irene.
"And a Belmont, of all people, Irene."
Irene didn't so much as glance toward the window. She kept her eyes fixed squarely on the man, her hands coming to rest flat and motionless on the wood. "The High Pontiff maintains absolute faith in my discretion."
He turned away from the glass, the silver emblem at his throat catching the light. He stepped closer to the desk, leaning down until his porcelain face was level with hers.
"So, tell me, Irene: is this little charity work?" He didn't blink. "Or," he whispered, "is he actually going to be of use?"
Irene didn't flinch. She leaned back slowly, the chair creaked softly under her weight. "Utility is a cold metric for a soul, Excellency. Even for the Council."
"The Council deals in the preservation of the sacred balance. In the absolute enactment of the Holy See's will."
He straightened up effortlessly, smoothing the front of his pristine white robes, "To have a Belmont walking here, standing on our sacrilegious holy ground... that is a variable they simply cannot ignore."
He began to slowly pace the length of the desk.
Stopping abruptly, he raised a single finger toward the ceiling. "Not that I particularly care, mind you."
"Why I am actually here... is this." Reaching into the folds of his sweeping robes, he withdrew a sealed envelope and set it down on the dark mahogany between them.
Irene didn't hesitate; she reached out and broke the seal.
"You may need to handle this personally," he continued, his tone turning crisp. "We have already dispatched a total of five operatives. All five have vanished."
"That kingdom..." Irene muttered, her eyes skimming the text.
"Indeed. Given the current political climate, things haven't been going particularly well for either side. But this thing might be dangerous than anticipated."
"I will look into it." Irene neatly folded the paper.
"We have prepared for you—"
Irene raised a single, commanding hand to cut him off.
"Up to you," He murmured, throwing his hands up.
"Anyway, that is the sole reason for my visit."
Irene shot him a sharp, skeptical look.
"What? I simply enjoy delivering this kind of matters in person," He smiled. Turning his back to her, he began to casually stroll toward the door.
He came to a halt right at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with that same unsettling, boyish grin. "Though... I was also asked to relay a message. From them."
His smile faded into something far colder.
"Consider this choice carefully, Irene. Do you cease to be the shepherd of a wayward lamb, or do you become the fracture in the sovereign harmony we are sworn to preserve? Understand this truth: the domain of the Holy See is refined by the absolute. It will invariably prune the gardener who prizes the weed above the yield."
The temperature in the study seemed to plummet several degrees in an instant.
He leaned back in slightly through the doorway.
"Take heed, Irene... lest the eyes of the Order begin to question whether the Saintess has, by her own hand, become the very stain she was sworn to cleanse."
The door didn't slam shut. It closed with a soft, decisive click.
Irene did not move. She simply remained seated, staring at the door.
"Old hoots" She whispered
She turned her head slowly, looking back out toward the garden. Below, the boy had finally stopped his frantic clipping. He stood frozen in the exact center of the vast lawn, his head bowed, his gaze fixed blankly on the dirt beneath his boots.
Irene watched him. A garden was always defined by what the gardener planted; however, something else always managed to grow alongside the original intent of the hand. Irene knew that the most dangerous thing in a perfect garden wasn't the weed, nor the drought, nor the blight.
It was the gardener who had stopped caring.
She reached out, picking up a slender silver letter opener from the edge of her desk. She balanced the sharp blade effortlessly on the tip of her index finger.
She flicked it up, catching it deftly between her index and middle fingers, before snapping her wrist. With minimal effort, it flew toward the door, piercing deep into the heavy wood.
"Clara."
Clara appeared instantly, stepping back out from the shadows as if she had never left.
"Bring him up," Irene said softly, her eyes returning to the glass. "He'll be cleaning the entire estate from now on, and he can start with this room."