He heard footsteps, and over the few days he had spent in the cottage, no one came to that part of the Manor—except Goodwin.
These did not belong to Goodwin.
Battle-trained instinct took over before he could think.
In the same second, he was pointing a stake at the throat of the woman who—to him—had become a source of discomfort.
For the first time, he saw real fear in her eyes. She trembled, unable to lift her gaze from the weapon pressed so close to her skin.
Seeing her shivering like a single leaf on a branch, he wondered what had become of the woman who had so brazenly dragged him into the light the night before.
With a quiet sigh, he withdrew the stake. He knew well enough that the only weapon this attacker possessed was her sharpened tongue.
And, as if to prove him right, moments later, her mouth was running unending—like a carriage without a coach.
Should I just kill her?
No one would know.
She would make fine fertilizer, would she not?
After what felt like an eternity, she disappeared, only to reappear with her better half… Goodwin.
"Tell him, Lord Naman. Tell him you already granted me the land," she immediately began.
"Oh dear, Your—Zuri, you have no shirt on." Goodwin faltered then quickly added, "W-would it be possible to put on a shirt in the presence of the lady?" he stuttered, only to swallow back the suggestion almost immediately. "Or not. It is quite hot at the moment." He smiled, wiping a ball of sweat from his brow.
Playing the part of a mere gardener meant Zuriel had no choice but to abandon his work. Courtesy demanded it.
He turned fully toward the Lord of the Manor and gave him his undivided attention.
"Lord Naman, go on, tell him," Damaris urged.
Again and again, Goodwin cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable being caught in the middle of their dispute.
"Well, Z—Zuri, would it be possible to move your—" His words broke off as the sickle in Zuriel's hand caught the light, its edge gleaming too sharply for comfort.
"O—on second thought," he said quickly, turning to Damaris, "how about you yield, just this one time."
Her haughty expression twisted into a frown. "What?"
"I mean, it is true I granted the land to you," he admitted. "and I apologize—I had completely forgotten. But since he is staying in the cottage now, it seems only right that he gets the land behind it."
"No!" She stepped back as though distance would help her see his reason. "My Lord, you are a man of your word. You already gave me that word."
Goodwin very much wished to explain that more than his word, he valued his life—and was not prepared to lose it to the Hound of Zebulon!
"Damaris, listen," he tried again, knowing that the longer they debated, the longer they kept Zuriel from his work—and that was a mistake he did not wish to pay for. "I shall personally help you search for the perfect soil you seek and—"
"Why would you get your hands dirty?" she cut in. "Just tell this—this—this creature to find another land for whatever nonsense he intends to grow!"
That mouth of hers, Zuriel thought, would one day get her in trouble—and that day did not seem so far off.
After much effort, Goodwin was able to persuade her into searching for another piece of land.
If an outsider had witnessed their exchange, they would have thought Damaris the pampered Lady of the Manor and Goodwin her butler.
Zuriel often wondered how the man had managed to run the Manor all this time while treating those beneath him with such kindness.
After she left and Zuriel had finished his work for the day, the two of them sat in front of the cottage, eating dry bread and beans.
"Could you not have yielded the land to her?" Goodwin asked with a mouthful. "I mean, gardening is but a cover for your stay here in Wisteria—but not for her."
Zuriel paused.
True.
He could remain inside the cottage all day, read a book or do nothing at all.
Yes, it would seem odd if the said-gardener had no garden, but he cared little for what people thought.
And if peace in Wisteria were his only concern, he could have easily moved his garden elsewhere. She wanted only the back of the cottage—he could have used the side.
So why?
Why had he been so petty?
"Is this revenge for last night?" She had asked before she stormed off.
Was that it? Truly?
"If you felt bad, you could have ordered me to use a different land." Zuriel shrugged. "You are the Lord of the Manor, after all."
Goodwin stared at him incredulously. "How could I say anything, with your gaze burning straight through me?"
Zuriel gulped down water and shot him a glare.
"See?! That," Goodwin accused. "Your Highness, how exactly has she offended you? From the very beginning you seemed to have some sort of problem with her. You even called her mad."
Zuriel paused, setting his cup down on the small table between them.
What was her offense?
Was it the way she shattered the serenity of that night with her tinkling bells?
What was her offense?
"She is a sweet being," Goodwin's sudden words of admiration caused a peculiar sensation upon Zuriel's skin. Or was it just a shift in the air?
"She already has a small plot where she grows herbs, but she discovered a plant that cures smallpox. She said it needed a particular kind of soil, so she searched the entire Manor until she found that spot."
Zuriel was never one to feel guilt. He never did anything he thought wrong.
Yet—
"For her it is not merely a livelihood," Goodwin continued. "'tis to help those who cannot afford to see the physician."
Yet—
"Ever since Damaris arrived, the number of people at the physician's door has dwindled. She gives her herbs freely, withholding nothing."
With every word—
"You believed the people were indulging a madwoman," Goodwin said gently, "but the truth is far from it."
With every passing second—
"Beyond the children's love for Wisteria's finest storyteller, beyond the flirting men and praising women, stands a woman respected even more than the empress."
Goodwin smiled, amused by his own thoughts. "Perhaps one day, you will come to love and respect her as we all do."
Never.It will never happen.
Yet that sensation in his skin remained—persistent now.
And a tiny tug at his chest. Small, insignificant.
Still, it was a sign.
A crack had formed in his flawless armor.