I stopped by the long table and sat down, watching the servants bustling around the tent. The wind blew down my collar, and I increasingly wanted to go home. A man silently handed me a cup of hot tea and placed it beside me, disappearing just as quickly.
The steam curled around my fingers, leaving a faint condensation on my skin. I looked back at the clearing.
Though the place was beautiful, I'd quickly stopped liking it. I never even felt the urge to stay longer.
I watched the men carry chests out of the tent and load them into two waiting carriages. Near a wooden gazebo painted a milky white, a group of women had gathered to discuss last night's gathering.
I turned away and closed my eyes, tilting my face up to the pale sun.
Soon, the voices faded, and the clearing was filled with the sound of swaying pine crowns and the uninterrupted trill of morning thrushes.
I don't know how long I sat in that blessed silence, but the sudden presence of a shadow and the weight of someone's breathing made my left eye lazily open.
"Your Grace?"
A young man stood three paces from me, fidgeting with a silver ring on his thumb. His hair, the color of scorched wheat, was unevenly cut. A well-tailored coat hung loosely on his angular shoulders, as if he had recently lost weight.
I set down the cup I'd been holding this whole time and gave a questioning hum.
"Count Lorenzo Frink," he introduced himself with a slight bow. "May I sit? It's just that…the other benches have been taken somewhere, and I was told you're not fond of company, but I thought maybe…"
I raised a hand to stop his awkward rambling.
"Sit. The bench isn't mine to claim, after all."
The count plopped down beside me, modestly pressing his damp, gray palms to his knees. He hunched his shoulders, looking like a fluffy little sparrow.
"I'm the count of, um, the eastern fiefs. Not the important ones. The ones with sheep. You've probably never heard of them," he mumbled, stumbling over his words.
"I've heard of you."
No, I hadn't — but I decided to lie outright, just so the poor guy wouldn't turn any paler than he already was.
Lorenzo laughed quickly and nervously.
"Oh, that's unexpected." He accidentally kicked a hawthorn bush and yanked his foot back. "It's lovely here, isn't it? The morning fog, the river, the dense woods. It reminds me of my family's summer estate by Lake Verrin."
I closed my eyes again, resting my cheek against my wrist.
"Though we have more limestone cliffs than actual forests. And the soil — one would think volcanic ash would be fertile, but it's awful for anything except lichen. Nothing like your poppy fields."
"You've seen them?" I perked up with interest.
"Oh! No, no. Just by word of mouth," a pink hue crept up his neck. "They say the crimson flowers stretch all the way to the horizon. That you perfected growing methods the agricultural college can't replicate."
Straightening my back, I took a sip of now-lukewarm tea, which clung unpleasantly to the roof of my mouth.
"There's no special method. Crop rotation. My servants burn the chaff. Basic farming principles."
He blinked rapidly.
"But the mold…"
"That can be handled with copper sulfate. If sprayed before sprouting."
I knew my fields inside and out. I tended to them like the poppies and daisies were my own dependents.
Margarita used to walk among them barefoot. Even when beetles crawled under her hem, she'd calmly flick them off with her glove and dash forward, heels slapping against the grass.
Lorenzo's shoulders slumped.
"We tried everything with our lavender fields. Sulfur, rotation, even that new Myconian powder from the capital. Nothing took. After Elodie…I mean, after the frosts two winters ago…"
Elodie. A fiancée? Only someone like that would be spoken of in such a sorrowful voice.
"What happened to her?"
Apparently, my tone was too harsh — he flinched hard.
"Ah… a fever. We didn't make it to the wedding."
Frink stared thoughtfully toward the distant river.
"She loved those fields. Planned to make perfume from the first harvest," he murmured, thumb rubbing a pink patch beneath his ring. "Now not even wild grass will grow there."
"Did you try magic?"
Lorenzo turned to me with wide, deer-like eyes and began frantically waving his hands.
"No, gods no! I don't want trouble with the law."
A chuckle slipped from my lips. The boy was too proper — but who was I to judge him for that?
I could only shrug. What else could I do? Turn his land to gold by hand?
The head stableman approached, fiddling with his fringe.
"We're ready to depart, my lord."
I pushed off the bench and adjusted my cuffs. Lorenzo stood up so quickly he nearly knocked over a wine barrel beside him.
"Your Grace, I…" he swallowed. "May I visit you? Speak to those who tend your land?"
His frowning brows almost touched his dull, round eyes. He looked absurdly earnest. I suddenly remembered a boy from kindergarten who desperately wanted to be friends and followed me everywhere. He even cried when I left early one day with a sore throat.
Lorenzo was just like him. A real child.
"Send a letter addressed to Philipp. He'll arrange a time and reply. Be sure to label it as 'agricultural consulting,' or he'll toss it out," I said, already walking toward the carriage. "Have a good day."
Lorenzo perked up like a dog and beamed.
"Thank you, truly. I'll write for sure!"
Bastian stood tethered beside the carriage, furiously chewing the bit between his teeth. I checked that all the trunks were in place and gave the camp one last look.
Captain Oberon materialized between two tents just as I reached for the stallion's reins. His boots sank deep into the mud as he stepped between me and the horse.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked casually, as if he wasn't the least bit offended. Maybe he wasn't — but he sure acted like he was.
"Your powers of observation remain unmatched, Captain," I said, tossing the reins against his chest. Havisham caught them with one hand, and my eyes caught the bloodstain across the back of it.
Bastian chose that moment to clamp down on my sleeve. Oberon gave the reins a sharp tug, forcing the stallion's head down.
"He likes you."
"Lucky me." I flicked horse slobber from my cuff. "Should I expect equally forward colts next spring?"
The corner of his scarred mouth twitched. For a second, I thought he might actually smile. Then his gaze shifted over my shoulder, and the moment shattered.
A booming voice rang across the clearing:
"Duke! Leaving us already? We've a feast planned for the evening! Won't you stay?"
I turned to see Count Wellinor huffing through a patch of brambles, feathers stuck to the sweat-drenched collar of his shirt.
The nobleman's jowls jiggled as he laughed.
"You wound me, Your Grace! We'll send the boar's head to your estate. A trophy for your salon!"
My stomach twisted at the thought of that mangled, stinking snout mounted above the hearth.
"How considerate. But I'm afraid I'm short on space — canvases everywhere. Best reserve such prized game for your bedrooms, my lord. Now if you'll excuse me."
The carriage door creaked as I climbed inside. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of the captain, gently stroking Bastian's thick neck.
"Drive," I told the coachman, leaning back against the velvet cushions.
Once the clearing and its patchwork tents had disappeared from view, I rested my forehead to the glass and tugged the tight boots off my feet with a sigh. The steady sway of the carriage had me dozing off within minutes.
I arrived at Vaukh Ton a couple hours later. Philipp met me at the threshold with the same expression he'd worn when I left.
"How was the retreat, Your Grace?"
"Mediocre," I muttered, climbing out, still groggy. "Where's Margarita?"
"Lady left for tea several hours ago. She asked to be notified when you returned."
I waved him off as I stepped inside. Spotting the nearest sofa, I collapsed onto its creaky surface, cheek sinking into the pillow Philipp had already slid under my head.
"Don't write. Let her enjoy herself."
I savored the familiar hum of the house, feeling the tension in my muscles finally begin to loosen.
"Shall I prepare a bath, my lord?"
"Of course. And add some scented oils to cover this dreadful meat stench."
The old man disappeared through the doorway.
The hearth crackled with the muffled pop of split logs. I pictured the severed boar's head nailed to the wall and grimaced.
The pillow's softness lulled me back into a light doze. I dreamed of a poppy field, a leaden sky, and the streak of a tornado swelling in the distance.
A heavy church bell tolled in the background, loud and insistent.