The garden behind the manor was overgrown.
Once, it had been a marvel, manicured hedges, white roses trained around trellises, and a marble bench where her mother read poetry on warm afternoons. Now, the weeds had claimed most of it. The trellises leaned tiredly. The roses, untamed, tangled into thorny walls.
Nora knelt beside a half-buried planter, her gloves already stained with soil. She dug with her hands more than the spade, dragging out clumps of root and moss. Her back ached, and her hair clung to her damp brow.
She welcomed the ache. The quiet. The dirt under her fingernails.
Because she didn't want to think.
Not about the east wing. Not about Lydia's carefully spoken warnings. Not about the way James had looked at her yesterday, like he saw not her name, but her.
A dangerous kind of gaze.
She didn't hear Lydia approach until the crunch of heels on gravel broke the stillness.
"Well," Lydia said with a tight smile, "isn't this quaint."
Nora stood, brushing dirt from her skirts.
"I wasn't expecting company," she said.
"I imagine not." Lydia looked around the garden as if it offended her. "It's tragic, really. All this rot. The house, the family, even you, Nora. You've let things go."
"I didn't come back to impress anyone."
"No, you came back to pretend you still belong here." Lydia stepped closer. "But you don't. Not really. And the more time you spend with the Ashford boy, the faster people will remember why."
Nora's jaw tightened. "What I do is none of your concern."
Lydia's voice softened. "I'm trying to protect you. Elmbrook doesn't forget. That family and yours, there's blood between them. Your grandfather practically buried theirs."
"I'm not my grandfather."
Lydia studied her. "Aren't you? You carry his name. His silence. His secrets."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of crushed rosemary and wet stone.
"I don't need your protection," Nora said.
"No," Lydia murmured. "But you do need reminding. You left this place burned, and now you're fanning sparks in a blacksmith's forge. Don't act surprised when it catches fire again."
She turned and walked away, heels snapping sharp against the stones.
Nora stood there long after she was gone, fists clenched in her garden gloves, the words echoing too closely to truths she didn't want to admit.
---
Meanwhile, at the forge, James was lost in his own storm.
He stared at the half-mended carriage, the old Whitmore crest etched into the brass still visible. He could've removed it, but he didn't. Maybe he wanted to remember who it belonged to. Maybe he didn't want to pretend.
He slammed a wheel rim into place harder than necessary. The sharp clang rang out like defiance.
Henry Ashford entered not long after, limping, eyes narrowed.
"You working on that?" he asked, voice edged.
James didn't answer.
Henry came closer, stared at the carriage like it was an insult. "Don't tell me she asked you to fix it."
"She didn't ask," James said. "She brought it. I chose."
Henry scoffed. "That family left scars you weren't even born to see."
James set his tools down. "And yet we keep carrying them."
His father's voice dropped. "You think because she's pretty and soft-spoken, she's different? You think she cares about anything but polishing the Whitmore name again?"
James met his eyes, steady. "I don't know what she wants. But I know she's not like them."
Henry stepped back, expression unreadable.
"Don't lose yourself for someone who wouldn't bleed for you," he muttered, before walking out.
James exhaled slowly and turned back to the carriage.
The cracked wood, the tarnished crest, the broken wheel.
He didn't know if he was fixing something for her… or for himself.
But he couldn't stop now.