Birds were singing beautifully, the sky bluer than ever, the air cleaner than usual… at least that was how the morning felt to Damaris. Everything felt brighter than it had in days.
She hummed, then whistled, then sang—then hummed again as she went about her morning chores.
"Someone seems to be in high spirits this morning," Milcah teased as she stepped out of the hut and found her diligently sweeping, humming and dancing.
"Good morning, Milcah. A fine day, is it not?" Damaris beamed, running up to Milcah, picking her up and spinning her around.
"Oh, you mischievous child!" Milcah chuckled delightfully.
"Even you look extremely beautiful this morning," she bubbled, kissing the older woman's cheeks.
"Put me down. Oh Damaris, you crazy girl." Milcah tried to wiggle out of Damaris' hold but her own laughter had rid her of strength. "What devil has got you so giddy this morning?"
"A devil indeed! A grumpy one at that. One defeated by yours truly."
"Ah, I see. Did your fair mutt confess his love?" Milcah asked as Damaris at last set her feet on the ground.
"Oh, a confession would never have been this satisfying," she scoffed.
"But I will tell you all about it when I return. I have to go clear the new place where I want to plant my herbs."
And so, Damaris finished her chores, packed a light breakfast of bananas and apples, and went about her morning business.
She moved through the Manor cheerfully, greeting some people while teasing others, until she reached her destination.
It was a small, empty cottage at the edge of the woods. She had asked Lord Naman to allow her plant more herbs behind it because it had the perfect kind of soil she needed, and he had granted her request.
"Hmm?" she stopped her humming as she noticed some clothes spread out to dry. "Did someone move here?" she wondered. "But I would have known if there was a new face in Wisteria."
She paused, pondering on all the faces she had seen these past days. There was no new face in the Manor.
So who could have moved into the old cottage?
Like a curious cat, she tiptoed toward the door. Looking around like a thief in the night, she reached for the door handle and turned it.
"Locked?" she frowned. She moved toward the window and looked into the place, everything look the same, as though no one had ever been there.
She turned. "Then who do those belong to?" Maybe just a passerby.
Concluding that the cottage was empty, she walked toward the back thinking, "But why do they look kind of familiar?"
Then she answered herself "Well, all men's clothing looks the sa—" She dragged air sharply into her throat, the hoe in her hand slipping out as her legs halted.
Her eyes widened, and her lips remained opened.
She could not move.
Not a muscle.
For even a slight exhale and she would be plunging her throat straight into a very sharpened stake.
The morning that once seemed like a garden of roses now felt like a thorny ground where a step forward meant her life. So she stood there unable to tear her eyes away from the stake at her throat, until slowly, slowly, it was withdrawn.
Like one saved from drowning, she let out the breath she had been holding and dragged air into her lungs. Her fingers clawed at her neck.
Once she was certain there was no blood, her head shot up.
"You!" Her eyes were afire with rage the moment she realized her assailant was a certain redhead.
"Did you just try to kill me?" She trembled, readjusting her crossed bag over her shoulder with a tight grip. "Lord Naman will hear of this, I promise you that!"
"How dare you… point a stake at my throat!" She could not believe it.
Was this revenge for the night before? But was that not extreme—even for him?
Her anger grew as he acted blind to her presence. The more she huffed and puffed, the more he ignored her! After the stunt he just pulled, he gave no explanation whatsoever. Not even a glance!
"Hey! Have you gone deaf?" she asked, still, there was no answer. He just stood there, with his back turned to her doing only the gods know what!
"I—" she paused as something caught the corner of her eye. She turned—and froze. Where was once covered in weeds, dozens of small vases now stood in place.
Her brain clicked and her gaze shot back to him as he placed another vase upon the ground.
"What are you doing?" The question left her lips not because she could not see but because she refused to accept what she saw.
He paused, glanced her way with open mockery, then faced his work again.
"I am asking you a question! Why have you chosen not to respond?" She bit her bottom lip, withholding the choicest curse words she could throw at him for ignoring her.
"Had I not heard you speak last night, I would have thought you mute!"
"And I would think you were a parrot made human." He finally responded.
"Ah—" Her mouth was left open for a second, then she bit her lips, suddenly short of words to say.
"I do not know what you are doing here, but Lord Naman granted me this land to plant my herbs so—"
"Then go to him. Go to your Lord Naman." His voice was calm—yet dismissive in a way of one used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
It was deeply enraging.
Everything about the man was.
Yet, there was something else about him—she could not put her finger on it.
Maybe one day, she would come to realize what that was.
As for now, she simply wanted to pull out every hair on his head.