The Grand Seneschal walked the garden alone.
His steps were deliberate, his eyes tracing the narrative written in the earth. He followed the disturbed gravel, the faint scuff where a foot had slipped and been swiftly corrected. He paused at the base of a weathered statue, where a handful of ivy had been torn loose in a desperate grasp. Brushing soil from the stone with a gloved finger, he noted the height.
He looked up.
The angle was all wrong for a human to have climbed it.
A faint, approving smile touched his lips.
Moving to the far bed, he crouched and retrieved a forgotten tool—a small hand rake, its teeth still caked with dark soil. He turned it once in his hand, feeling its weight and balance, then set it back precisely in its designated place on the rack.
Order restored.
That mattered more than any explanation.
"Bring the other one."
His words, spoken softly, seemed to travel on the still air itself.
Within minutes, two servants materialized at the door to the storage annex. They did not look inside first. They waited, hands clasped, eyes lowered.
The Grand Seneschal halted just outside the threshold.
The smell reached him—metal, salt, and the sweet, cloying scent of violets from the girl's crushed hair ribbon. He did not react.
"How long?" he asked, his voice devoid of inflection.
"Perhaps an hour, sir. Maybe more," one servant replied. "She does not respond."
The Grand Seneschal stepped inside.
The girl lay on the cold stone, her skin waxen, lips parted. A bruise, deep and florid, was blooming like a dark flower at the column of her throat. Her chest rose in a shallow, arrhythhic hitch.
He crouched beside her, the fine wool of his trousers brushing the dirty floor. Two fingers pressed lightly against her neck. He held them there, counting the feeble, fluttering pulses against the silence.
"Still alive," he stated.
No one responded.
"Wrap her. No marks from transport. No sound."
"Yes, sir."
"And the ledger?"
The servant hesitated. "She was never entered, sir."
The Grand Seneschal's eyes flicked up, cold and clear. "Then she will not be missed."
He stood, brushing a nonexistent speck from his sleeve. "Dispose of the matter. Cleanly."
The servants moved at once. They did not ask where. They did not ask how.
The Under-Steward waited in the main corridor, standing too straight, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. When the Grand Seneschal emerged, he flinched—a small, betraying jerk of the shoulders he could not suppress.
"Sir."
The Grand Seneschal took his time adjusting his gloves, pulling each finger smooth. "You were careless."
"Yes, sir."
"You were loud."
"Yes, sir."
"You were seen." This last was delivered like a pin sliding into a lock.
The Under-Steward's mouth opened, then closed. "I—"
The Grand Seneschal raised a hand. Not sharply. Just enough to sever the excuse. "You are fortunate that no one who matters was inconvenienced."
The Under-Steward bowed, deeper this time. "It will not happen again."
"That depends," the Seneschal replied, his voice a low murmur, "on whether you understand what the mistake truly was."
The Under-Steward hesitated. "The girl… she escaped."
"No." The single word was a correction that felt like a slap. "You forgot where you were. And in whose shadow you indulge your… inclinations." He let the implication hang, watching the color drain from the other man's face. "The Lady Thorne arrives tomorrow. Her eyes are sharp, and her tolerance for… mess… is nonexistent. You will be invisible. Do you understand?"
"Completely, sir."
"Good." The Grand Seneschal's gaze drifted past him, toward the windows overlooking the garden. "The hybrid in the garden—the one who ran. What is her name?"
The Under-Steward blinked, thrown by the shift. "She… has no registered name, sir. The handlers just call her 'L.' For the elven strain. It's simpler."
"L." The Seneschal tested the sound. His mind, a meticulously organized archive, retrieved a recent entry: the High Adjudicator's pause at this very window, his double glance into the twilight at a figure kneeling in the dirt. An observation filed, now suddenly relevant.
He turned his full attention back to the Under-Steward. "You will send 'L' to the High Adjudicator's private chambers tonight. Have her cleaned and delivered without remark."
The Under-Steward stared, confusion warring with obedience. "To… to the High Adjudicator? But she's garden stock, she's not trained for—"
"The High Adjudicator's needs are not your concern," the Seneschal interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Your concern is following instructions without further error. Do so, and the matter of the storage annex disappears. Fail, and you will join its contents. Is that understood?"
The Under-Steward's throat worked soundlessly before he managed a stiff nod. "Perfectly, sir."
The Grand Seneschal did not return directly to his office. He took the long way, his path carrying him beneath the high windows that overlooked the inner gardens. He paused once, his reflection a ghost in the darkening glass, and looked down.
The bed where the hybrid had worked was empty now, the soil raked smooth, tools aligned. No trace of the day's disturbance remained.
Satisfied, he continued on.
Later, in the quiet of his study, he reviewed the household schedules by lamplight. His pen moved with efficient grace. He made no note of a girl on a roof. He simply drew a single, neat line through a name on the service roster and wrote another in its place. The ledger showed only the seamless flow of assets and obligations.
As night settled, he unlocked a narrow, rosewood cabinet. Within, on velvet-lined trays, lay an array of potential gifts—jewels, silks, artifacts of verified history. His fingers hovered over an elaborate hair comb before passing to a smaller box.
Inside, nestled on a bed of charcoal silk, was a pendant. A knot of fine gold wire, intricate yet severe, cradling a moonstone that seemed to hold light without surrendering it. It was understated. Personal. Suitable for a princess who had everything except the one thing she wanted.
A soft knock at the door. A servant entered. "Sir, the invitation from Lady Thorne has been formally accepted. She… emphasizes her enthusiasm for the visit."
The Grand Seneschal allowed a faint smile. "She always does."
"She intends to personally persuade the High Adjudicator to attend her birthday celebration."
"Naturally." He closed the pendant box with a soft click and handed it to the servant. "Have this prepared. Delivered to her personally upon arrival. No delays, no intermediaries."
"Yes, sir."
As the servant turned to leave, the Seneschal added, his voice barely above a whisper, "And ensure the east garden remains undisturbed tomorrow. No workers. No visitors."
"Shall I have it locked, sir?"
"No. Let it sit empty. Let the silence speak."
Alone again, the Grand Seneschal stood by the window, watching the moon rise over the estate walls. Some problems were removed quietly in the night, their absence a question unasked. Others arrived with ribbons and expectations, requiring a different sort of calculus.
In a quiet chamber far above, the girl called L, scrubbed raw and wrapped in plain linen, waited in a room that was not her own, for a man she had only ever seen from a distance. She was, for the moment, neither a solution nor a problem.
She was a piece moved on a board, her value defined solely by the gaze that had lingered upon her in the twilight.