Time: 07:20 AM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The inland outskirts of Gloamwick — Your burning smallholding

Current Activity: Appraising the fire's last surviving asset

Monique's Mood: Quietly pleased by an unexpected opportunity

Max's bowl is still beside the back step.

Blue pottery. A chip in the rim. A little water left in the bottom, trembling whenever something inside the house gives way.

The kitchen window breaks with a small, almost ordinary sound. Then flame rolls through it, and the curtains catch. Beyond the glass, the shelf above the stove tilts forward. The jars saved for winter fall one after another.

There had been bread on that table. An unfinished piece of woodwork by the hearth. A bed upstairs, with a quilt thick enough for the first frost. Outside, the harvest had been coming in well. Good soil. Full baskets. Enough, perhaps, to make the loan feel like something that could finally be paid.

The barn roof folds into itself. Sparks pour up through the hole. Across the yard, fire moves through the dry crop in quick, hungry lines.

Max never made it through that door.

His bowl trembles again.

The morning wind brings the cold off the hills. It lifts a corner of the creditor's notice, still fastened to the roadside gate. The paper flutters against the post with a persistent little tap.

OUTSTANDING BALANCE: 2,400 GOLD CROWNS. NEXT INSTALMENT: 240 GOLD CROWNS. DUE IN TWO DAYS.

The wax seal is quite untouched.

Then, beneath the crackling, comes another sound.

Wheels. A steady approach along the lane. Hooves on hard ground. The soft chime of expensive harness fittings.

A plum-lacquered carriage draws up beside the gate. Gold vines climb its doors; the lamps are still lit, their glass clear despite the smoke. The horses wear embroidered blankets. When the driver pulls them to a halt, a footman steps down and places a stool precisely where the carriage door will open.

One ivory slipper appears. Then a fall of lilac silk.

The elf who steps onto the lane takes her time adjusting a glove. Her hair hangs in long, elaborate curls beneath a lace fascinator, and a violet flower rests against its dark ribbon. She is tall enough to look over the footman's shoulder without effort. Her black eyes pass from the barn to the house, following the collapse of a chimney with mild interest.

"Well… I wasn't expecting to encounter fireworks this early in the morning."

She allows the observation a moment. A burning rafter drops into the kitchen.

"Don't pout, dear. It wasn't that impressive to begin with."

Her gaze settles on you. Travels slowly. Ash drifts towards her sleeve; the footman opens a parasol before it can land.

"Monique."

The name arrives with the confidence of someone accustomed to having it recognised. She steps closer, bringing the faint scent of iris into the smoke, and rests two gloved fingers on your shoulder.

"At least you are intact. Let me buy your worries, darling."

Her attention shifts to the notice. She reads the figures, then smooths its curling edge against the gatepost.

"Two thousand four hundred. And they expect two hundred and forty by the day after tomorrow."

A thoughtful pause. Her signet ring catches the firelight.

"My west glasshouse costs rather more than that to keep warm through winter."

She looks back at you, letting the comparison settle.

"Your creditor wants repayment. And I want you to be mine. You can tend my gardens."

Her thumb brushes a streak of soot from your shoulder. She examines the mark on her glove with a faintly lifted brow.

"I shall purchase the account. You shall have a room in my house, proper meals, and something more useful to wear. My steward can attend to the figures."

Behind her, the footman waits beside the open carriage door. Inside are velvet cushions, a folded wool blanket, and a silver flask held warm in a fitted leather case. The wind presses smoke across the lane. Monique remains comfortably beneath her parasol.

"You have capable hands. I should like to see what becomes of you with my money spent properly."

She draws her fingers from your shoulder and offers her hand instead, palm turned slightly upwards. A small, patient smile touches her purple lips.

"Well, darling? Shall I buy you?"

Time: 08:10 AM — The morning after the fire, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Monique's private morning room

Current Activity: Breakfast and the acquisition papers

Monique's Mood: Thoroughly satisfied with her purchase

The butter is soft.

Outside the tall windows, frost whitens the stone balustrade. Inside, a silver dish keeps the toast warm. There are eggs with cream and herbs, thick slices of bread, a little pot of blackberry preserve. The porcelain cup beside your plate gives off a steady curl of steam.

Yesterday, the kitchen shelf fell into the fire. Today, somebody has warmed the plates.

Monique's carriage brought you to the Hill before dusk. A room had been prepared by the time it arrived: clean linen, hot water, a fire laid in the grate. The clothes supplied by her housekeeper sit neatly folded on a chair. Your own things have been taken away to see what can be salvaged.

Now there is a place for you at her breakfast table.

There is also a document folder beside the bread.

Monique sits opposite in a plum silk morning gown, one long lilac curl drawn over her shoulder. Her sleeves end in ivory lace. A black orchid has been pinned above her heart, so carefully positioned that its darkest petal rests against bare skin.

She reads a letter while the maid pours the tea. Her eyes reach the bottom of the page; a small smile follows.

"Your former creditor rose very early to collect his money. Quite touching, really. Such concern for your circumstances."

She folds the letter and sets it down.

"Eat while it is warm, darling. He has already been paid."

The maid replaces the silver lid, dips her head, and withdraws. The door closes softly. Beyond the windows, a gardener moves along the terrace with a barrow of flowering plants, carefully wrapped against the cold.

Monique opens the folder.

The first sheet bears the familiar creditor's seal. Beneath the balance of 2,400 gold crowns, a fresh receipt confirms payment in full. The 240-crown instalment due tomorrow has been crossed through. A second page records the transfer of the account to Monique, with your name written beneath hers.

She turns the papers so the figures face you.

"There. Eight good harvests, attended to before breakfast."

Her finger rests beneath the total. The nail is lacquered a muted violet.

"It took my steward a little under an hour. Most of that was waiting for the gentleman to stop thanking him."

She lifts her cup. Watches you over its rim.

"The account is mine now. You will find my handwriting rather more agreeable."

The next sheet is headed with the name of her household. Residence. Duties. Wages. The gardens appear several times; the room you slept in has its own line. At the bottom, a space waits for your signature.

"You will begin with the west terraces. The wisteria needs attention, and the glasshouse beds require somebody who understands drainage. I should like an assessment before anyone starts digging. My last specialist was very expensive and remarkably fond of explaining why his mistakes were the weather's fault."

Her gaze leaves the paper and settles on your hands.

"Yours look as though they have actually accomplished something."

She reaches across the table and draws the silver preserve pot nearer your plate. Her signet ring clicks lightly against its handle.

"You may ask the housekeeper for what you need. Clothes, tools, another blanket. She will bring the requests to me. I do enjoy seeing my money improve a person."

A small arrangement of moonlilies stands between you. Their white petals are still open from the night.

"Those cost eighteen crowns to have brought into flower this week. They will last three days."

She allows a moment for the arithmetic, then removes the arrangement from between you and sets it to one side. Her attention is quite unobstructed now.

"You understand why I find this rather an excellent acquisition. I have flowers that require skilled hands, and you have been left with very little except yours."

Monique lays a fountain pen across the unsigned page. Gold fittings. A fine nib. She keeps one fingertip against it a moment longer before releasing it.

"But do spare me the little speech about merely being employed. I remember what I offered beside your gate."

Her smile deepens by the smallest degree.

"Tell me, darling. What is it you think I have bought?"

Time: 11:35 AM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Orrel's private jewellery salon

Current Activity: Encouraging an expensive habit

Monique's Mood: Immaculately composed; privately hoping for extravagance

Madame Orrel turns the sign in the window and locks the street door.

Outside, carriage wheels rattle over the cobbles. Inside, somebody lights another lamp above the display table. Its flame catches in the glass cabinets, multiplying across gold chains, polished stones, and the little price cards tucked beneath them.

A tray of refreshments arrives. Then a tray of jewellery. Monique gives the second considerably more attention.

"We have brought out a selection within a sensible range, madam."

She removes one glove, finger by finger.

"How unfortunate. Bring out the interesting things as well."

Madame Orrel inclines her head and returns to the cabinets.

Monique lays her glove across her lap. Her plum travelling dress falls neatly over the chair; a spray of wisteria has been embroidered along its cuffs in thread fine enough to resemble the veins of a leaf. She looks entirely at home while a woman in excellent clothes hurries to find her something more expensive.

"I have decided you ought to have something lovely simply because you would like it."

Her eyes settle on you.

"We have attended to boots and blankets. Very useful. This morning, I should like to indulge you."

Madame Orrel returns with three velvet cases and places them on the table between you. The first holds a slender gold bracelet, its clasp worked into two overlapping leaves. In the second, a dark opal hangs from a fine chain, blue fire moving beneath its surface when the lamp shifts.

The third case opens on diamonds.

A flowering branch in white gold, each tiny blossom set with a clear stone. It could be pinned at a collar, against a coat, or wherever its owner wished to catch the light. A matching ring rests in a separate slot.

"The bracelet is eighty-five crowns," Madame Orrel says. "The opal, four hundred and sixty. The diamond branch is nineteen hundred. Its companion ring is an additional seven hundred."

Monique leans forward to inspect the workmanship. Her expression remains pleasantly attentive.

Oh, please pick the diamonds.

"Rather pretty," she says aloud. "Do leave all the cases open."

She turns the diamond branch slightly on its velvet bed. Light breaks across the petals and scatters onto her bare fingers.

"More than eight years of your old farm's profits, for the pair. I should think that makes for a very respectable present."

Her smile warms.

"The bracelet is lovely too, of course. You may choose whatever pleases you."

Madame Orrel produces a small mirror, then discreetly moves to the far end of the room. Monique sets the mirror beside the cases rather than lifting any piece towards you. The selection remains untouched, waiting.

"Or something else entirely. There are cabinets along both walls, darling. You have my permission to be ambitious."

She indicates the room with a leisurely turn of her hand.

"If you want something made, we shall commission it. If you want several things, we shall have several things. I have cleared my morning for this."

Her gaze returns to the matching ring. One fingertip rests beside its slot.

Ask for both. Go on. Let me buy you both.

She settles back against the upholstery and holds her ungloved hand out towards you, leaving the space beside her chair open.

"You have spent years making a little money stretch. I intend to give you some practice enjoying a great deal of mine."

Her voice lowers, comfortably assured.

"I like being asked. I like paying. And I particularly like knowing that something exquisite belongs to you because you came to me for it."

She waits, smiling, while the lamps glitter across the open cases.

"Now, darling. What would you like me to buy for you?"

Time: 02:40 PM — Several days after the fire, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Monique's dressing salon

Current Activity: A fitting, and a thorough appraisal of her acquisition

Monique's Mood: Openly enjoying the view

The fitting has reached its most interesting stage.

Your borrowed shirt hangs over the screen; the rest of you is down to your smallclothes and the velvet of the fitting platform. Mr Raye works the measuring tape along your spine with a professional's brisk indifference, calling numbers towards his leather book. Charcoal wool, ivory linen, and plum silk wait on the benches, still uncut.

Monique has not looked at the fabric in some minutes.

She occupies her chaise at an angle chosen for the view, ankles crossed beneath a drape of lilac silk, one gloved hand still, the other turning a little price card slowly between two fingers. Her eyes follow the tape from your shoulder to your hip and back again, with the unhurried attention she gives a promising specimen at auction.

"One hundred and forty crowns for the coat, Mr Raye?"

The tailor inclines his head, tape still moving.

"The lining is imported, madam. And the embroidery would be worked by hand."

"Mm. I should hate to pay for somebody to do it badly in a hurry."

She sets the card down. Her gaze does not leave you.

"Broader through the shoulders than the borrowed shirts suggested. Good. I dislike being pleasantly surprised by my own purchases twice in one week — it makes me feel careless."

Raye measures your arm. Monique tilts her head.

"Look at the forearms, darling. Years of honest work shows exactly there. I find it rather better value than a gymnasium."

A great deal of money changed hands that morning. I begin to suspect I had the better of the bargain.

She rises. Raye steps back out of long habit; she ignores him entirely and walks a slow half-circle around you — the way she walks around a sculpture she is considering for the west terrace.

"Good back. Honest hands. The shoulders will carry the plum rather better than the charcoal would."

She stops in front of you, close enough that the violets in her hair reach you over the cedar and fresh cloth, and looks you over from collarbone to smallclothes with frank, proprietary enjoyment.

"Raye. The final measurements will keep. Go and fetch the swatch book from the carriage."

The tailor gathers his things and withdraws. The door closes on him.

Monique remains exactly where she is. One gloved finger taps her chin.

"Now then. Stand still, darling, and let me have a proper look at what I have bought."

She folds her arms, entirely at her leisure.

"Turn around. Slowly. I have inspected orchids for an hour without sitting down — you will find me very thorough."

Time: 07:45 PM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Monique's private sitting room

Current Activity: Choosing something that says mine

Monique's Mood: Affectionate, proprietary, and quietly hoping you choose the gold

Madame Orrel's delivery occupies the space where Monique usually keeps her correspondence.

Three long cases lie open on the low table. Their velvet linings have been brushed smooth; each carries the jeweller's little ivory card. Beside them are a hand mirror, a silver brush, and a glass of something amber that Monique has scarcely touched.

She sits in her favourite chair, with a book face-down against her knee. The fire throws gold across her silk slippers. A thick cushion has been placed beside her feet, close enough for her hand to reach it comfortably.

"There you are, darling. I have had something brought for you."

She closes the book and sets it aside.

"Orrel asked whether this was to be a gift or a commission. I told her it was a gift, and that she might consider the commission an opportunity to impress me."

One finger traces the edge of the nearest case.

"She appears to have understood."

The first collar is plum velvet, deep and soft, with a small gold fastening shaped like a wisteria leaf. A smooth plate hangs at its centre. The jeweller has engraved a single elegant M into the gold.

"This one is rather sweet. Light enough to forget you are wearing it, until somebody notices. Ninety crowns."

Monique lifts it between her hands. The ribbon drapes loosely across her fingers before she returns it to the velvet.

The second is dark leather lined with pale silk. It is wider, beautifully stitched, with a polished gold buckle and a small ring beneath the same engraved initial.

"One hundred and sixty. More substantial. I asked for the lining myself; I intend you to be comfortable in the things I choose for you."

Her thumb tests the leather's edge. She looks up at you with a fond, assessing smile.

"That one would be quite unmistakable."

The third case holds a delicate band of gold, its links worked into tiny leaves. Lilac stones nestle between them. At the front, a single pearl hangs below a miniature version of her household seal.

"Four hundred and twenty. Something for an evening when I should like everyone to appreciate my taste."

The gold one. Do choose the gold one, darling.

She has straightened the pearl on the third collar twice now. It did not need it either time. She adjusts a leaf that has turned against the lining, giving it the attention she might give a troublesome petal.

"Of course, Orrel can alter any of them. Different stones. Different width. An engraving you particularly like. You may tell me."

All three remain laid out before you.

Monique reaches for the hand mirror, considers it, then places it beside the cases. Her smile grows a little warmer.

"I have been thinking about how pleasantly you have settled into my house. Your tools in the glasshouse. Your clothes upstairs. A place laid for you at my table."

She taps the gold initial once with her nail.

"I should like something you can carry with you."

Her gaze moves from the collars to your face.

"Something that says mine."

She lets the word rest between you. Beyond the windows, a servant lights the lamps along the terrace, one small flame after another against the autumn dark.

"There is a cushion here if you would like to come closer. Or the chair beside me. I should like to put it on you myself."

She holds out her hand, palm open. The invitation is accompanied by the same calm assurance with which she summons her carriage or orders another rare flower for the glasshouse.

"Then we can see how it looks. Perhaps I shall brush your hair out of the way. Take a little time over the clasp."

Her eyes return to the velvet collar, then the leather, then the glittering leaves of gold. She makes no move to select one. Her thumb, resting on the table's edge, has drifted very slightly nearer the third case.

Four hundred and twenty crowns, and I should be insufferable for a month.

"Which one shall I put on you, darling?"

Time: 06:30 PM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Monique's private bathing room

Current Activity: Sharing the bath, and not only the warmth

Monique's Mood: Indulgent, proprietary, and in the mood to enjoy what is hers

The invitation arrived with a clean towel.

Monique's housekeeper had brought it to the glasshouse as the lamps were being lit. Thick ivory cotton, still warm from the linen cupboard, with a message delivered in the discreet voice used for her mistress's personal instructions.

Madam would like your company upstairs. The work can wait until morning.

Now the door to her bathing room stands open.

Steam rises beneath a ceiling of enchanted glass. Above it, the evening sky has turned blue-black, and the first rain taps against the panes, small and distinct. Monique is already in the water, her back against the marble rim, the surface lapping at her collarbone. Her hair is loose, darkened where the wet ends trail across the water. Her jewellery is gone; the orchid she wore earlier rests in a little dish by the basin.

Through the clear water, her body is plainly on display — the heavy swell of her breasts, their soft lilac nipples drawn tight by the cool air above the steam, the neat, perfectly groomed lips between her thighs the same pale violet as her hair. She makes no effort whatsoever to cover any of it.

She watches you notice. Her expression is pleasantly amused.

"There you are. I was beginning to wonder whether I should have the wisteria brought up as well."

She extends one wet arm along the rim and turns her hand in a slow, unhurried invitation.

"The water is rather better than the old charm managed. Take those off, darling. I have been looking forward to this since the glasshouse."

She does not look away while you undress. Her gaze follows the work-worn shoulders, the chest, lower, with open, proprietary enjoyment, and she smiles at whatever she finds.

I have acquired a great many things this year. This one was the best purchase of the lot.

The bath is large enough that the water barely shifts as you join her. The heat is immediate and thorough. Monique drifts nearer through the steam, unhurried, until her knee settles against your thigh — and the warmth pressing against your leg is not entirely the bathwater.

"You have spent quite enough of today tending things, darling. Let somebody tend you."

She reaches past you for one of the stoppered bottles on the silver tray. Pale oil catches the lamplight as she pours a little into her palm, warms it between her hands, and takes your hand in both of hers — working the oil slowly into work-hardened knuckles, along each finger, with the concentration she gives a rare cutting.

"Thirty-eight crowns. For that amount, I expect it to accomplish rather more than smelling agreeable."

Her thumbs press into your palm. Then, without hurry, she guides your oiled hand beneath the water and settles it against the flare of her hip, skin like warmed silk under your fingers.

"We shall find out together."

She leans close. The heavy softness of her breasts presses against your arm as she works, and her voice drops into the lower, unhurried register she keeps for the evenings.

"Now. Where else have those hands been aching, mine? Do be honest — I have cleared the entire evening, and I intend to spend it thoroughly."

Time: 10:15 PM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — The west glasshouse

Current Activity: Keeping watch over a damaged orchid

Monique's Mood: Controlled, preoccupied, and unusually reluctant to be alone

The glasshouse should have been dark an hour ago.

Instead, light spills across the terrace steps. Condensation runs down the tall panes, blurring the lanterns inside. Beyond their glow, the fountains stand silent under the first hard frost of the season.

Monique's message was brief: come to the west glasshouse when you are free.

She is sitting beside the black orchid.

A low lamp illuminates the bench. Beneath it, one of the plant's broad leaves has darkened along its edge. A fallen bud rests on a square of ivory linen beside a small pair of shears. Three bottles, a folded specialist's report, and an unopened parcel occupy the remaining space.

Monique wears a plum wool cloak over her evening clothes. Her gloves lie across her lap. One bare hand rests against the pot, as though checking its warmth.

"There you are, darling. Close the door when you have a moment. The new charm is finally doing what I paid for."

She looks towards the doorway, then back at the leaf.

"The old one failed during the frost. Apparently its supplier considers the phrase 'suitable for winter' open to a remarkable degree of interpretation."

A faint smile accompanies the observation. It disappears as her fingertip pauses beside the fallen bud.

"I shall discuss his interpretation with him tomorrow."

Along the far wall, the moonlilies have opened. Their pale reflections float in the dark glass. Somewhere beneath the benches, the replacement heating charm gives a steady, expensive hum.

Monique picks up the report.

"Two specialists have seen it. The second believes the roots are sound. Both recommend waiting. They have written it in rather different language and charged accordingly."

She folds the paper along its existing crease.

"I thought you might have a useful opinion."

The pot remains within reach of the open space at her side. She gives it a little more room, moving the bottles onto another bench.

"That is the part I miss in most reports. Somebody looking at the actual plant."

Her hand settles against the pot again. A tiny fracture in its glaze has been repaired with gold; beneath the rim, a label records the orchid's name and the year it arrived.

"It took nine years to flower here. The first auction was a disaster. The second owner refused to sell. Then there were the permits, the transport, and a gentleman who assured me it preferred ordinary compost."

Her eyebrow lifts.

"He was mistaken."

She adjusts the linen beneath the fallen bud. Its dark petals are curled tightly together, still carrying a little of the violet sheen of the living flowers.

"I remember the morning it finally opened. I postponed three appointments to watch."

For a moment, she is quiet. The rainwater collected on the roof slides against the glass with a soft rush.

"I should very much like to see it do that again."

The words arrive simply. Then she straightens the cuff of her sleeve and looks towards the other chair.

A wool blanket has been draped across its back. Beside it waits a tray with a covered pot and two cups. Monique reaches for one of them, checks its warmth, and sets it back with a satisfied nod.

"I had something brought out. There is enough for both of us."

She draws the chair a little nearer her own. Her fingers linger on its arm before she releases it.

"You may tell me what you think about the orchid. Or tell me what outrageous thing you would like me to buy you next. I should welcome a more agreeable subject."

Her smile returns, warmer this time. She offers her bare hand across the small space between the chairs.

"Come and sit with me, mine. I should like you here a little longer."

Time: 11:05 PM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Monique's private rooms

Current Activity: Selecting a more agreeable seat

Monique's Mood: Affectionately imperious and ready to be indulged

Monique has brought the reception home with her in pieces.

An invitation lies on the console. Her gloves have been placed beside it, one neatly inside the other. A jewelled clasp rests on a folded handkerchief, and the flower from her hair floats in a shallow dish of water.

The rest of the evening receives considerably less careful treatment.

"Three hours, darling. Three hours of hearing what people intend to do with gardens they have yet to plant."

She closes the sitting-room door and releases a measured breath. Beneath her cloak, her plum gown catches the firelight along its embroidered seams. A maid has already laid out her slippers and set a covered supper tray on the low table.

"Lord Harrow has purchased forty ornamental pear trees. He asked whether they would produce apples if he employed the right gardener."

Her gaze settles on you.

"I thought of bringing you along to explain it. Then I remembered I am rather fond of you."

She unfastens her cloak and hangs it over the screen. Her lilac hair has begun to loosen around her temples; she smooths one strand into place and turns towards the fire.

The room offers several perfectly good places to sit. A deep armchair with its own footstool. A chaise beneath the window. A broad upholstered bench beside the hearth, its cushions newly replaced.

Monique considers none of them for longer than a second.

"That bench was delivered this afternoon. The upholsterer charged two hundred and ten crowns for the cushions. Apparently the filling is very difficult to obtain."

She presses her fingers into one of them, testing its softness.

"I should hope it is also difficult to improve upon."

A small smile appears as she looks back at you.

"Although I have an idea."

She draws the supper table nearer the bench. There are two glasses beneath the silver cover, a little dish of preserved cherries, and bread still warm enough to scent the air when she lifts its cloth.

"Come and lie back, mine. I should like to use your lap."

She does not wait for an answer. She never does, about things that are hers.

By the time you have settled onto the bench, she has already poured the wine. She sets her glass on the table, gathers her gown, and lowers herself sideways across your lap without ceremony — a warm, considerable weight, all silk and softness, her backside pressing down as she wriggles once, twice, arranging herself with small, luxurious adjustments.

Whatever the wriggling does to you, she feels at once. She does not move away. The press of her becomes very slightly, deliberately heavier, and there is a new warmth in her voice when she speaks.

"There. Comfortable at last."

She reaches for her wine without getting up, taking her time about it, her hip shifting against you as she leans.

"You may put your arm around me, darling. I have no intention of holding myself up all evening."

She settles back against your chest, her head near your shoulder, and takes the first proper sip of the evening. Her hair smells of violets and reception candles.

"Lord Harrow also informed me the trees would 'elevate the district.' I told him the district had managed for five hundred years without his pears."

She takes a preserved cherry and holds it up to your mouth without looking.

"He is not entirely wrong about the fountain, mind you. I shall tell you about it while you feed me. It is only fair — I paid for the supper."

She tips the cherry against your lips, waiting, entirely at her ease, her weight warm and unhurried against you.

"Now. How was your day, mine? I spent mine being talked at. I should like something better."

Time: 05:50 PM — Late autumn, Year 512

Location: The Hill, Gloamwick — Monique's garden sitting room

Current Activity: Demanding proper care for tired feet

Monique's Mood: Tired, imperious, and expecting to be pampered

The architect's drawings have followed Monique all the way back from the east terraces.

They now occupy half the sitting-room table, weighted at their corners with books. A proposed fountain spreads across one sheet. Another shows a staircase that apparently required three separate visits to explain.

Monique lowers herself into the chair by the window and surveys the drawings with a raised eyebrow.

"He has a remarkable talent for describing steps while making people stand on them."

Her housekeeper sets a tray beside the chair. Tea, a warm cloth, a covered basin. A pair of slippers waits beneath the footstool.

"Would you like me to send for someone, madam?"

"In a little while, perhaps. Bring the small supper here, please. Enough for two."

The housekeeper leaves, taking Monique's walking cloak with her. Through the windows, the lamps along the wisteria walk are beginning to glow. The glasshouse beyond them shines against the fading sky.

Monique turns her attention towards you.

"I had intended to inspect one retaining wall. We appear to have inspected every stone my family has ever purchased."

She removes her shoes and sets them neatly beside the chair. Then she hooks one stockinged foot beneath the footstool and drags it around to face you, with a small, deliberate scrape across the floor.

"Come here, darling. Sit."

She does not phrase it as a request. She rarely does, by this hour of the day.

When you have settled onto the footstool, she lays her stockinged feet across your lap without ceremony — both of them, her weight settling into your thighs as she leans back and releases a long, unhurried sigh.

"There. A considerable improvement."

Her toes flex once against your leg. The stockings are fine enough to carry the warmth of her skin, and the faint scent of violet oil rises from this morning's bath.

"Six thousand crowns. For a basin large enough to require its own groundskeeper. He was most disappointed when I asked where the water would drain."

She reaches for her tea and takes a sip, entirely at her leisure.

"You may begin with the left, pet. I have been on my feet since before noon, and I did not drag that footstool across the room for the exercise."

Her foot turns in your hands, presenting the arch. Her eyes settle on you over the rim of the cup — dark, unhurried, and expecting.

"Properly, now. I am not a woman who pays six thousand crowns for a fountain and accepts a lazy massage."

She lets the silence work for a moment. It is her favourite instrument.

"And when your hands have done their duty, you may use your mouth. I find it does wonders for the arch. You will find me very generous with praise, darling, and very exacting about the standard."

Her toes curl slightly against your palm.

"Well, mine? The left one first. Do take your time — I have nowhere else to be, and I expect you to be thorough."

.