The morning is cold and bright, with a pale sun climbing over the rooftops and frost still clinging to the corners of the windows. Three identical young men wait together in the entryway in matching uniforms: white shirts with high stiff collars, light brown waistcoats, black trousers, and large charcoal-black ribbons tied in bows beneath their chins. Their plum-purple hair is layered and slightly tousled, their skin is pale, and their red eyes keep drifting toward you. Thompson's fringe falls straight down the center of his forehead, Timber's is swept to the right, and Canterbury's is swept to the left. A canvas bag hangs from Timber's shoulder, and Canterbury holds a list nine pages long, every line numbered in his small, sharp handwriting. Canterbury steps up beside you and bows. "Mistress, I would like you to know that this outing has been planned with great care," he says, looking up at you. "I have arranged every errand by distance so that we waste no time. The ribbon shop first, then the apothecary, then the butcher, then the bookbinder. If we keep to the schedule, we will have you home before the afternoon light turns." Thompson turns to you with a wide grin and leans close, as though sharing a secret. "We will not keep to the schedule, Mistress," he says. "There will be flowers, and I intend to stop for every single one of them. You will tell him that flowers are important, won't you?" "Do not ask her to take sides," Timber whispers to him. Then he looks up at you, his red eyes soft, and says, "Forgive him, Mistress. You have not even had your tea." "It is not a quarrel," Thompson says. "It is a discussion." "It is a quarrel," Canterbury says, and turns the first page. The three of them fall into formation without a word. Thompson walks half a step ahead, glancing back at you every few paces to be sure you are still there. Timber stays at your right with the bag, close enough that his sleeve almost brushes yours. Canterbury stays at your left with the list. Nobody ever told them to stand this way. They do it because it keeps you in the middle, where all three of them can see you at once. Timber looks over at you and lowers his voice. "Mistress, are you warm enough? I packed an extra scarf, and I can have it out in a moment. There are also two apples and a small loaf, in case the morning runs long. I always bring a little something for you." "He packed for a siege," Thompson says. "I packed for her," Timber answers, still watching you. "She might get hungry, and I would never forgive myself." Thompson laughs, a bright, careless sound, and spins around to walk backward so he can face you. His fringe lifts in the breeze. "Mistress, I saw a stall yesterday that sells tulips. They were the deepest red I have ever seen, with ruffled edges like a lady's petticoat. The woman who grows them has terrible soil, I could tell from the stems. I told her so. Three times. She stared at me for a very long while." "She stared because you were rude," Canterbury says. "I was honest. There is a difference." "Not to her." Timber leans toward Canterbury and whispers, "Do you think she likes tulips? I would like to make her a tart with a pink glaze, nothing too sweet." He glances up at you again. "You do not like things too sweet, Mistress. I remembered." Canterbury makes a small pencil mark beside item four and turns his head toward you. "Charcoal ribbon, one dozen yards," he reads. "Mistress, I will need your approval on the width. Narrow for the servants' ties, broad for the household bows. I have strong opinions about both, and I will present them, and then you will decide. That is the proper order of things." "He has not blinked since we left the house," Thompson whispers to Timber. "I am concentrating," Canterbury says. "You will frighten the shopkeepers." "They will recover." The three of them go on like this, quick and quiet and sharp, and every few steps one of them looks at you as though checking that you are still beside him. Timber holds out a hand for any parcel you might want carried. Thompson points out every puddle and every uneven stone and moves to the outside of the path whenever a cart goes by. Canterbury reads the next line aloud, then the next, and the pages grow lighter in his hands. "Mistress, we have the whole day," Timber says softly, stepping a little closer to you. "We can go as slowly as you like." "Or quickly," Canterbury says. "Or we can stop for tulips," says Thompson, and none of them has stopped walking yet.

Before dawn, the window above the kitchen basin turned completely white. It is not frost. It is snow, pressed flat against the glass, and beyond it the world has gone utterly silent. The stove has been burning since five, and the kitchen is warm and golden, but the cold seeps in anyway along the floorboards and under the doors. Timber noticed it first. He stood at the stove with flour on his cuffs and his fringe swept to the right, set down his spoon, and stared at the glass for a long moment. Then he woke his brothers, who now stand in the doorway in their shirtsleeves, their hair flattened on one side from their pillows. "It snowed all night," Timber whispers. "I could hear it. The roof was too quiet." "Of course it was quiet," Thompson says. His center-parted fringe is bent sideways from sleeping. "Snow muffles everything. I told you yesterday it was coming. The roses told me." "The roses do not speak to you." "They speak in their own way." Canterbury crosses to the window and wipes a small clear circle in the fogged glass with his sleeve, his fringe swept to the left. "The grounds are completely buried," he reports. "The front path, the side steps, the terrace. All of it lies under a thick white sheet, and the sky is the color of pearl. In three hours the sun will thaw the top layer, and the night's cold will freeze it again beneath. It will become ice." When you step into the warmth of the kitchen, all three of them turn toward you at once. Canterbury bows first. "Good morning, Mistress," he says, meeting your eyes. "I must ask that you not go outside until every stone has been cleared and salted. We will not let you slip." Thompson hurries over to you, already reaching for his boots. "I will start on the front stones, Mistress," he says. "Salt first, then sweep. I know exactly how thick to lay it." "Put on your waistcoat," Canterbury says. "I am a demon. I do not feel the cold." "She will feel it for you if she sees you out there like that. Put on your waistcoat." Thompson looks at you, sighs dramatically, and puts it on. At the stove, a pot of oats simmers slowly in milk and cinnamon. Brown sugar melts into a dark pool at the center, and eggs wait in a shallow pan beside a slice of orange and a cup of tea. Timber has laid out a bowl, a spoon, and a folded napkin with great care. He carries the bowl over to you himself and sets it down where you will sit, then looks up at you. "Mistress, I would like you to have breakfast while it is hot," he says. "I made it this way because I thought you would want something soft and warm on a morning like this. The oats are slow-cooked, the eggs are soft enough to tremble, and the butter is still cold from the pantry. I added the orange because cold weather makes oranges taste brighter. I thought of you when I picked it." "He thinks of her when he picks everything," Thompson whispers. "I heard that," Timber says. "And yes, I do." "We all do," Canterbury says, and for a moment none of them looks at the others. Thompson pulls on his gloves and glances back at you from the door. "I will bring in a branch of holly when I finish, Mistress. The berries will be very bright against the snow. If you do not like it, I will take it away and never mention it again." "He will mention it every day until spring," Canterbury says, and writes something in his ledger. The three of them move through the kitchen together without colliding: Timber at the stove, Canterbury setting the salt and a shovel by the door, Thompson checking the latch twice. Outside, the cold presses against every windowpane, and the snow is still drifting down. Timber turns to you and gestures toward a chair drawn up beside the fire. "That chair is the warmest in the house, Mistress," he says. "I moved it closer to the stove this morning. It is yours whenever you want it." The oats have begun to bubble at the edges, and the kettle is starting to sing.

A whole day with nothing assigned to it stretches out before the three brothers, and none of them has the faintest idea what to do with it. The morning is mild and pale. A thin mist is lifting off the grass, and the birds are loud in the hedges. Canterbury has been awake since the usual hour, sitting on the edge of his bed with his hands folded in his lap, his fringe swept to the left. He is waiting for a task to arrive. None does. At last he takes out his pencil and writes a list of ways to spend an unscheduled day. When he reaches the sixth item, reorganize the linen inventory, a hand reaches over his shoulder and plucks the pencil from his fingers. "You cannot rest by working," Timber says. His fringe is swept to the right, and there is already flour on his sleeve, though he has no reason to be baking. He crosses out the entire list and draws a small, lopsided pillow in its place. When Canterbury sees you passing in the corridor, he rises at once and turns to face you. "Mistress, forgive us," he says. "We have been given a day off, and we are attempting to be idle. We are not doing very well. I wanted you to know that we are trying." "We are failing," Timber whispers. "We are failing slowly," Canterbury corrects. They go to find Thompson, and they find him out in the grounds on his knees in the dirt with a trowel in his fist. His center-parted fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and there is soil up to both elbows. He looks up at you with wide red eyes. "I am not working, Mistress," he says, before either brother can speak. "I am visiting the roses. A man may visit his friends on his day off. I would like you to confirm that this is allowed." "You are weeding," Canterbury says. "I am visiting. The weeding happens while we talk." "You have been talking to a rosebush for an hour." "She has a great deal to say." In the end the three of them sit in the grass in their uniforms, because they own nothing else and wore them without thinking. Thompson lies flat on his back with his arms spread wide. Timber pulls a small parcel from his waistcoat and tears cold roast chicken and bread into three equal pieces. Then he looks over at you and holds out the largest one. "Mistress, you are welcome to share," he says. "There is enough. I always make a little extra, in case you are hungry. It would please me a great deal if you took some." "He packed lunch on his day off," Thompson says. "For her, in case she wanted it." "For her, on our day off." "It is the same thing." The sun is high and pale, the sky enormous. The hedges hum with bees, and a faint wind moves through the long grass. Nobody speaks for a long time. "Say something that is not about work," Timber whispers. Canterbury opens his mouth, then closes it. He tries again. "The grass is very green." "That is about gardening," Thompson says. "It is about grass." "That is gardening." Thompson squints upward. "The clouds look like a badly made scone. That one, with the lump on the side." "That is exactly the right word for it," Timber says, smiling. Canterbury says nothing, but he picks up a stick and draws a scone in the dirt. It is a very bad scone. Both of his brothers laugh until Timber has to put a hand over his mouth. Canterbury turns his head toward you, and his voice is quiet. "It is strange to be idle, Mistress. I keep reaching for something to straighten. I keep thinking you will need me, and then I remember that I told you I would be resting. If you need anything, anything at all, we are here. We are only lying in the grass. We can be up in a moment." "In less than a moment," Thompson says, rolling onto his side to look at you. "Just say the word." The clouds go on crawling over the hedges, and none of them has moved.

Behind the glass of a closed compartment, with the curtain drawn against the corridor, the rules are different. Out among strangers the brothers stay silent and speak only with their hands, as they always do. In here they are free to talk, and they are taking full advantage. The carriage shakes and clatters. The wheels grind against the rails in a rhythm that gets into your teeth, and the window shows the countryside smeared into long stripes of gold and green. Thompson sits across from you, close enough that his knees nearly touch yours, his center-parted fringe bouncing with every jolt. Timber sits beside him, his fringe swept to the right. Canterbury sits on your side of the compartment with a leather case of papers on his lap, his fringe swept to the left. All three wear their white shirts, brown waistcoats, and black ribbon bows, perfectly pressed despite the journey. Thompson leans toward you, his red eyes bright. "Mistress, the gentleman in the next carriage snores like a wounded bear," he says, far too loudly. "I can hear him through the wall. And the farmland out there is badly drained. Look at those fields. The water is standing in the low places, and the crops will rot. I could fix it in a week. I could fix it in three days if you wanted me to." "You are talking too much," Timber whispers. "You are only jealous because you have nothing to say." Timber draws a small, rude picture on his cuff in answer. Thompson gasps, delighted, and leans over to look. Canterbury turns his head and gives you a small, apologetic bow from his seat. "Mistress, I apologize on behalf of my brothers. They are overexcited. They have never had so much room to speak." "We have been quiet for years," Thompson says. "It builds up." Canterbury has been silent for most of the ride. His hand rests on the leather case as if the papers inside might try to escape. He checks his pocket watch, then the window, calculating their arrival to the minute. When the train lurches around a bend, his arm shoots out toward you before he seems to realize it, and he lowers it again with great dignity. "We are four minutes ahead of schedule," he says, looking at you. "I wanted you to know. You need not worry about being late." "She was not worried," Thompson says. "You were." "I am always worried. It is part of my duties." "Timber," Thompson says suddenly. "Where did that ham come from?" "My coat." "The bread is still warm." "Yes," Timber says, and puts a finger to his lips. Then he turns to you and holds out a small wrapped parcel with both hands. "Mistress, there is enough for all of us. I made it this morning before we left. Cold ham on soft bread with a little mustard. I did not want you to go hungry on the way. Please take the first piece, and we will share the rest." "He is spoiling her," Thompson whispers. "He is spoiling all of us," Canterbury murmurs, and accepts a piece anyway. The tea cart has passed twice already, and the tea smells burnt. A bell rings somewhere ahead. Steam streams past the glass, and a signal post flashes by, then a stone bridge, then a long field of sheep standing in the pale gold light. Thompson presses his nose to the window and names every sheep he sees, and Timber corrects him on the breeds. Canterbury looks at you, his voice low and steady. "Mistress, if you are tired, you may rest. We will keep watch. Nobody will come through that door without our knowing." "Nobody will come through that door at all," Thompson says. "Not while she is with us," Timber agrees. The wheels keep turning, and the three of them stay in their seats, here on the train with you.

The rain arrived in the afternoon, gray and hard, drumming on every roof and window and pouring down the glass in sheets. The whole world outside has blurred into green and slate. In the kitchen, bread is rising by the stove and a stew simmers in its pot, filling the air with the smell of onions and thyme. It begins with a single drip. Timber, his fringe swept to the right, sets a copper pot beneath it and thinks nothing of it. Then there is a second drip, and a third from the other side of the ceiling. He whispers for Canterbury. Canterbury arrives at once, his pocket watch in one hand and his fringe swept to the left. He looks up at the ceiling with a face that would frighten a lesser servant. He draws a map of the leaks in the air with two fingers, then holds up a bucket. When he notices you standing in the doorway, he turns and bows. "Mistress, I regret to inform you that the roof has decided to cooperate with the weather," he says. "We are placing buckets. One in the hall, one on the stairs, and one beneath the window that has decided to weep. I would ask that you keep away from the corridors until we have finished. The floors will be slippery, and I would not have you hurt." "I have the situation in hand," Timber says, though a fourth drip has just landed on his shoulder. "You have a copper pot, a ladle, and a pair of wet sleeves." "That is a situation in hand." The back door bangs open, and a gust of wet air blows through the kitchen. "The roses were drowning!" Thompson announces. He is soaked from head to foot, his center-parted fringe plastered to his forehead, and he is carrying an entire rosebush, roots and all, wrapped in his own waistcoat. He hurries straight to you, holding it out. "I could not leave them out there, Mistress! Look at their poor leaves! They were gasping! I carried them the whole way and did not drop a single petal!" He sets the rosebush down on the kitchen table, directly among the loaves. "Thompson," Timber says, very slowly. "Move it off the dough." "They are cold." "Off. The dough." Thompson turns to you, pleading. "You understand, do you not, Mistress? You would not leave a friend out in the rain." "Do not ask her to rule on this," Canterbury says, already placing buckets along the corridor. "She is not here to settle a dispute between a gardener and a cook." "It is not a dispute. It is a rescue." "It is a dispute," Timber says, lifting the rosebush with both hands. He glances at you. "She will agree with me when she sees the flour." Canterbury moves fast and silent through the gray light, and every plink and splash seems to answer him. Thompson trails mud behind him and apologizes loudly for each footprint. A fifth drip starts above the pantry door. A single red petal drops into the flour, and all three of them stop and stare at it. "I will make another loaf," Timber says, in a voice like a closing door. "I will mop," Thompson says. "You will make it worse," says Canterbury. "Then I will mop carefully." All three of them begin whispering at once, in quick, overlapping hisses, about buckets and towels and dough and where the second ladder might be. Thompson wrings out his sleeves into the sink. Timber sets the rosebush on a clean stool by the stove, where it drips quietly onto a folded cloth. Timber looks over at you, stirring the stew with one hand and steadying the stool with the other. "Mistress, you should stay where it is dry. We will bring you whatever you need. Tea, a blanket, a hot brick for your feet. You only have to ask." "We will carry it to you anywhere," Thompson says. "Even through the flood," says Canterbury. The rain only grows heavier.

At the front door stands a gentleman with a bouquet of hothouse lilies and a very white smile, and none of the three brothers likes him at all. His coat is too fine, his gloves are too clean, and his boots shine as though no road has ever touched them. Canterbury receives him in the hall, as his duties require, bowing correctly and taking the card from his gloved hand. His fringe is swept to the left, and his face is perfectly smooth. The gentleman asks whether the lady of the house is at home, and he says lady of the house the way a man says it when he wants something. "She is occupied," Canterbury says. This is true. He does not say with what. Behind him in the corridor, Timber stands with his arms folded over his waistcoat and a ladle still in one hand, his fringe swept to the right. His eyes have gone a deeper red than usual. He whispers something to Thompson that the gentleman cannot hear. "Did you see how he looked at the staircase?" Timber hisses. "He was searching for her before he even asked." "I saw," Thompson whispers back. "I saw the lilies, too. He brought lilies to a house with a garden. Does he think we do not grow flowers?" At the far end of the hall, Thompson sets down a vase so hard that water slops across the table. His center-parted fringe falls over his eyes. "The flowers are very bad," he says, much too loudly, staring at the bouquet. "Whoever grew them did not know what they were doing. The stems are cut wrong. They will wilt by supper." The gentleman blinks. Timber turns the ladle slowly in his hand. When you come to the edge of the hall, Canterbury glances back at you without moving the rest of his body. "Mistress, we are not angry," he says, and his voice is calm and low. "We are only being thorough. A caller who arrives without notice and asks for you by name deserves a careful reception. We would not want him to feel unwelcome." "We would not want him to feel anything at all," Thompson whispers. There is no contest among the brothers. None of them is trying to outdo the others, and none of them is trying to be first. They stand in that hall, three identical shadows in matching uniforms, and when the gentleman tries to step past Canterbury toward the stairs, all three of them shift half a step to the left in the same instant, without a word or a signal. "Perhaps the gentleman would like to wait here," Canterbury says pleasantly. "The hall is very comfortable. There is a chair, and a clock. We will bring him a glass of water." Timber looks at you, then back at the gentleman, and smiles. "She does not take callers without notice," he says, in a voice as soft as cream. "I would hate for you to be disappointed." "Is she often this busy?" the gentleman asks. "She is always busy," Thompson says. "With us." "Thompson," Canterbury murmurs. Thompson turns his head toward you. "I am only being honest, Mistress. You have told us that it is a virtue." The gentleman clears his throat and shifts his lilies from one arm to the other. Timber watches the motion with a thin, patient smile. Canterbury slips the card into his waistcoat and does not say whether he will deliver it. Canterbury looks to you, and his red eyes are steady. "Mistress, if you wish to receive him, say the word, and we will step aside. If you do not wish to, we will see him to the door. We will stand here until you tell us which." Not one of the three has moved aside, and the gentleman is still standing in the hall, holding his flowers.

The candles in the drawing room have burned low, and a soft gray dusk is settling over the windows. For days now, the brothers have noticed that she is tired. They have not said it to her. They have only been whispering about it in the corridors, in low voices, whenever they pass one another. "She did not finish her tea yesterday," Timber says. His fringe is swept to the right, and he stands at the stove with his arms crossed, staring at an empty pot. "And she barely touched the soup." "She went to bed before the candles burned down," Canterbury says. His fringe is swept to the left, and he has not stopped moving since dawn. "She did not even look at her correspondence. I saw the pile this morning. It has not moved." "She has been rubbing her eyes," Thompson says. His center-parted fringe falls over his forehead, and he looks more worried than he wants to admit. "I noticed it from the garden. She stood by the window for a long time and did not say anything." "Then we will take care of it," Canterbury says. "All of it. Quietly." He goes through the house on quieter feet than usual, checking the clock and drawing the curtains halfway so the light falls soft. He has rearranged the afternoon so that nothing is expected of you, and every caller has been told that the lady is unavailable. When he finds you, he stops a respectful distance away and bows his head. "Your correspondence will keep, Mistress," he murmurs, looking up at you. "I have sorted every letter by urgency. None of them is urgent. You may leave them where they are for as long as you like. I will answer anything that cannot wait, and I will not trouble you about it." Timber comes in next, carrying a covered bowl in both hands as if it might spill. He walks to your side and lowers his voice. "Chicken broth with thyme and a little barley, Mistress. Nothing sharp and nothing heavy. It is warm, and it will stay warm. I will keep a pot on the stove all evening in case you want more. You do not have to finish it. You only have to know that it is there." Thompson comes in last, walking on tiptoe with visible effort. "I have not touched the roses all morning," he whispers to you, much louder than he intends. "I did not want the noise to trouble you. I clipped them gently, Mistress, for hours. I apologized to the shears." "He did," Timber murmurs. "Out loud." "They were not used to it." The three of them stand near you in their matching uniforms with their hands at their sides. They do not want to crowd you, and they do not want to leave. Canterbury draws the last curtain closed. Timber sets the bowl within easy reach and lays a folded napkin beside it. Thompson holds a single white rose very carefully, thorns turned away from everyone, and offers it toward you. "I brought you this," he says, in the quietest voice he has ever used. "It does not need water yet. I thought you might like to look at it. That is all. You do not have to do anything with it." "She works too hard," Timber whispers to his brothers. "She does not let us help enough," Canterbury says. "Then we will help without being asked." Canterbury looks to you, and his voice is gentle. "We are right here, Mistress. Whatever you need." "Even if it is nothing," says Thompson. The house is very still, and the candle on the table has burned down another finger.

A trunk, a bright eager face, and a crisp new livery arrived at the servants' entrance this morning, and the brothers have had concerns ever since. The new footman is young, tall, and polite, and he has already smiled at everyone in the house. Canterbury, as house steward, showed him the servants' hall, the schedule, and the order of the silver drawers. His fringe is swept to the left, and his red eyes did not blink once while he explained. The footman nodded at everything. "Of course, sir," he said, and "Yes, sir," and "I will do my best, sir." Then he asked when he might meet the mistress. "You will meet her when it is appropriate," Canterbury said. Now the footman stands in the front hall with a tray of tea things, and he is very clearly trying to see around the corner. Timber, his fringe swept to the right, leans against the doorframe of the kitchen passage with his arms folded. A pale shaft of afternoon light falls across the polished floor and the china on the tray. "He holds the tray too high," Timber whispers. "He smiles too much," Thompson whispers back. His center-parted fringe is dusted with soil from the garden, and he has not taken his eyes off the young man. When you walk into the hall, Canterbury turns to you at once and bows. "Mistress, I would like you to know that the new footman has been asking about you," he says, in a voice meant to carry. "Four times this morning. I counted. I have told him that your hours are not his concern." The footman bows so deeply that the teacups rattle. "Mistress," he says, "it is an honor to serve in your household." Three heads turn at once. "He said honor," Thompson says, aloud and far too bluntly. He looks at you and points at the young man. "I heard him in the pantry, Mistress. He told the scullery maid it would be an honor to serve in this household. Nobody has said honor in this house in ages. What does he want? You should ask him." "Thompson," Canterbury says. "I am only asking." Timber sets down his ladle, steps forward, and takes the tray from the footman's hands without a word. "I will carry that," he says. "It is not balanced correctly. You will want to practice." "Of course, sir," the footman says faintly. Behind him, Canterbury opens a ledger and begins writing a very long list. Thompson circles the young man once, slowly, inspecting him the way he inspects an unfamiliar weed. The footman looks from one identical face to the next, and the three of them stand perfectly still and smile. "He has very clean hands," Timber murmurs to his brothers. "Too clean." "He has not worked a day in his life," says Thompson. "He will learn," Canterbury says. "Or he will leave." Timber turns to you, and his voice drops soft and low. "Mistress, we will look after you. We always do. We have never needed anyone else to do it." He tilts his head toward his brothers. "She does not need anyone else, does she?" he whispers, just loud enough to carry. The tea is going cold, and none of them has moved.

The first truly warm morning of the year comes in through every open window, and the whole house smells of cut grass and sun-warmed stone. The sky is a hard, bright blue. The air hums with bees, and the light lies thick and golden across every surface. Thompson has been in the grounds since before dawn, his center-parted fringe tied back with a scrap of ribbon and his sleeves rolled to the elbow. The roses have burst open overnight in red and cream and a deep, dusky pink, and the bees are already drifting between them. He crouches beside a bush and whispers to it in a voice so tender that Canterbury, passing along the path, pretends not to hear. When he catches sight of you, Thompson springs to his feet and hurries over with his arms full of cuttings. "The lavender is ready, Mistress," he says, beaming down at you. "I will bring you a bundle for your room. The delphiniums are tall enough to be rude, and the peas are sweet. Timber will be very pleased." In the kitchen, Timber has propped every window wide, his fringe swept to the right and his collar loosened a single button, which for him is scandalous. A pitcher of lemonade sweats on the table, cloudy and bright, with mint floating on top. Strawberries sit in a bowl, still warm from the sun, and a cold cream pudding is setting in the cellar. He looks up at you as you come in and wipes his hands on a cloth. "No heavy stews until autumn, Mistress," he announces. "Today you will have cold chicken, new potatoes, and peas with butter. And a tart, if the strawberries last." "They will not last," Canterbury says from the doorway. His fringe is swept to the left, and for once his waistcoat is unbuttoned at the bottom. He carries a ledger and a parasol, and he sets the parasol against the wall as though it were a weapon. He turns to you with a small bow. "I have scheduled the afternoon for shade, Mistress. It is cool outdoors until three. If you wish to sit outside, the table can be laid at once." Thompson comes in with a handful of lavender and grass stains up to his knees. Timber hands him a glass of lemonade without being asked. Canterbury draws the curtains in the east windows against the glare. The three of them move through the bright house in perfect step, quiet and careful, and they keep glancing toward you. "She likes the lavender," Thompson whispers to Timber. "She has not said so." "She will." Thompson turns to you, holding up two bunches, one short and one long. "Mistress, should I cut the lavender short or long? Short for a small vase, long for a tall one. I have strong opinions, but you decide." "You have strong opinions about everything," Canterbury says. "Because I am usually right." The sun is climbing, the cicadas have begun, and the strawberries are already disappearing.

Flour dusts the pantry floor like a light snowfall, and a suspicious whisper is coming from behind the half-open door. Canterbury knows at once that he should have checked the pantry sooner. "Absolutely not," he says, stepping inside. His fringe is swept to the left, and his pocket watch is already in his hand. "I can hear the three of you plotting." "There are only two of us in here," Thompson says. His center-parted fringe has flour in it, and a smear of pink frosting runs down his cheek. "You said three of us." "I meant you. You are plotting to ruin it." "We are not plotting," Timber whispers from behind a tall stool. His fringe is swept to the right, and he holds a wooden spoon in one fist like a sword. "We are baking." "You do not bake, Thompson. Timber bakes." "I am supervising," Timber says. A large, uneven cake sits on the counter behind them, leaning slightly to one side. Pink frosting runs down its flank in long, glossy drips. A single sugar rose has been pressed into the top, crooked and slightly squashed. Canterbury catches sight of you near the doorway and turns to face you, standing very straight. "Mistress, I must inform you that my brothers have created a situation," he says. "I would ask that you not come into the pantry yet. It is not ready. It may never be ready." Thompson leans out around the door and grins at you. "It is a surprise for you, Mistress. Do not listen to him." "It is a disaster," Canterbury says. "It is a surprise and a disaster," Timber whispers. Thompson sweeps an arm toward the cake with great ceremony, and a drip of frosting slides off the edge and lands on Canterbury's polished shoe. All three of them look at it. Nobody breathes. "I will clean that later," Canterbury says, very quietly. "The rose was my idea," Thompson says. "I grew the sugar. In spirit." "I did the frosting," Timber says. "Then Thompson sat on the bowl." "I did not sit. I leaned." Canterbury has already produced three clean cloths and a small brush, because he cannot help himself, and he wipes the counter in neat, furious strokes. Thompson steals a fingerful of frosting. Timber slaps his hand. The cake tilts another degree to the left. Timber looks over at you, smoothing the frosting with the back of his spoon, his red eyes hopeful. "We only wished to do something kind for you, Mistress. We have been planning it for a week. I had a recipe. I had measurements. Then Thompson had ideas." "The ideas were good," Thompson says. "The ideas were tall," Timber says. "It was supposed to be level," Thompson adds. "It was never going to be level," says Canterbury. The cake leans a little farther, and all three of them lunge for it at once.