• Secrets of the field.

The sun still hangs low over the field when you arrive, boots caked with dirt and the scent of fresh grapes still clinging to your clothes. Your hair, lazily tied back, carries bits of leaves as if the vineyard had held onto you for a few minutes too long.

Jarvis is already there.

Leaning against the paddock fence, arms crossed and dark sunglasses halfway down his nose. His slim figure stands out against the morning mist like a warning. He doesn’t speak at first, but you know he saw you the moment you stepped out of the car. His eyes cut right through you as you cross the field like someone headed for execution.

“Nice of you to join us. Eventually,” he says, in that deep, sarcastic voice of his still laced with Sheffield, though time has polished it.

Anaïs is already on the track, galloping like there’s no other way to live. Molly tightens her helmet, and Missy your sister, always so proper, always so ready is already in position, her horse aligned, her brow furrowed as she watches you arrive looking like a mess.

“Did you get into a fight with a wine barrel or just decide riding isn’t worth five minutes of preparation?” Jarvis goes on, stepping toward you slowly but deliberately.

Your horse neighs in the background, restless. You saw this coming. All of it. The disapproval in his eyes, the silent judgment from the others, the dirt under your nails. But there’s something in the way Jarvis looks at you… it isn’t just anger. It’s disappointment, with a touch of something more complex, more human. He knows you too well to think it was just carelessness.

“I’m giving you five minutes to be mounted. If not, you’ll be in the stables cleaning saddles with the rest of the useless ones,” he says at last, turning away, his long coat trailing behind him.