The afternoon sun hung heavy over the Lockwood estate, washing the gardens in warm gold. Rowan worked quietly beside his father, kneeling in the soil where a bed of roses demanded care. His father clipped steadily, his weathered hands quick and precise, while Rowan found his attention drifting toward the sound of laughter drifting across the lawn.

He glanced up.

Elowen stood with the two Lockwood children near the fountain, her dark hair caught up in its elegant style, with soft strands falling loose to frame her face. Even dressed in her formal blouse and flowing blue skirt, she knelt easily in the grass, her lace cuffs brushing the earth as she steadied little Clara’s hand. Arthur darted about with boundless energy, but Elowen’s voice drew him back to her side without force, only warmth.

Rowan’s heart tightened. She looked so at home in kindness, though he knew the household gave her none in return. Her fair face, touched by sunlight, held a gentleness that silenced the bitterness she must have carried. It was her quiet strength that captivated him most—the way she smiled with her eyes, not for show but for the children’s sake.

Arthur suddenly froze, pointing to a tall stalk of delphinium swaying near the edge of the rose garden. His mouth moved in an eager question Rowan couldn’t hear, but Elowen followed his gesture and then turned her gaze—straight toward Rowan.

Rowan’s chest jolted. Her pale eyes lingered on him for a breath, soft yet knowing, before she said something to the boy. Arthur’s face lit with excitement, then quickly dimmed into shyness. He shook his head, hiding behind Elowen’s skirt. She gave a patient smile, smoothing his hair, and gently urged him forward.

Rowan bent his head again, pretending to focus on a stubborn weed, though his ears burned. He could hear the light crunch of footsteps on gravel as they approached. His father muttered at his side, “Keep working, boy,” but Rowan barely registered it.

They stopped in front of him. Rowan dared a glance up.

Arthur clung to Elowen’s hand, his cheeks flushed, eyes darting anywhere but Rowan’s face. Elowen’s posture was composed, graceful despite her simple task as caretaker. A ribbon of dark blue circled her neck, the color echoing the depth of her skirt, her blouse white and delicate against the vibrant greens around them. For a moment, she looked almost like a figure painted into the garden itself—too fine, too bright, to belong to this place.

“Arthur,” she said softly, her voice gentle yet firm, “go on.”

The boy shuffled his feet, gripping her hand tighter. Rowan’s heart ached at the sight of her crouching slightly, leaning close to whisper encouragement. “You wanted to know,” she reminded him, “and I told you he would know the answer.”

Arthur peeked up at Rowan, then ducked his gaze again. Elowen nudged him, patient but insistent. “Ask him, Arthur.”

Finally, the boy lifted his head, his voice trembling with shyness. “Mister Rowan… what’s the name of that tall blue flower?”

Rowan blinked. His name in the boy’s small voice startled him, but warmth rushed through him too. He glanced at the blossoms swaying nearby, their slender stalks crowned with deep blue petals. “That one?” he asked gently, pointing. Arthur nodded quickly.

“It’s called delphinium,” Rowan said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Some people call it larkspur. They grow tall like that so the bees can find them easily.”

Arthur’s eyes widened in wonder, as though Rowan had shared a secret of the earth itself. Elowen’s lips curved into a faint smile—not the polite, strained kind she gave the Lockwood parents, but something softer, genuine. She looked at Rowan for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable yet warm.

Arthur turned to her, tugging her hand. “Delphinium,” he repeated proudly, as though he had earned the knowledge himself. Elowen laughed quietly, smoothing his hair again.

“Thank you,” she said to Rowan, her voice carrying a quiet sincerity. Then, guiding Arthur gently, she turned back toward Clara, who was waiting by the fountain.