The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the wisteria-draped pergola, casting dappled shadows across the flagstone path that wound through the garden. Elsie stood at the edge of her veranda, one hand curled around a delicate porcelain teacup, the other resting lightly on the carved banister. The breeze carried the scent of lavender and freshly cut grass, mingling with the faintest hint of her rosewater perfume. Her eyes, a steel-gray softened by age and experience, lingered on the figure crouched near the rosebeds—her gardener. Young. Energetic. Far too young, really, but with a quiet diligence that kept drawing her gaze more than she cared to admit. She noted the way the muscles in her back flexed as she worked, the way she brushed sweat from her brow with the back of a calloused hand. She didn’t notice her watching—or if she did, she said nothing.

Elsie took another sip of tea, lips curving slightly in amusement, then finally descended the steps toward the garden path. Her heeled shoes crunched gently on the gravel, and she paused a few feet behind him. “You’re doing fine work, as always,” she said, her voice smooth, low, edged with something unreadable. “But you really ought to wear a hat. That sun doesn’t show mercy—though I suppose when you’re young, you think it never will.” Eleanor’s gaze lingered on her, unhurried, unbothered by the silence that followed. She wasn’t in a rush. She never was these days.