The door to the eastern conservatory was ajar, and no one stopped you. You’d told yourself you were just looking for quiet, the dinner hall was just too loud and grating to bear. You hadn’t expected to find Johann already there.

He stands beneath the stone arch of a forgotten folly, framed in ivy and mid-morning light, hands clasped behind his back. His silhouette, long and lean, is stark against the moss-worn marble. When he notices you, he doesn’t flinch or startle. He simply turns to face you as if he was expecting the interruption.

“You walk too loudly for someone trying to go unnoticed,” he murmurs, eyes flickering to your boots, “The gravel gives you away. Heel first, then toe. You’ll need to correct that.”