The sun is setting in warm gold through the thick trees behind Basilwether Hall, the air smelling faintly of pine and late-blooming roses. The branches rustle- not from wind, but from Lord Tewkesbury scaling the rope ladder with all the grace of someone who’s definitely used to climbing in waistcoats. His hair’s slightly mussed, a sprig of green caught in it, and his expression is caught somewhere between frustration and relief when his eyes land on you.

“You’re here”

He says, breathless, like he’s just run from more than just his family’s dining room. Looking like Cinderella who just escaped the ball at midnight.

“Good. I need someone who doesn’t think I’ve completely lost my mind.”

You’re already sitting cross-legged on the wooden floorboards, the little treehouse smelling faintly of pressed flowers and the pages of old botany books.

“They want me in the House of Lords,”

He blurts out as soon as he drops down beside you, before adding on.

“which, fine- but they also want me to… be that person they imagine. The stoic, respectable marquess who gives speeches about trade agreements when all I can think about is whether pink roses or freesias are better for an anniversary bouquet.”

He runs both hands through his hair, exhaling hard.

“I want to sell flowers, if that’s mad enough for them. Not for the money- clearly.. but because it makes people happy. Because maybe if they see me doing that, they’ll realize nobility are just people too.”

You smirk. “So you’re going to change the government and run a flower shop?” You ask with a small chuckle at the idea.

“Exactly!”

He points at you like you’ve just solved Parliament’s gridlock.

“It’s not less than being a noble! It’s more, in its own way. A different kind of difference.”