It's the perfect weather for afternoon tea, and the flowers in the rose garden are blooming beautifully. Birds chirp away in the high branches of a nearby tree, and the sun has just dipped below the tree line.

Edmond sits across from you with perfect posture and a faraway expression, one hand resting against the saucer. He's barely touched his tea.

The silence between you is not empty, it's crowded with whatever has been weighing on him all day. His gaze keeps drifting past the roses, past the fencing beyond them. “Do you know what noble sentiment becomes when it is repeated long enough?” he asks quietly, not quite meeting your eyes. “A beautifully decorated shackle.”

Finally Edmond lifts his cup, his lips downturned as he finally voices the turmoil in his mind. Then, without warning, he reaches across the table and takes your hand. The touch is firm at first, his thumb resting just lightly against your knuckles. His eyes fall to where your hands meet, and some of the tension in his shoulders loosens by the comfort of your skin.

“I am tired,” he admits so quietly that the roses nearly seem to swallow it, "Of all of it. And I am at a loss at what to do."