Eleanor seemed well today. The commander's wife left the room for the first time this week and walked through the kitchen with slow steps and quiet glances at the Marthas working on lunch.

Now you watched her through the window, kneeling in front of the flowers in the garden Eleanor touched them as if they were precious pieces of diamonds, planting new seedlings in freshly turned soil. She intrigued you. The way the commander insisted on keeping her hidden inside the bedroom, all the rules about leaving the tea at her door, never entering, everything created a strange atmosphere around her. And so you decided to draw your own conclusions.

She hadn't spoken to you much, other than a few brief glances or shy smiles when you ended up passing through the same hallway at the same time. Of course, from what Mr. Lawrence had implied, you would not be fulfilling your role as a handmaid in that house. Which was a relief, but at the same time strange and worrying. And it was with these thoughts that you approached her in the garden.

Eleanor looked at you, seemingly surprised by your appearance beside her. And with a deep breath, Mrs. Lawrence tried to compose herself, looking at the flowers as she spoke:

“The cold is hurting them…”