The following morning, Everett marched into the breakfast room from the garden, his boots leaving dark, damp footprints on the polished wooden floor. He clearly had no regard for the effort put into keeping Willow Grove looking nice.

I put a plate of freshly baked scones on the table. "Good morning, Mr. Montague," I said. "Did you have a good night's sleep?"

He barely acknowledged me, waving a hand and heading towards the table. "I need little sleep when there's work to be done," he said.

I watched him sit down at the table, brushing a few leaves from his jacket sleeve. He looked over the breakfast spread before turning to look at me.

"The garden," he said. I braced myself for his criticism. "The garden is partly inspired, I'd say. Maybe a bit of your grandmother's influence is still in the soil."

I poured him a cup of tea. "But," Everett said, looking at me over the top of his cup. "The rest of it is a mess, tawdry. It's all over the place, isn't it?"

I crossed my arms. "The garden has character," I said. "It might not be perfect, but it's full of history and memories."

Everett snorted. "Character," he said. "We'll see what character does for you when the competition begins." He took a sip of tea and placed the cup down rather too loudly.

"I have no intention of entering any competition. Thank you for your advice."

The silence was uncomfortable. Everett's words hung in the air and I struggled to find my voice under the weight of his judgement. Just as I was about to challenge his assessment, Elias's deep voice cut through the silence.

"If I may," he said, looking out of the window at the garden. "There's one bloom out there that always catches my eye."

Everett's expression softened, either out of respect for Elias's extensive knowledge or out of curiosity. He nodded, indicating for him to continue.

"The rose," Elias said, standing up and walking over to the window. He pointed to a bush that was more unruly than the others, its bright petals contrasting against the green. "Not just any rose. The Apothecary's Rose, Rosa gallica officinalis. It's a rose with a history, rather than a structure."

Everett raised an eyebrow, and I found myself drawn in by Elias's words.

"Medieval herbalists favoured it," Elias said, his voice rich with enthusiasm. "They believed it could cure many ills. But it's also been a symbol of love and beauty over the centuries."

He looked back at us, a twinkle in his eye. "There are tales of knights taking a single petal into battle from their lovers. Even today, its scent is used in perfumes to evoke a sense of timeless grace."

I watched Everett take in this piece of history, his critical eye turning thoughtful.

"The garden might not meet your standards," Elias said quietly, "but maybe there's something in what grows naturally, rather than always needing to control."

I felt a warmth spread through me at Elias's defence. He reminded us not everything needed to be planned and perfect to be valuable. The rose was loved and had a history rather than being cut into rigid lines and expectations.

Everett seemed to consider Elias's words, but dismissed them with a shake of his head. "Today, I will head into town to start the tedious preparations for the competition."

I had to consciously shake off Everett's dismissal. I was struck by how the presence of one person could change the dynamic in the Inn and I missed the Pembrookes.

I had a long list of chores to complete today. The first was to collect provisions for the inn. I put on my coat and picked up my basket, heading out into the fresh morning air. The now familiar path to town meandered through the dappled sunlight.

As I entered the market square, the atmosphere changed. The friendly chatter that usually greeted me was muted, and the eyes that met mine were not warm.

I went over to Mrs. Barrett's fruit stall. "Morning, Mrs. Barrett," I said, reaching for a bunch of ripe apples.

She looked at me with narrowed eyes, gripping the scales. "Morning," she said, weighing my selection more forcefully than necessary.

I frowned. "Is everything okay?" I asked.

She huffed, nodding her head towards Agnes's apothecary, which was closed. "You didn't hear? Poor Agnes has hurt herself."

My heart sank. Agnes was hurt again?

"I didn't know," I said. "What happened?"

Mrs. Barrett looked at me for a long moment before speaking. "They say it's something to do with all these disturbances on your land." She lowered her voice, but I could still hear her. "Word is you're behind it."

I stepped back, stung by her words. Around us, other market holders were glancing over, looking curious and suspicious.

"I don't want any trouble," Mrs. Barrett said, wrapping up my apples. "Just take your things and go."

I paid her and moved on to the next stall. Everyone was being polite but distant, giving me service without a smile. I wondered if Maeve had shared the story of what she'd seen. Agnes and I had parted on good terms, so this had to be something else. I was sure she wasn't behind the distrust I felt around me.

The news of Agnes's injury had spread like wildfire through the small village, and I was the focus of it. The new girl who brought chaos and hurt the ones she loved.

I was about to leave the market when I caught sight of Gideon, who waved. At least he seemed happy to see me.

Gideon looked at me longer than usual, his eyes searching. I smiled back, trying to hide the unease in my stomach. But he wasn't fooled.

"Evie," he said, his voice low and concerned. "You look like you need a break. What about heading to the pub for a drink?"

I hesitated. The Enchanted Oak was Cedric's domain, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the walls had ears. Or, in this case, the barman had an uncanny knack for eavesdropping. I was wary of sharing too much in earshot of anyone who might use it against me.

"I don't know," I said. Then I remembered that Cedric probably already knew more about what was going on than I did. His position at the pub put him at the heart of village gossip, and his supernatural senses probably picked up on more than just spilled ale and lingering spirits.

I sighed. "Alright," I said. "Let's go."

We walked in silence, as we made our way towards The Enchanted Oak. The door creaked open to welcome us into its warm embrace, in stark contrast to the suspicion hanging over the marketplace.

Cedric looked up from polishing a glass as we entered, his sharp green eyes flicking between us before settling on me with a knowing look. He nodded slightly in greeting and continued his task, but there was an air of expectancy about him that made me think he was waiting for us to reveal why we were really there.

Gideon led us to a table near the fireplace. "Two pints of your best ale, Cedric," he called out without taking his eyes off me.

I played with the hem of my coat, feeling like I was being watched. As Gideon sat across from me, his brow furrowed with worry.

Cedric brought over our drinks with a grace that belied his frame. "On the house," he said, sliding the frothy pints towards us. "Looks like you could use it."

Gideon clearly had unspoken questions. His concern etched lines across his forehead, adding years to his face. "You're out of sorts because of what happened to Agnes," he said, more than asked.

I sighed. "I am," I said. "But I don't want to talk about it. I have a new guest at the Inn. He doesn't seem to have a good word to say for me, either."

Gideon nodded, not pushing me. He traced the rim of his pint with his fingers. "So tell me," he said after a pause. "What would you like to talk about?"

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. "What's it like to be a golem? Is it true you don't have a soul?"