Once, Geneva read a book her aunts would have disapproved of if they learned she finished it before the holy bible (and that she stole it from Mrs Newton's library). It told the story of a slave who escaped and found freedom. One passage stuck to her to this day.

Solitude trifles with silence and dines with freedom.

Attending church alone, walking without a companion in any waking hours, and even sitting out in the garden of the Withers House sipping tea with pen and paper, offered a sense of abandon. There was no one calling her name somewhere in the house, not a whisper of things she ought to do at this particular hour, or even a disapproving look at how she climbed down the stairs in haste. She did not have to hold her breath at the sound of light footsteps, or an earful of opinions. And for the first time, she walked out of her bedchamber with her hair tied in a simple ribbon at the nape; no tight bun that stretched her temples, not even a pair of stockings. She even dared raise her feet on the chair!

Guilt would glide in now and then, but too many distractions would follow. The sun would come up and gently caress her skin, or the wind would blow the trees and she would listen as they rustled a tune.

But she was not only doing things that she liked. There were others she had to do, of course. The household, for one, demanded attention. She had to do accounting, remind the servants to clean the windows, and if they were too busy, she would go to the market herself.

There were times when she would notice the servants secretly smiling whenever she would grab the chance to go out. Even the housekeeper, Helene, would ask her to run errands for them as though she enjoyed doing it. Yesterday, Gwen, her maid and companion, caught her reading her stolen book. When she tried to reason that she found it in the park during her morning walk, Gwen merely asked, "Found what, Miss?" with a knowing smile.

For some odd reason, Geneva felt that the servants were doing their best to stay ignorant. Or maybe, like her, they were enjoying the little freedom. With no mistresses in the house, they could play cards all afternoon or go away for hours to go on picnics with friends. Two of their footmen was away for two days, in fact, visiting families they had not seen for years.

It was a limited dream. Geneva could pretend to be an understanding mistress who answered to no one, and the servants had a chance to act as how they would in their ideal lives with their ideal mistress.

As they all breezed in and out the doors, everything else was seemingly the same from the outside. She did not go as far as dine with them, or have long conversations with them. For one, she did not know how. And she still had to pretend that she was mistress and maintain boundaries. And so, they did what was expected and what they wanted with much discretion with the awareness that anything that transpired in the duration of this rare freedom should remain a secret.

And it was so that Geneva walked out that afternoon dressed in a simple white dress, a hat, her hair down and resting on her shoulder, knowing there was no hurry. So long as she did not encounter any of her aunts' friends, she would be safe.

With light, sure steps, Geneva took the long way around the Stratford woods, indulging her sight with the wild flowers that bloomed on either side of the dirt road. Not far away, the woods echoed sounds to her ears and she wondered if the Stratfords were out today, hanging on trees or digging holes in the ground. She was certain they would find this day just perfect.

The hill revealed itself nearly an hour later. Unlike her last journey to the place, she felt differently today. There was no sense of haste or timidity. She did not even have the letter with her. It was just one more day of freedom to explore and wander.

Her heart was mild, the beats even and easy as her steps. She took indulgence from every sweep of the wind while the ground took her higher. Her eyes stroked every line and curve in sight before it settled on the ruins of Windsong. How many years had it been here, standing empty and alone? How many people had it witnessed pass by? How many animals had it fed with its rich grass? And how many young men did it shelter under its trees?

At least one, she thought as she recognized the man lying on the ground under the tree, his face buried under his hat. She looked but found no horse. Before she even realized it, her feet were taking her off the path and toward the tree, her teeth biting off a smile. Excitement, she thought, was not always a fun feeling. It felt nice, but there was also the fear of disappointment.

If he ever heard her approach, he did not seem to mind. She did not really think he was sleeping until she stood beside him and bent just enough to block the sunlight, her hands behind her. She hesitated, afraid to wake him.

But he invited her to join him today, had he not? Or did he change his mind and wanted to be left alone just as he preferred every Wednesday afternoon? And what if this was not even him?

Her brow furrowed as she studied his length. His feet were crossed at the ankles, one arm under his head and the other on his chest. This could be a random stranger, she thought, realizing she did not know Damon Priest that well to identify him without a face. Yet these looked like his arms and legs. And the very fact that he was lying on the ground sleeping told her that if this was not Damon Priest, then he must be one of the Stratfords.

Her silent thoughts were unexpectedly interrupted by his suddenly movement. His hand lifted from his chest, palmed his hat and peeled it off his face. She did not realize his brown eyes could get so light in broad daylight, or that it looked different when they just woke up. She had seen him smile, of course, but this must be the first she saw his entire face so gentle and unguarded.

But that was before he realized she was standing above him and he narrowed his eyes. "So this is what it feels like," he croaked, the corner of his lips curling.

Geneva blinked down at him. "What feels like?"

"To be in a funeral." It was clear he was waiting for her to realize what he meant, and when she did, she jumped back. With a snicker, he propped himself up.

"I don't think that's funny, Mr. Priest," she said with a scowl.

"Then what do you think it is, Miss Withers?" he asked, rising to his feet and towering over her.

"Horrible! Why would you joke about being dead?"

"I only meant—"

"It is still horrible."

His mouth was open with a hint of a smile, ready to argue, but he shook his head instead. "Very well, I shall take note of what you find funny and not." He put on his hat and brushed off some grass off his coat. When his eyes found hers again, he said, "I'm quite glad you're here."

Her first instinct was to say she was just passing by, but that would be too unbelievable. "I was invited," she said instead, looking away because she could not meet his gaze. And her face was flushed. It must be the sun, she thought, pulling her hat lower and clearing her throat.

"I was hoping you would come," he said, walking past her to the direction of the manor. "Would you like a tour?"

She moistened her lips and bit off a smile. Then she nodded.

Damon Priest had tough features. His dark curls were unruly, his brows thick and seemingly positioned to forever frown. But one soft smile and he looked...divine.

"Come, Miss Withers," he said, motioning with his head, the curls catching light. "I'll eschew the boring ones and show you my favorite part."

"The well?"

He chuckled, and even that, too, sounded what the clouds should sound like whenever they part to reveal the sun. "I'll show you that, too, of course."

"Then the well is not your favorite?"

He grinned. "It is just one of them." He cocked his brows at her, patiently waiting.

"Before we proceed," she said, looking around. "You need to know I don't like snakes."

"There will be none."

"And if there is?"

He walked back to her. "Then we'll have to run away and escape. I hate them, too."

At that, she laughed.

His smile grew. "I'm learning, see? I can make you laugh, after all. Shall we?"

He did not offer his arm, nor did he try to touch her. Just like how they walked that night in the woods, he led and she followed him to what she would later discover as a very splendid place.

***

As instilled in her before any formal learning, everything should have order and structure, and everyone should abide by rules without question. Thus, she was rarely impressed by anything that lacked those.

And this garden was one of those rarities.

The vines crawled the crumbling walls. Leaves of a giant weeping willow flirted with the wild flowers that cloaked the ground. Grass streamed between cobble stones, finding life in every crack.

The entrance was through an arched doorway curtained by crawling vines. Geneva looked around. The garden was enclosed, at least for now, by brick walls, hidden from outside. It might have once been a courtyard, she thought, as she spotted another arched doorway that led to another part of the manor.

"What do you think?" Damon asked, turning to her.

She could not help but smile. "It's beautiful."

He held her gaze, lips curled in a smile. "It is, isn't it?"

She nodded, blinking away as she ducked into the shelter of the willow tree, head tilted back to view the intricate branches. There was nothing but leaves and branches around her, with just a hint of the sky and beams of sunlight through the leaves as they swayed.

"You found another of my favorite places," Damon said.

"You have quite a few in one place," she noted.

He shrugged, dropping down on the ground and leaning against the trunk. "I was told you should not limit what you like. The world is too vast to have just a few favorites."

"Who told you so?"

"My father."

Geneva walked around the tree, looking up and down, still in quiet disbelief. "I can't tell the charm of this place. It should not be pretty, nor beautiful, because it lacks order."

"Order is not a requirement for beauty."

"I know."

"This place is a beautiful chaos."

She shook her head. "Chaos is bad."

His laughter reached her. "That answers the question why you hate the Stratfords then."

"I don't hate the Stratfords," she said, popping from behind the trunk to scowl down at him.

He was still smiling as he looked up and said, "You spilled all your secrets to me, Miss Withers. Or have you forgotten?"

"I said I do not have favorable feelings toward your family. It doesn't mean I hate your family."

"It is sad, then, that we are not your favorites."

"No, of course not."

"Because we are chaotic?"

"Because you lack order in places where there should be."

"Like the church."

"Yes."

"Because we cannot sit still?"

"Some of you also like to sleep in church."

"Is that why you hate going to church?"

"No." She looked away. Did she tell him that? "Not everything I told you is true."

"If you say so."

She stole him a look, opened her mouth to say more, but decided against it. There was no use lying further when it was clear by his knowing smile that he knew her truths. Changing the topic, she asked, "Where is the well?"

He closed his eyes, shifting to find a more comfortable position. "I'll show it to you next time."

"Why not now?"

"Because if I show you everything today, what other reasons would there be for you to come back?"

Her brows fused in a curious frown. "Why would you wish me to come back?"

One brown eye opened to look at her. "Because I'm hoping you'll also share your favorites."

Favorites. Did she have any? She could not even say the only book she had under her bed was a favorite for she had not read others.

"I know you're disappointed about the well. I give you my word that I shall reveal it to you some other day. For now, sit and enjoy the moment, Miss Geneva."

She knew she could just wander away and find the well herself, but then, she would not have another reason to come back another day. Reluctantly, Geneva lowered to the ground and sat beside him. "You call me by different names. Miss Geneva, Miss Withers."

"I have not yet settled on a favorite," he murmured.

A scoff escaped her and he just grinned.

They fell quiet, and for a moment she reveled in the stillness around them. Then the wind blew and rustled the leaves. Everything seemed to have come alive while they remained silent, and for some odd reason, it made her uncomfortable. Something was urging her to speak.

"I went to the market today," she blurted out. Then she softly added, "It's Wednesday."

If he ever found her words odd, he did not show it. "What did you get in the market?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I went to the butcher shop."

"To visit Parker Bowman?" He rolled his head to stare at her. "To ask him to deliver your letter?"

"No." She looked ahead and waited for her heart to tell her she was making a mistake. But she felt utterly calm at that moment. She should not be here today, but she was. This place was far from a perfect garden, but it was beautiful. And here was a man who should frighten her, but instead he made her feel safe. She should not be sharing more secrets, but here she was, irrevocably doing so with reprieve. "It's Wednesday. They deliver meat every Wednesday."

It took him awhile to process. "Your family?"

She nodded. "The Vernons."

He went still. "I know their son."

"They herd their animals here."

He playfully narrowed his eyes at her. "You did not solely come here to see me, did you?" She refused to answer, so he asked, "Did you see them in the market?"

"Not today. I missed them by an hour."

"Then you have met them before?"

"Yes, but never talked to them. I simply come by for a chance of a glance."

"Do you want to make acquaintance?"

"I do not know."

"You should." He said it quite strongly, as if he knew what it meant. "All I know is that anything and anyone can be easily taken away," he added gently with a smile. "You should make acquaintance."

She considered his suggestion. "Should I?"

"The very fact that you come there every Wednesday is telling."

She shook her head then. "I cannot tell them who I am. Not yet, that is. It would be utterly out of character if I come up to them and start a conversation. And what should I tell them? They have good meat?"

He chuckled. "Whyever not?"

"No," she said, smiling as she imagined herself walking up to Theodore Vernon to tell him she liked beef.

"Or mayhap you are afraid?"

She was not going to admit to that. "No, I'm not."

"Of course, you are. You told me yourself. You're afraid your aunts will find out."

She stuck out her chin. "No, I'm not. If there is anyone who should be afraid, perhaps it is them. They told me lies."

"Then what's stopping you, Miss Withers?"

"I just..." She faltered. "I simply do not want to say, 'I like your meat'."

At that, he laughed. He pushed away from the trunk, shoulders shaking. "Very well, if you would rather not have a conversation about meat, then perhaps you can employ creative ideas to get their attention."

"Creative ideas?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"If you will allow me, I can help."

"Why do I feel like I should be alarmed?"

"You are talking to a Stratford, Miss Withers. Of course, you should be alarmed." He arched his brows at her. "Do you trust me?"

"I have to. You have my secrets."

He suddenly looked like a man who just rediscovered his childhood. "Then I do have a favorable idea."