Elisa remembered how much effort it had taken to shake off the poet. Lucas had insisted on escorting her, the medicine, and the cakes all the way to her doorstep under the pretense of ensuring her safety. "I'm nearly at the Clawyn estate," the maid had told him repeatedly. "For your safety, my lady, I'll do anything!"

  It wasn't until the second-to-last turn before the estate that Elisa finally persuaded the great poet Lucas to leave. She couldn't forget the sight of his frail figure standing knight-straight in the middle of the crossroads, leaving her constantly worried that with her next glance back, the wind might have simply carried him away. (I don't mind being with him.) She occasionally lifted the paper bag to let the honey cake's fragrance fill her nostrils. (I just don't want others to see us, especially the lady. But why is that?) She resisted the urge to taste the cake. (I don't know. You're strange, Elisa.)

  The streets beneath the night sky were as empty and cold as moonlight itself. Passersby appeared in sparse groups of twos and threes, mostly women, occasionally mixed with elderly farmers and those nearing life's end. Few able-bodied men remained—they were all enduring hardships on Cynthia's outskirts.

  The Clawyn estate wasn't large, nor was its architecture as refined as Wynlers' manor. Rough stone walls enclosed a dilapidated main house, and the nearly withered garden had long since lost its ability to overshadow the small vineyard. After nightfall, no farmer remained in the vineyard—they typically fled at least an hour before legally mandated work hours ended. No one dared reprimand them, and Lady Clawyn, now reduced to commoner status, dared not voice significant objections. Most laborers and maids hired after Monowe's fall weren't locals, and many pridefully boasted of their Godman heritage, some even using it to discriminate against others. "Even a thousand years from now, you'll never be recognized as Godmans, my lady," one young farmer had told Daisy Clawyn while harvesting grapes. "You'll never be good enough to be called 'Godman.' You're just outsiders, conquered and invaded." He had grinned, "Like wolves driven from their territory."

  "You're absolutely right—we'll never be Godmans," Daisy had replied with a stiff, awkward smile. "We're Monoweans. Don't forget it. If Godma's still around in a thousand years, I'd love to see if you're right."

  Though Daisy's response was sharp, she said nothing more. She couldn't dismiss the farmer, nor could she use harsher words, as the wages she paid him were so meager that even she felt ashamed.

  Someone stood at the estate's gate. Moonlight fell just behind the door, making it difficult for Elisa to clearly see the visitor. The streets near the Clawyn estate were deserted, making the strange visitor all the more conspicuous—he leaned slightly forward, his right hand hovering uncertainly between the wooden door and his body, lifting then falling, fingers opening and closing, some hesitation preventing him from knocking.

  "Sir?" Elisa believed she was easing the visitor's discomfort, but perhaps achieved the opposite. "Oh!" The man glanced at Elisa. "Are you Lady Clawyn?"

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  "Oh! Of course... not, sir," Elisa waved dismissively, saying, "I'm Elisa, Lady Clawyn's maid."

  "Ah? Oh! I see." The visitor's enthusiasm instantly deflated. He glanced at the woman again but said nothing more. His silence made her uncomfortable. "Do you have business with our lady?"

  "I guess," he replied curtly, his tone unwelcoming. "I wish to speak directly with your lady."

  (I remember now. This man has visited the estate before, seeking our lady.) She fidgeted with her skirt hem. (He's the one claiming to be the governor's secretary.) "Are you Secretary to Lord Ancard?"

  "Who? Ancard? Oh, you mean him... Yeah, I'm his secretary. Funny," the man hunched his shoulders. Already small and thin—shorter than Elisa—he now appeared even more wretched. "In my experience, hardly anyone refers to him by name. I am Portilo," he said, bowing stiffly and disdainfully to Elisa. "I have urgent business with your lady. I've called before, but was either met with silence or turned away by the old doorkeeper. Meeting Lady Clawyn's maid tonight must be fate. Please inform your lady of my presence."

  (I was planning precisely that.) A peculiar confidence surged within Elisa. (It's time to resolve this persistent matter.)She produced a key and whispered to the secretary, "The lady dislikes allowing strangers into the estate, so please wait here momentarily." Portilo nodded, suspicion evident in his manner.

  Elisa pushed open the gate and peered inside. (Erana isn't here.) She glanced toward the small cottage by the entrance. (She must be shirking her duties somewhere again.) She jogged into the estate. Portilo clasped his hands behind his back, watching Elisa's every movement with contempt, suspecting she resembled a thief more than a maid.

  Inside, the firelight burned dimmer than usual. The estate, once mockingly described by Earl Clawyn as "overcrowded," now had less than a third of its rooms occupied. Besides farmers and a handful of maids who couldn't afford housing on their paltry wages, no one else remained. Elisa lifted her skirt and hurried along, her peripheral vision catching glimpses of the deteriorating garden. Withered hyacinths and begonias lay lifeless on the ground, with only a few irises stubbornly persisting. Though she passed by daily, she never paused there. No one would allow their heart to linger in such a place, and if her heart could bloom like flowers, its passion and hope would have long since fallen to the earth. Elisa quietly opened the main house door and, confirming no one was present, quickly made her way to young Amy's room.

  "My lady." She gently pushed the door open. Needless to say, except for addressing her basic needs, Daisy Clawyn remained perpetually in this room. "Elisa." Lady Clawyn set aside her needlework and greeted the maid with a warm smile.

  "How fares the young miss?" Elisa placed the cake and herbs on the bedside table and sat down. "Her fever seems to have abated somewhat." Daisy's face revealed a rare moment of relaxation. "But she remains less than fully conscious."

  "Is she still calling for her father?" The maid brushed aside Amy Clawyn's bangs, testing her temperature with the back of her hand. "I've brought the herbs as the doctor instructed, and also some cakes for you."

  "Thank you, Elisa." Lady Clawyn lifted the honey cake, happiness enveloping her like the sweet aroma. "It's so good to have you back. I couldn't bear to leave little Amy in Lilyette's or Dalani's care—I don't entirely trust them." She accepted the coin purse from her faithful maid.