It was long past midnight when the memories of a buried past crept into his night and tore him out of his slumber.
His breath came ragged. Sweat dampening his skin, and a hand clutching his chest, Zuriel sat upright in bed, slowly recovering from the night's torment.
It was nothing new.
The nightmares had haunted him since he was ten. Although they were much fiercer then, with time, they slowly began to lose their frequency.
Now the nightmares came only once in a while, they were scarce—but when they did come, they still stirred him to the core.
They would usually cast a shadow upon him, and his day was bound to be soiled and bitter.
Sleep was impossible afterward, so normally he would train until he was exhausted.
But that night, when he stepped outside, his legs carried him to the back of the cottage. Before he realized it, he had begun turning the soil, had built beds, cleared the space beside the cottage, and moved his flower pots.
By the time he stopped, dawn was breaking.
The beauty of dawn slowly breaking caused a certain restlessness to seize him. Impulsively, he climbed the chestnut tree to get a better view of the rising sun.
The moment he settled upon the branch, his gaze fell upon a lone figure rising with the morning.
A heavy sack hung from one hand, her bag slung across her shoulder… Her dark hair twirling in the wind as she hurriedly marched forward.
With her hands swinging back and forth and her jaw set tight, she looked as though she were out to wreak havoc.
A faint smile rose to his lips. He had this conviction that he was the intended victim of whatever evil deeds she brewed in that furious mind.
Movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned and saw from a distance a woman coming from the path that led to the main house with a basket balanced upon her head.
It was Peter's mother.
As Damaris drew closer, his gaze returned to her.
Curious wild thing, she was, peering into his cottage like a thief.
"Did he not sleep at all?"
Wrong, he had slept an hour or two.
"Or is he some sort of mage?"
True— though he had used no power.
"How else could he have done all this over night?"
Hard work, he muttered to himself as he watched her scurry about with wonder.
Soon Peter's mother reached the cottage—and who would have thought that the woman who never stopped talking could actually be bested by someone else.
Peter's mother spoke even faster, leaving Damaris without a single opening.
It seemed to be a plague in Wisteria—beginning with the one who governed it. A plague that made everyone speak for more than necessary.
Freda had spoken of the other mothers and young ladies of Wisteria planning to pay him a visit, and he, for the life of him, had no intention of entertaining any visitors. So he remained atop the tree, watching her.
Her every action. Every reaction.
She could not hide it—the disappointment that he was nowhere to be found, though she had clearly planned to make trouble.
Soon, the mothers and young ladies of Wisteria began to show themselves just as Freda had foretold. Each bearing gifts for the good-hearted gardener.
From where he sat, he saw Goodwin nearly running toward the cottage, panic evident in his every stride.
Of course he would panic.
Zuriel had asked for peace and quiet, yet his space was being invaded by visitors that morning. But the blame was not Goodwin's, it was he who had cared for the child and safely returned him to his mother, thereby drawing the attention of the entire manor.
As expected of the one regarded as the Shadow of the Hound, Goodwin spotted him in the tree almost as soon as he reached the cottage. Zuriel signaled for him to remain quiet and walk away.
When asked why he had come, he claimed to have come to offer thanks to the gardener as well. And soon the women began singing his praises, of what a good lord he was, what a kind lord he was, to care for even the smallest in his Manor, what a very kind lord he was.
It was not until early noon that the visits stopped but by then, the front of his cottage had become a food store.
And Damaris…
She could finally focus on her work.
Goodwin had spoken highly of her, yet it was hard to believe she could be diligent in anything other than dancing in the middle of the night, telling tales, and running around barefoot.
Until that hot afternoon.
Though the leaves of the tree shielded him from the sun's rays, she stood exposed in the open clearing. The sun kissed her skin directly, yet she maintained focus like nothing else mattered in the world.
Gently beating the soil, she hummed a curious tune with a smile that showed how much she enjoyed her work.
One would never have guessed that at that moment she was working with…
Manure.
Only the gods knew how many kinds of animals' dung she had mixed in the sack beside her. The stench was so strong it reached where he was seated on the tree. The entire place reeked like an animal farm.
Yet, with no shame or concern for the filth, she worked it with her bare hands and feet, pressing the manure deep into the earth as though she were working with the finest perfumed oil every made.
She was covered in dirt.
Sweat soaking through her clothes.
Undoubtedly, she smelled too.
Yet…
Every movement she made—from the tip of her fingers, to the stray strands sticking out of the rough bun on her head, to the lashes that fluttered repeatedly, down to the legs that stomped upon the soil, pounding the manure into it—
Her movements etched into his mind… deeper and deeper.
Maybe it was because he was watching her from a bird's eye view… but the longer he stared, the more he discovered.
There was more to the madwoman of Wisteria.
Far more.