“Yes,” Aoife said. “Of course.”
“Since I am here, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I’m afraid it seems trivial now.”
Halverton laughed. “What matters that ladies occupy themselves with are not trivial?”
Aoife refrained from commenting. “I was reading a book in the library yesterday, ‘The Book of the Farm,’ I believe it was called. Only I couldn’t find it again this morning.”
Lord Halverton laughed again. “Why would you be interested in a book like that?”
He would not appreciate the honest answer, so instead she said, “I thought it would help me understand your role, and mine, if I understood exactly what it is you do.”
Halverton pondered this. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself with that. But I do not see any harm in your reading it if you like. It is in my study. I needed to look something up this morning. I will ask Alton to return it to the library.”
He turned to leave, then stopped, looking at her. “You enjoy the gardens, then?”
“They’re beautiful,” she said truthfully.
“I am pleased you appreciate their beauty.” He offered his arm. “Walk with me.”
She took it, faintly aware of the fact that she was becoming accustomed to touching and being touched by him like this. He led her down a winding gravel path toward the hothouse. The structure loomed ahead, an elegant cage of wrought iron and glass, its panes glimmering in the afternoon sun.
“Magnificent, is it not?” Halverton said as he opened the door for her.
Warm, humid air enveloped them as rows upon rows of exotic plants spread out before her, filled with hanging vines heavy with fruit, trees with broad leaves and flowers in impossible colours that pressed in around them. So many plantsshe did not recognise; what might their uses be? What healing might be found here?
“This was built thirty years ago,” he said. “A marvel of engineering in its day. The Empire’s finest minds designed it.” He lifted a hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole scope of the project. “The Empire can accomplish anything when it sets its mind to it.”
Except keep its people fed.
Halverton reached toward a tall stem bearing pale, bell-shaped flowers, their scent faintly sweet. He cut three with a small knife from his coat and offered them to her.
She hesitated. She knew those flowers, their shape and their colour. They matched Florence’s dress perfectly.
Halverton saw her recognition but mistook it for admiration. “They suit you,” he said.
Before she could respond, the hothouse door opened, and a footman stepped inside.
“Message for you, my lord,” he said, bowing slightly as he handed over an envelope.
Halverton slit it open with his thumb, eyes flicking over the lines.
He dismissed the footman with a curt nod and tucked the letter away. “We should return to the house. There is much to do.”
They left the hothouse, Aoife trailing half a step behind him. As they approached the main path, a sharp crack split the air, followed by a choked cry.
Aoife’s head snapped toward the sound.
At the whipping post in front of the main door, a man was bound to the beam, his shirt stripped off, his back red and welted. Another crack, another cry.
Aoife moved toward him, heart pounding. “What…?”
Halverton caught her arm before she took a second step. “That is not for you to involve yourself in.”
“What did he do?” Aoife demanded.
“It does not matter.” His grip tightened, guiding her to turn her body away from the scene as another blow fell behind them. “We have more pressing things to discuss.”
