The grandfather clock in the study chimed at nine. The notes echoing through the manor's empty halls. Alarik sat motionless in Gerhardt's chair, the letter still lying before him like a verdict rendered in formal script. The morning light had shifted, casting long shadows across the decades-old desk that was the last fragment of the old spirit.
After long contemplation, his gaze moved around the room, landing on the dark walnut shelves that rose to the ceiling. Their contents ranged from ancient classics and theological manuscripts, to Enlightenment treatises and state-sanctioned scripts. There was even one by Varengar himself.
Gerhardt had been an old-breed Griman aristocrat, as ever there was. His interests spanned vast fields, from martial aetheric to art and literature. Alarik could remember his grandfather's voice telling of ancient heroes and their deeds. The qualities of noblemen he had learned then were bravery, strength, and wisdom. Those ideas had always stayed with him, as his grandfather had lived.
Feeling his thoughts had wandered too much, Alarik stood up and left the room. His footsteps echoed through the corridors. He saw the electric lamps, which had not been there when he was a child. The world was changing, every second of it, more and more.
He found himself in the kitchen, where Mrs. Zoe was baking the day's bread. Flour dust still remained there like snow on the table from the kneading. Sweat streaked down her face from the heat of the oven.
"Mrs. Zoe."
"Master Alarik," she said with a bit of surprise, not expecting his sudden appearance.
"You're working alone today? Where is Hilde?" he said as he walked slowly to the kitchen table.
"She said there were family matters, so she went back home for a few days."
"Oh, without telling me? A bit unruly, isn't she?" Alarik said in a calm voice.
Zoe chuckled. "She really is. Hilde is quite cheeky even with me, but she is a good girl, young master. When she comes back, maybe you could have a word with her?"
"Unfortunately, those matters will fall into Brennt's hands, I presume." Alarik settled onto a wooden stool beside the kitchen table. "A week from now, I will move to the capital. There was an Academy letter just this morning."
"So that's why Brennt told me to prepare provisions for travel," said the older woman. Zoe paused for a moment, then resumed her cooking rhythm. "How long will you be away, sir?"
"They don't specify. Perhaps an academic term," he said as his fingers tapped on the table. "Perhaps longer."
She nodded, accepting the fact as she had accepted change and upheaval throughout her long life. "I'll prepare what travels well. Some of the preserves your grandfather favored dried fruits, and the good cheese from Millbrook."
"Thank you." He appreciated her practical approach. No showiness, no questions on the subject he must face.
After the midday meal, he found himself in the garden. It had been a long time since the plants were pruned, so he decided that he would work the garden today. Kneeling, he began trimming the boxwood. His movements were precise, each cut considered as he shaped the dense clusters that formed the garden's backbone. Gerhardt had taught him to work in the garden from time to time, since he was young.
Alarik walked amongst the carefully arranged plantings—the sturdy boxwoods in their neat clusters, the tall lindens providing shade on either side, the peony bushes already showing their tight buds. Grandfather had always boasted that his garden was the finest in all of Grimholt.
He worked long hours in silence, attentive to each cut and trim. When Alarik finished, his hands were stained with dirt and green sap, and a calm satisfaction swept through him as he observed the result.
As evening approached, Alarik walked the grounds one final time. The garden paths were as familiar as the lines on his palms—every turn, every hidden corner known by heart.