The morning sun was just starting to warm the dew on the grass. Birds chirped in the hedges, and the iron gate gave a soft creak as Ellen pushed it open and stepped onto the winding garden path. Haystrings was already sweeping, gently brushing gravel back into place near the rose bushes. "Haystrings!" Ellen called her shoes crunching on the stone. The old man straightened slowly, wincing a little as he stood up. His face was lined with age, but there was still a certain grace to him—like someone who used to stand tall and proud. His white shirt was neatly tucked in, sleeves rolled up, suspenders stretched tight across his chest. He gave a polite nod, resting his broom. "Miss Ellen," he said with a small bow of his head. "Come to check on the garden, or just here to keep an old man company?" She laughed. "Neither. Just stretching my legs. Thought maybe we could chat, if you're up for it." "You're always welcome," he said, going back to sweeping in steady, neat strokes. "The day passes faster with good conversation." They began to walk slowly. Haystrings stopped now and then to pick up a fallen leaf or fix a crooked stone along the edge. Ellen walked beside him, hands clasped behind her back, occasionally glancing at the manor in the distance. "Tell me something, Haystrings," she said eventually. "Does it ever bother you? The way he spends money?" Haystrings paused, leaning on the broom. "You mean Master Linton?" She nodded. He sighed. "Hmm. That's a big question, Miss Ellen. There's being fancy, there's being wasteful—and then there's Mr. Linton." She smiled. "Go on." "I've worked for a lot of people over the years. Some were strong but broke. Others had money but no backbone. Master Linton, well, he's in a league of his own. He doesn't just spend—he makes a show of it." Ellen laughed. "Makes a show of it?" "Oh yes," Haystrings said with a nod. "Where most people buy a horse, he gets a whole stable, brings in trainers from Spain, and orders saddles from Italy. A regular host might offer wine—he serves bottles older than half the guests. Did you know he had the east wing staircase polished with oil from Bulgarian lavender trees?" She blinked. "Lavender trees?" He nodded. "Two hundred coins just for the smell." "He's mad," Ellen said, shaking her head. "Oh, definitely," Haystrings said, smiling slightly. "But it's not madness from stupidity. It's intentional. He wants to be remembered. Big men often do." "It still feels like he's trying to prove something," she said. Haystrings looked at her carefully. "That's a good observation. Sometimes, people with a lot of money aren't showing off because they're happy. They're doing it because they're trying to fill something inside." They reached the orchard where trees cast dappled shadows on the path. Haystrings stopped again, leaning on his broom and staring up into the branches. "There was a time," he said, "when he wasn't like this. He still had class, sure, but he didn't try so hard to show it. Things changed after the issue with his brother." Ellen raised an eyebrow. "You mean Peeta?" He nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yes. They were close once. Grew up together. Same food, same tutors. But when it came time to decide who got the inheritance, the old Lord picked Linton. Politics. Family tension. Pride. Ever since then, I think Master Linton has been trying to prove he deserved it—to everyone, maybe even to himself." Ellen looked away, her face thoughtful. "It's like he's chasing something," she said. "Like every time he spends, he's asking a question no one can answer." Haystrings chuckled. "You've got a poet's way of seeing things." She shrugged. "I just notice stuff. The staff flinch every time he buys another chandelier. And don't get me started on those horse paintings—he's never even ridden them." "Spending like that can be a cover-up," Haystrings said, sweeping again. "A man can build fancy walls to keep out his memories, but ghosts are patient. They wait." They walked in silence for a while as the manor bell rang in the distance. "Do you think he's happy?" Ellen asked quietly. Haystrings stopped and looked at her. "Miss Ellen, for someone like him, happiness isn't something he reaches. It's a parade. Loud, flashy, and over too soon. He waves while it lasts, but once it's gone, he's still alone." "That's... really sad," she said. "It is," Haystrings agreed. "But that's often the way with powerful people." They turned back toward the manor. The sunlight gleamed off the windows of the conservatory. "If you could stop him, would you?" she asked. Haystrings smiled. "Me? I just carry the broom. It's not my job to stop the storm—just to clean up after it." "That's too humble," she teased. "Maybe," he said. "But sometimes, humility is the only thing we've got left in a house like this." She looked at him closely. "You sound like someone who's seen a lot." "I've seen enough," he said. "Enough to know that gold doesn't bring peace. Silk isn't comfort. And a man who lives on envy never sleeps easy." They stood for a moment, sunlight warming their backs. The manor loomed behind them, silent and grand. "Come now," Haystrings said, motioning with his broom. "Let's get back before someone decides to plant peacocks in the rose beds." Ellen burst out laughing. "He wouldn't dare!" Haystrings raised an eyebrow. "In this house? Don't count it out. Around here, nonsense is tradition.
