As they walked toward the stone benches under the big oak arch—where ivy twisted through iron trellises and sunlight made patterns on the path—Ellen slowed down, running her fingers over the vine. "Haystrings," she said, her voice soft with curiosity. "Do you ever wonder what might've happened to him if he hadn't inherited all this?" Haystrings paused, looking out at the lawn, where gardeners were trimming bushes shaped like lions, sphinxes, and wild horses. He tapped the broom lightly on the ground. "I often wonder," he murmured. "If Master Linton hadn't had all this wealth, would he have turned out to be a better man? Or maybe a freer one. Money can feel like chains, even if they're made of velvet." Ellen sat on the edge of the bench, watching a butterfly hover over the lilies. "He's not cruel," she said quietly. "Just... unreachable." Haystrings nodded. "Like the moon—always there, but impossible to touch." She smiled. "That's quite poetic for a man who sweeps stones." "Well, I do more than just sweep," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "I watch. I listen. I understand. To serve someone like Master Linton, you need to be part scholar, part therapist, and part comedian." "Do you think he knows?" she asked. "That people see him that way?" "I think he knows exactly how people see him," Haystrings said, resuming his slow walk. "He doesn't like it, but he needs it. And that's where the real tragedy lies." They walked in silence for a few moments, the sound of their footsteps soft on the gravel. A pair of doves flew overhead and landed on the balcony that overlooked the lower gardens. A faint sound of piano music drifted from an open window. "I saw the gold fountain last night," Ellen muttered. "He had it imported from Venice, didn't he?" "Yep," Haystrings replied. "And it cost enough to build a small village." "Why?" she asked, turning to him. "Why all of this, Haystrings? The sculptures, the paintings of himself in hallways he barely walks through... even his suits are from cities he's never been to." Haystrings took a deep breath, letting the scent of roses and damp earth fill the air around them. "Because he's scared of being forgotten," he said finally. "Deep down, he thinks that love must be earned through big gestures. He chases admiration like it's the sun—only to burn himself in the process." Ellen looked down. "Do you pity him?" "No," Haystrings said. "I mourn for him." She looked up, surprised. "For the boy he was," he continued. "The one who used to run barefoot through these orchards before wealth and titles locked him in. Before he lost his brother. Before everything he did became an act." Ellen frowned. "Do you think Peeta ever forgave him?" Haystrings hesitated, then slowly shook his head. "No. And that's a wound Master Linton will never let heal." A breeze stirred the leaves, and somewhere in the distance, the hounds began barking—maybe another delivery or another one of his ridiculous indulgences arriving at the gates. Ellen stood up, brushing the dust off her skirt. "Sometimes I wish I could tell him the truth," she said. "That we'd all rather have a man than a monument. That no one admires a peacock for its feathers if it never mingles with the rest." Haystrings studied her for a moment. "Maybe you should." She shook her head. "He wouldn't listen." "Even the deaf hear thunder," he said softly. She smiled despite herself. "That's the best line you've said all morning." He bowed playfully. "I live to serve." The manor loomed ahead, its massive windows gleaming in the sunlight like watchful eyes. A servant was struggling to drag heavy velvet curtains across one of the balconies. Ellen sighed. "Do you think he'll ever change?" Haystrings stared at the manor, his eyes lingering on the highest turret. "Only if he loses something he can't get back." There was a brief pause, heavy with meaning. Ellen tilted her head. "You mean... someone." Haystrings didn't answer. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the broom and began sweeping the stones again, slowly and methodically, as though finding his rhythm again. She watched him for a moment, then quietly added, "He's lucky to have you." He stopped, surprised. "Me?" She nodded. "You're the only one who makes sense around here. Even if it's buried in riddles." Haystrings smiled faintly. "Maybe. But one can't steer a ship from the galley." "No," Ellen agreed. "But you can keep the lamps lit so it doesn't sink in the dark." They locked eyes for a moment. "I hope," she said softly, "that whatever storm's coming... he doesn't have to face it alone." Haystrings looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Neither do I, Miss Ellen. Neither do I
