She does not know I have discovered what she does at the bottom of the garden, overlooked by none, or in the potting shed when she has dismissed the gardeners. Our estates bloom unrivalled, and she is known for gentleness when she gives succor to those in need.
“I love best all things that grow and are not barren,” she declares, turning again to deep discussions of crops and pasturage.
I am skilled at creeping up, unseen, on even wary creatures. She freezes, sword poised. I slide my blade out, and confront her, smiling.
“Spar with me this time, Éowyn?”