The Unwritten Heart

Lydia Devereux has spent her whole life inside a decaying family estate, haunted by visions she can't explain. Then a stranger arrives, claiming to be the new stable hand.

The gardens had once been Mother's pride and joy, or so the old servants used to tell me. As a little girl, when Father was off on one of his business trips to avoid being around me, I would have dinner in the dining hall with my governess. As I’d absentmindedly pushed my vegetables around, she would paint beautiful stories in my mind of Mother doting on the garden like a fairy or elf, as if the vines and flowers rejoiced at her presence. She’d convinced me that with one simple touch, my mother could grow an entire rose bed from just a single, dying petal.

Now, standing among the withered roses and crumbling stone paths, I could barely imagine their former glory. The blight had spread further than I'd realized, turning even the hardiest plants to ashen husks. The morning heat was already oppressive, making the air shimmer like disturbed water.

I found him near the dried-up fountain, studying the dead vines that had claimed it. Something about his stillness reminded me of my paintings – those moments just before dawn when the world holds its breath. When he turned at my approach, the strange morning light caught his profile in a way that tugged at my memory, like a half-forgotten dream. It nearly knocked the wind from me.

“Welcome. You must be the new stable hand.” I steeled my nerve, pushed my shoulders back.

“Lady Devereaux.” He bowed low, and when he faced me proper, the full force of his presence struck me. His features were striking: sharp cheekbones, and eyes like amber caught in sunlight. There was something ancient in his face, despite his apparent youth, something that reminded me of the antique manuscripts and strange relics in father's study. A few strands of black hair had escaped the leather tie at his crown, curling against skin the colour of sun-baked bronze.

I was grateful for years of practiced propriety, letting manners steady me. “Lady Devereaux was my mother. I'm her daughter, Lady Lydia Devereaux.”

“Forgive me. You may call me Faris.” His voice carried the same silk-smooth cadence as father’s old books, the ones I used to trace my fingers over as a child, pretending I could read their flowing, exotic script. He inclined his head with a grace that seemed to belong to those ancient pages. “Your gardens are... interesting.”

“They're dying.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Everything here is.”

“Everything?” His eyes caught the light, and for a moment they reminded me of the impossible stars from my dream. “The manor seems to be standing firm enough.”

“The manor is-” I stopped, unsure how to explain the creeping decay I felt in its walls. Somehow, I felt ashamed to. I straightened. “I should show you to the stables.”

He fell into step beside me, moving with a strange silence that made the gravel path seem to hold its breath. “Do you often walk the grounds alone, Lady Devereaux?”

“Please, call me Lydia. And someone has to tend to what's left.” I gestured vaguely at the withered hedgerows. As we walked, I noticed how the shadows seemed to shift around him, like ink spreading through water.

“And when you're not tending to dying gardens?” His gaze fell to my hands, and I resisted the urge to hide the paint stains beneath my nails. “You create things instead of watching them fade?”

The question struck uncomfortably close to truths I could barely contain. I started to question whether I was that transparent, or if he could see me in a way I wished Father could. “I paint. When I can't sleep.”

“Dreams can be persistent things.” Something in his tone made me look up sharply, but his expression revealed nothing. “What do you paint, Lady- Lydia, forgive me.”

I thought of my latest canvas, still wet in the studio – golden dunes under stars that moved like living things. “Nothing of consequence. Landscapes, mostly”

We reached the stables, their weathered doors hanging slightly askew. Inside, the few remaining horses shifted restlessly in their stalls. Old Midnight, usually so calm, backed away as Faris approached, huffing like he did before summer storms.

“Where are you from?” I asked, trying to ignore how the stable's shadows seemed to deepen. “Your, umm… your manner of speaking-”

“Here and there.” He ran a hand along one of the stall doors, and I could have sworn the wood grain rippled beneath his touch. “Nowhere that still exists, I suspect.”

“That's not much of an answer.”

“No, I suppose it's not.” His smile held echoes of illustrated tales and foreign spices. “Does everything here require answers, Lydia?”

I do. The thought escaped before I could catch it.

Too late, I noticed that I had somehow moved closer to him. I flushed, my cheeks burning. “I should return to the house.” The air had grown thick with that morning’s strange heat. “Father will be expecting me. I’ll inform him of your arrival. He’ll want to discuss your duties around the estate.”

“Of course.” He bowed again, the gesture too elegant for a stable hand. “Thank you for escorting me. I look forward to learning more about… Hazelwood Manor.”

The walk back to the house felt longer than usual, the morning heat pressing against my skin. It wasn't until I reached the entrance hall that I realized several things at once: the scent of saffron had followed me from the stables; and I had never told him the name of our estate.