NINE
"Cool," Elfnein breathes, mouth agape.
Tsubasa puffs up, a smidgeon of pride that she allows herself; after all, she has put in uncountable hours of toil to bring this castle in the sky down to the earth. This is her livelihood now.
"Can you name any?" she asks, leading Elfnein down the central path.
"Pansies, candytuft, and cyclamen," Elfnein immediately rattles off, pointing to various patches in their vicinity.
Nodding, she explains, "They are winter blooms, and a staple for many bouquet and other flower arrangements, so I planted a large crop of each this season. We shall see how well they grow and sell."
"And those?" Elfnein points towards a section of rather tall plants, visible in the distance, though it will be a several more minutes before they near that particular section of the farm.
"Iceland poppy. They can grow quite tall; nothing like sunflowers, but still a decent size, up to around my knee."
Elfnein bounds ahead—apparently infinitely more at ease here with nature than she had been in the shops earlier.
Perhaps she will mention it to Maria later.
It is not as if she does not understand: people have the capacity for betrayal. Plants, trees, even the stars in the sky—they do not. Nature is impartial, reliable in its chaos; how could people possibly compare to that?
But Elfnein is still a child.
"How many acres are there?" Elfnein calls back to her, standing on her tiptoes and peering towards the horizon.
"About nine acres, though only half of the land is for flower-growing."
She catches up in a few strides, and Elfnein turns; her expression settles into something… pained.
Quietly, Elfnein shares, "There was a disease in the crops. The master of the farm caught it, and a lot of people in the village, too, so he asked Papa for a cure, even though the village doctor had told the master that he didn't have a chance, that it was too late to save someone like him…. I don't think anyone in the village liked the master."
"Were they angry at your father?" she dares ask, but she keeps her hands clasped tightly behind her back.
Hated masters.
Hated clan leaders.
Elfnein shrugs; their eyes meet fleetingly, and Elfnein angles her head down again.
She lets the silence linger between them as they walk. She does not know how to dispel it—it, her erstwhile shield.
"Do you think the land hated the master, too?"
She glances at Elfnein through the corner of her eye, but the child is looking at the daises now. Hate is such a strong, ugly word.
Elfnein elaborates, "Because you said that houses are alive, and if they are, then shouldn't farms be alive, too? Any property, I guess."
"Ah." Despite herself, she smiles. "Many would call this superstition."
"I don't mind!" Elfnein looks at her then, earnest. It is the earnestness of any child still willing to believe in the imagination. "Please, Mrs. Tsubasa? I really want to know."
Chuckling, she gives in.
She gestures to the fields around them, to the forest bordering the west, and the house to the north. Elfnein follows her sweeping motion with eager eyes. Who would think that Tsubasa Kazanari would ever speak of such things outside the sanctity of her mind?
"They are old. They have seen many, many people live and die. We are an old family, as well. We have lived and died here for many, many generations. Almost too many, I would say.
"Kazanari heads of house traditionally remain bound to the estate their entire lives. Some of those heads lived long years, some did not. Most have left… an impression."
On dark nights, when she first discovered the truth of her parentage, she felt those impressions become specters.
But that was then. She knows better now.
"They are one with the house. An amalgamation, a merging of the countless moments witnessed by both the building and the people. That is why I say the house is alive.
"On the other hand, the land itself is its own entity. That is why we must treat the land with care, with respect. I would not be surprised if the land were to retaliate against… heavy hands."
She spreads her hands in a half-shrug.
Elfnein nods, clearly awed, and asks, "Why doesn't Mrs. Maria know?"
Blushing, she admits, "Because it embarrasses me, sometimes. And I have spent a long time… running away from my history."
"Oh… I understand. I didn't like telling the others at the orphanage what Papa had done for a living, because it… it'd… you know."
Izak Malus Dienheim. In a roundabout manner, his experiments had killed him.
The child is better off not knowing the true extent of her father's experiments.
Her hand rests on Elfnein's shoulder—lightly, as unobtrusively as possible.
Elfnein smiles up at her, only a touch of sadness lingering.
"I like it here."
