Amy found herself walking in the garden, naming the plants that burst forth from the rich soil, adorning the vast hectares of land with their vibrantly-hued petals and natural beauty. Beside her was a tall, broad-shouldered man, not terribly handsome but possessed of a pleasant face. He was listening intently as she rambled on, his hands fiddling with a hat, looking quite uncomfortable in his stiff, starched shirt, heavy black coat, and itchy gray pants.

They came to the farthest corner of the garden, marked with a marble pavilion where a wrought-iron bench was set. Roses wrapped themselves around the pillars and Amy took care not to touch them, aware of the thorns that clearly presented pain.

"Why don't we sit there, my dear sir?" she offered, feet aching, face reddened by the heat of the sun.

Hamilton Holt nodded, joining the young woman when she settled down on the bench. The curlicues of the bench's design dug into his back, but he ignored the sensation and threw down his hat.

"This is all bloody irregular," he muttered, unbuttoning his coat and flinging it over the armrest.

"Come now, Hamilton," Amy chided, lips curving into a smile. "You know full well how…determined your father can be."

"And foolish," he added darkly, stretching out his long legs in front of him.

"That's no way to speak of someone who brought you up," Amy reminded him gently.

"I'll speak about him any way I want," Hamilton said rather petulantly.

Amy placed a hand on his. "Don't get carried away by that temper of yours," she warned him.

"I'm not mad! I'm just…"

"Embarrassed?" Amy suggested.

"I…well…yes, I suppose so," Hamilton conceded. "Imagine being sent all the way here because your own father told you so. And acting like he was dying, to boot. If he wanted me to come here, he could have just said so, instead of writhing on the ground like an epileptic with my mother playing along with his antics."

"He must have been desperate," Amy remarked, amused.

"It is not funny!" Hamilton spluttered indignantly. "This is the first time in life that I've been stuffed into a silly suit in highly unpredictable weather for so shallow a purpose!" Troubled, he fell silent and stared at the floor.

"Unpredictable? It's a fine day, Hamilton, not a storm cloud in sight and not unbearably hot, either."

"Why does it feel as if you're joking around, on the inside?" Hamilton said, looking at her.

Amy repressed a grin. "Because, in all honesty, I am."

Hamilton sighed and stood up, pacing all over the pavilion. Amy watched him, circling around and around, muttering to himself about the injustices of this world.

Presently, Amy decided that this kind of talk could not go on any further. "Why did you come here?"

Hamilton stopped short, his muttering ceased. He glanced over at the girl who spoke, his best friend since that incident five years ago, and one who knew him better than he knew himself. Amy looked back unblinkingly. His gaze transferred on a particularly fat red rose on the pillar to his right and trained his eyes on it.

"You have probably suspected. After all, when you came, I believe your parents might have told you."

"Yes, they did." She was silent for a few seconds and he continued to examine the flower. "But do you really want to, Hamilton? Is this what you wish for?"

Hamilton pursed his lips and frowned, thinking. Then he exhaled. "To be honest…I don't know. Like I've said, it was on my father's command that I come here and ask for your hand."

"And you, Hamilton?" Amy asked quietly. "Did some part of you oblige because you felt that way too, or only because of the duty that was yours as your father's son?"

"I don't know!" Hamilton exclaimed, exasperated, and he punched the pillar. Thorns pricked into his flesh and it hurt, but not as much as that time where a knife had slashed across his palm. He watched rivulets of blood streak his knuckles then fall, drop by drop, onto the ground.

There was a rustle of skirts as Amy, alarmed, rushed over to him. She pulled the hand of a suddenly limp Hamilton and examined it. No thorns were stuck on it, which seemed fine, but it was still bleeding and proceeded to stain her dress.

"I'm sorry," Hamilton murmured, watching the blood strike against the sky blue of her clothes.

"Sorry? You're the one who's hurt!" She looked up at him, a reprimand on her tongue, but his eyes struck her dumb. Then she recovered her composure and brought her gaze down to his hand again. "Whatever were you thinking?"

"Many things. Things that have bothered me with sleepless nights and aimless days," Hamilton answered her honestly.

Amy did not respond. She spotted a crystal bowl of water, along with a jug and glasses, which she was certain that the maids had placed upon seeing them in the gardens. Their servants were always observant and when they saw anyone in the gardens, they made it a point to furnish the pavilion with drinks in case their masters took time to rest there.

She tugged him along to the little table and doused his hand with water. When she was satisfied that it was sufficiently clean, she looked around for anything to use as a bandage. Then she tore out the sleeve of her dress, ignoring Hamilton's protests, and wrapped it around his knuckles, securing it tightly with a knot.

"Don't mind my dress, it's disposable," Amy dismissed him.

"You help me out so much," Hamilton said.

Amy studied his face. "And don't you think the same is true for you?"

Hamilton withdrew his hand from her grasp.

"I think it is time to take my leave," he said, not wishing to refute or to agree with her claim. He picked up his coat and the discarded hat.

"You haven't answered my question yet."

"I have answered your questions as best as I can, Mademoiselle. Is there anything that leaves you wanting?"

"Don't be sassy." Amy moved to his side. "My question. From before you took it into your head to punch that poor pillar."

"Oh, so the pillar warrants more sympathy than I, is that it?" Hamilton joked humorlessly. "Very well. You require a clearer, concise response? I'll give it to you."

Amy waited.

Then Hamilton bent down and kissed her swiftly on the forehead, and Amy stiffened in shock. By the time she had regained full control of her senses, Hamilton was well on his way through the paths, far ahead of her, his gaze straight and true.

The wind blew and Amy was reminded of her bare left arm. She debated for a full minute then ripped off the one on her right.

She threw it to the wind, gathered up her skirts, and left the pavilion.