Balthier had not expected Penelo to put in an appearance at dinner despite her promise, considering her earlier upset. Especially not given the horrified expression on her face as she'd scrambled away from him when at last she'd spent her tears, vented her intemperate emotions. She hadn't even bothered to collect the dresses; she'd left them laying on the floor of the closet, stumbling in her haste to escape him.

Of course several hours had passed since them; he had let her go and had not seen her since. Probably she needed time to sort herself out, probably she was bewildered by his actions - but hehad needed her to see that he would support her, that he would defend her against her enemies...even if she yet counted him among them. It hadn't been enough, of course. How could it be? She had had a lifetime of such pain. It would take more than a few stolen moments of whispered endearments to combat it.

So, no, he hadn't expected her to keep her promise, had, in fact, expected her to hide herself away from the world until she had once more perfected that flawless mask of dispassionate carelessness. Thus it was more than a little startling when she turned up promptly at seven in the dining room.

Except she had turned up wrong. So very, very wrong. Somehow, somewhere, she'd found a dress she'd deemed appropriate - a plain grey frock made of some godsawful coarse material under a starched white pinafore with pockets at the front. It was precisely the sort of thing a servant would wear - no, it was precisely the sort of thing the servants had worn in this house some twenty years before. Gods alone knew from which secret corner of the house she had unearthed that travesty of a garment.

She'd eschewed her braids and combs, bound her hair up carefully in a length of ribbon, covered as much of her fading henna tattoo as she could manage with a pair of elbow-length gloves, removed her earrings - he wondered if she'd removed that jewel from her navel as well, not that it could be seen beneath the dress.

By all standards she was properly attired, and yet he'd never seen her look so very unlike herself. She had crushed her individuality with the bit of ribbon in her hair, the cinch of the pinafore at her waist. He wanted to smash something, to shake some bloody sense into her - but it would avail him nothing. She'd gone to great lengths to affect this change in herself; she'd be furious with him if he criticized her efforts.

A servant - not, thankfully, one of the two he'd verbally eviscerated earlier in the day - pulled out a chair for her at the far end of the table, and she sat so stiffly he was surprised her limbs hadn't creaked beneath the strain. A cloth napkin was draped across her lap with a graceful flick, and her hands settled there, probably folded to a faultlessly correct degree.

It hurt to look at her, and so he stared down at his place setting, at the almost unnaturally perfect alignment of silverware around the sparkling china plate, more utensils than anyone would have need for in a week. Thanks to her efforts, the silver had been polished to a brilliant shine, blindingly bright. The cut crystal of the glass near his plate refracted the light of the chandelier, scattering stray beams across the immaculately cleaned and pressed tablecloth.

He cleared his throat. "You look..." Good gods, what could he say? Horrid? Tortured? Dressed?

"Thank you," she murmured, as if to save him the unenviable fate of having to search for something he might compliment her on, though couldn't have managed such a thing to save his life.

Silence reigned. Separated by what might as well be miles of solid mahogany table and acres of linen tablecloth, with a flowery centerpiece between them and servants hovering at the edges of the room, there was not much hope of managing even a passable attempt at conversation.

She gave a subtle gesture; a servant ducked out of the room and returned moments later with a steaming platter. Though propriety dictated that ladies were served first, she whispered a command to the servant who promptly turned on his heel and marched along the length of the table to ladle a serving of something - chicken in a mushroom sauce, he thought - onto Balthier's plate instead.

He knew why she had done it; she was reinforcing the fact that she was not a guest, she had not been invited to dine, she had been commanded to. It irritated him, pricked at his conscience like a knife. Other dishes materialized onto his plate on much the same way; the servant entered, served him first and her second. Their glasses were filled with wine, but neither of them touched it. He had a feeling she hadn't ordered up the sort she would have preferred anyway.

She was punishing herself, he realized abruptly, for her failure to measure up, in much the same way that she had been punished by everyone else. That damned dress was her penance, the ribbon her shackles and chains. Perhaps she might even believe she deserved it; if one was told a lie often enough, one might start to believe it.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. If he forbid the dress, she'd probably only think he wanted to heap yet more humiliation upon her at the hands of the judgmental staff. He dropped his fork, rubbed his forehead wearily. But the fork clattered against the side of his plate and she jumped, startled.

"Is...is there something wrong with the food?" she inquired hesitantly.

"No, it's fine." He hadn't tasted it at all, really - his mind was occupied elsewhere. Certainly it looked well enough; he just seemed to have lost his appetite. Or rather, it had fled in abject horror at the sight of her in that awful getup.

"I can have the cook prepare something else," she ventured.

"It's fine." It came out a bit sharper than he had intended; her eyes dropped to her plate, her fingers clenching upon her utensils. If he could have seen her shoulders through the awkwardly puffed sleeves of the dress, he thought perhaps they'd have snapped straight with tension.

The servants - he had to remember the blasted servants. They would take their cues on how to treat her from him; if he did not show her respect, the implication would be that she did not deserve it from them.

"Forgive me," he managed evenly enough. "I find myself a touch distracted this evening. It wasn't my intent to snap at you."

"Of course," she murmured in response, in a low, unreadable voice. "I'll endeavor not to disturb you." Gently she laid down her utensils, pushing her chair back from the table.

"For the gods' sake, I didn't mean you ought to leave," he growled irritably.

"It's no trouble, I really can't spare the time," she hastened to say. Her food was all but untouched; he couldn't recall actually seeing her take so much as a bite. Probably she'd simply shuffled it around a bit on her plate.

She was more than uncomfortable; she didn't want to stay and he'd be a beast to insist upon it. With a defeated sigh he waved her away, and she, impudent girl, dropped a small, subservient curtsey on her way out. Heedless of decorum, he settled his elbows upon the table and rested his head in his hands.

"Sir?"

Good gods, a man couldn't even brood in relative peace. He lifted his head, stared at the man who had entered.

"Who the devil are you?" he asked shortly.

"Entro, sir. The butler."

Ah, yes - the butler she had been so insistent upon. He was of middling years, with a subtle Dalmascan accent, clad in the crisp, proper attire of the higher ranking staff. His face was pleasant enough, with none of the haughtiness Balthier would have expected from a butler. He looked like a man who took pride in his work, but didn't feel the need to elevate himself by doling out condescension to his subordinates.

Balthier flicked a hand towards the doorway that Penelo had exited through. "She fought to keep you, you know," he said, just in case this man, too, should prove as hateful as the rest. "I didn't want a damned butler."

Entro's expression was unchanged. "I am aware, sir," he said. He gave only a tiny gesture to the servants lingering to one side of the room, and they leapt into action, clearing away the dishes Penelo had abandoned. "However, I assure you that I have many years of experience and my credentials are impeccable."

"I'm sure they are," Balthier muttered in response.

"If I may, sir," Entro said, "Perhaps a tray should be sent to her room. She doesn't seem to have eaten much at all. She'll waste away, dear girl." He clucked his tongue in genuine sympathy, the first bit of compassion he'd seen out of any of the staff towards her.

Entro, he supposed, he could tolerate.

"Yes - do that," Balthier said. An unfortunate memory struck, the show of her ribs through her flesh, her stomach concave, the pallor of her skin - he pressed his fingers to his eyes, forced it away.

"And some dessert, I think - she does like chocolate cake."

Balthier glanced up again. "You're rather impertinent, for a servant."

"Yes, sir, I suppose so." Unruffled, Entro tugged at his gloves. "But then, I expect that's partly why Miss Penelo hired me on. You can dismiss me, sir, if you've a mind."

Unwillingly, Balthier found a wry grin curling his mouth. He might not have wanted a butler, and he might've been saddled with an impertinent one, but perhaps an impertinent butler was exactly what he needed - at least someone in this godsforsaken house would speak their mind to his face rather than whisper behind his back. And hers - she ought to have at least one true ally in this house.

"You're fond of her, then?" he asked.

"Of course, sir." Entro blinked placidly. "Someone ought to be." There was perhaps a smidgeon of judgment in the words, a sly rebuke.

Balthier shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "I'm fond of her," he muttered.

"Are you, then, sir?" The arch question only intensified Balthier's discomfort.

"Yes," he snapped - and then slumped back in his chair. "For the gods' sake, what am I supposed to do about her?"

"For now, feed her, I think," came Entro's neutral reply.

There was something in Entro's voice that suggested familiarity, something greater than he ought to have acquired for her in the day or so that he'd been employed. An almost fatherly sort of protectiveness, Balthier thought.

"You're certainly concerned with her welfare," he said, with no small bit of suspicion.

"Of course, sir." Entro clasped his hands before him. "I've served in a number of homes," he said, "but, for several years, I served in the deii Leonne household in Rabanastre. I knew Miss Penelo when she was a child."

Definitely a fatherly sort of protectiveness, then. But he supposed this could also present a rare opportunity - insight into her life as it had been when she had last been happy. He would know things about her - her likes, her dislikes - that could prove invaluable.

"You said she likes chocolate cake?" he asked. "What else does she like?"

"Sir," Entro said carefully, "are you asking me to inform on the miss?"

"No, blast it, that's not what I -" Balthier snapped his mouth shut abruptly, because it was precisely what he had meant. "Yes," he sighed. "I suppose I am."

After a moment's hesitation, Entro gestured to a chair, and inquired, "May I?"

"By all means." If it would get the man to surrender the information he doubtless held.

Entro took a seat, folded his hands on the table before him. "I can't say I approve of the miss being here on her own without a proper chaperone," he said. "It's clear that she is unhappy here and that the years that have passed since last I have seen her have proven unkind to her. I would not have further unkindness visited upon her." His voice took on a steely tone. "Even from you, sir."

Definitely impertinent for a servant. Balthier scraped his fingers through his hair, made a rough sound in his throat.

"I know she's not happy here," he said. "That's why I want to know what would make her happy."

Entro merely stared at him speculatively; he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being measured and judged, had certainly never expected such a thing to come from this quarter. Still, he met the look with a level one of his own - intent, resolute, focused. This wasn't employer to employee, this was man to man, and Balthier was excruciatingly aware that the power balance was not in his favor - Entro's fondness for the daughter of his former employers would override any loyalty to Balthier.

"Hmm." Not a sound of approval, nor particularly of disapproval. At last, he said, "She has always been fond of flowers. Not cut ones, mind you - she'll not thank you for a bouquet. She'd rather see them planted. If you want my opinion, sir, you ought to encourage her to work out of doors for a spell."

"Out of doors..." The gardens were a wreck - but she did seem to enjoy setting things in order, and she had spent the last several days cooped up, overseeing the myriad repairs to the interior of the house. Surely she'd welcome the chance to escape the monotony of it, the judgmental eyes of the servants. "What else?" he asked.

But Entro shook his head. "With all due respect, sir, I would see what comes of this first."

Damned impertinent for a servant. But if he pressed the issue, it was highly unlikely to go in his favor. He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved a sigh. And despite his aggravation, he felt, perhaps, the stirrings of admiration for the man. "I think you'll do well enough as a butler, Entro - assuming I'm not moved to strangle you. Are you always so damned insolent?"

"Nearly always, I should expect, sir." Sensing the conversation was at an end, he stood and whisked Balthier's plate away. "But then, you will not find a more capable butler. Leave the staff to me, sir, and I assure you that this house will run smoothly."

"See that it does," Balthier said, for the more tasks Entro could handle, the fewer Penelo would have to shoulder herself.

On his way to remove the remainder of the dishes to the kitchens, Entro paused. "I'll take a tray up to her myself, sir, if you've no objections." Then, after a moment's hesitation, as an afterthought he added, "Lilies. She likes lilies in particular."

Balthier supposed that might've been intended as a blessing of sorts. And so the following morning, along with the breakfast tray, he had a single yellow-gold lily in a small, clay pot delivered to her room.

Given the dreadful state of the gardens, Penelo had despaired of ever having them set to rights. But Entro had summoned a team of workmen in who had carefully cleared away the brambles, and once they had started on trimming the tall grasses down to a more manageable level, Penelo could see the potential in the sprawling grounds.

She had spent the better part of the morning overseeing the labor as it progressed, and the day was growing warm and humid. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had formed. Perhaps this blasted dress would make her presentable, but it was hardly the sort of thing that was comfortable to wear in the heat of the day.

"Water, miss?"

She turned; Entro had come, bearing a tray with refreshments - a welcome diversion for the time being. She accepted a glass, motioned for him to place the tray upon a small table she'd dragged outside.

"Thank you, Entro - but, please, just call me Penelo. I'm not your employer; you shouldn't have to wait on me," she said. "I promise you, I've become proficient at fetching and carrying for myself."

"Old habits, miss," he said with a smile. "It's quite ingrained at this point, I'm afraid."

She leaned back against the brick wall of the house with a sigh. "Thank you," she said. "For the lily. It's brightened up my room considerably." In fact, it had moved her nearly to tears, after yesterday's ordeal. She had at least one ally in this house - for that much she could be thankful.

He tilted his head curiously. "My apologies, miss, but I did not send it." There was something vaguely satisfied in his voice, as if a much sought-after answer had been uncovered.

Her head snapped around, expression dubious. "You didn't?"

"No, miss." He hesitated. "Perhaps the master...?"

She waved that suggestion away as though it were ridiculous. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. Probably just a mix-up." But the thought wouldn't be vanquished; it buzzed around her head like a gnat - would Balthier have sent it? Why? Because of that terrible scene she'd made yesterday? How humiliating.

"Hmm." Entro's reply was noncommittal, but by his expression he clearly thought that Balthier had been the one to send her the lily. At length, he said, "When you've a spare moment, the master has requested to speak with you."

"Of course." She replaced her empty glass on the tray. "I'll go directly - did he say what he wanted?"

"I believe it was regarding your plans for the gardens, miss," he said.

"What plans for the gardens?" she grumbled in her irritation. "They're not my damned gardens!" Exasperated, she threw her hands in the air.

"I'm sure I don't know, miss. Perhaps you'd better sort it out with him." Again, that sly tone - she was sure she'd heard it in his voice. She narrowed her eyes, peering at him intently. But his face was calm, tranquil; no sign of deceit, of scheming. Perhaps years and circumstances had only taught her suspicion and doubt - perhaps she'd begun grasping at straws, searching for betrayal from all quarters, even from friends. But then, it would hardly be the first time a friend had turned on her. She shoved that unpleasant thought from her mind, steeling herself against the pang of hurt it caused.

"You're right," she sighed at last. "I'll go, then - thank you for the water, Entro."

She turned to go, and thus missed the hint of a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

The door was open, and so Penelo rapped sharply upon the doorframe to signal her presence. Balthier was seated at a desk, his head bent over a ledger, but he looked up and gestured for her to enter.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, snapping the ledger closed. "The gardens - what do you plan to do with them?" It took a valiant effort not to stare at that ghastly dress. Well, perhaps it wasn't ghastly, but it certainly wasn't flattering - not that she'd appreciate his opinion on the matter.

The corners of her lips had turned down in a disapproving frown. "I'm not the one who'll have to live with them; tell me what you want done, and I'll see to it."

He blinked, entirely at a loss. "I haven't any experience with this sort of thing. I'm sure to make a mess of it; surely you've got some ideas?"

"It's not my -"

"Humor me," he interrupted. "I'd be interested to see what you would do."

She did have a few ideas. They weren't her gardens, but...it would be satisfying to build them up herself, to watch her vision take shape and grow. She hesitated only briefly before at last she asked, "Do you have a pen and some paper?"

"Of course." He fumbled around in the desk as she pulled a chair up to sit. Finally he gathered the items, laying them on the desk before her, tried not to wince at the crinkling of the stiff fabric of her dress as she sat.

With the pen she sketched a rough outline of the grounds, then the cobblestone pathway that had recently been unearthed from beneath the thicket of thorns and briars. "You've got this path, here - it wants cleaning, but the stones are good and even. It would be extremely costly to replace them." She glanced up briefly, but his head was bent, considering her sketch.

"The cost isn't a concern," he said. "You can replace them if you like - or create a new path."

"I don't think that's necessary; as I've said, they're in relatively good repair." She tapped the pen against the paper thoughtfully. "But I suppose the path might be extended - " She drew out the lines across the page, rounded off the end into a circle. " - to here. It lacks a destination."

He touched the space she'd drawn. "What goes here?"

She shrugged. "Whatever you like."

"What would you put there?" he amended.

A moment's hesitation. "A pergola, I suppose." She pulled forth a fresh sheet of paper, began a new sketch. Beneath the pen, a structure took shape; a sloped roof, benches, creeping ivy climbing up columns. Just an idle sketch, but -

"Can you use that?" he asked abruptly, and she started, an inkblot splattering the page.

"It's just a sketch," she said. "You don't have to -"

He waved off her protest. "That's what I want. You did say it should be as I want it," he reminded her. He tugged the sketch of the gardens in their entirety out from beneath the one of the pergola. "Continue."

"Well..." she prevaricated. "I would probably line the path with hedges - ostensibly as it was before, but everything was so overgrown, it was a bit hard to tell. Holly, I think, until here or so." She drew the outline against the path on the page. "And then roses for color, up to the pergola. There are climbing varieties; they can be trained to grow up the columns."

She considered the page; there was still so much blank space. Certainly there would need to be lawn, but - close to the house, there ought to be more life, more color. A pond, perhaps, and a few flowerbeds. The pond she sketched out beside the pergola, picturing it in her mind - stocked with fish, it would provide life, color, and sound. The flowerbeds she dragged out along the path, wrapping around the sides of the house - they would be vibrant, brilliant, eye-catching, a bright wash of color that would gradually fade into the more understated beauty of the lawns as they rolled away from the house.

"Do this."

Her eyes jerked to his. He had tapped the paper, but he wasn't looking at it - he was looking at her. She'd gotten carried away - she flushed, embarrassed, made a soft sound of dissent.

"Oh, no, it would be terribly impractical," she said with a wince, stacking the papers. "And also extremely expensive. I'll manage something -"

"I don't care about the cost." He tugged the papers gently from her hands, examined the sketch she'd done. "I want this." This design she had been so engrossed in - he wanted it for her, to give her something to take pleasure in. She had enjoyed the simple sketch; she would enjoy that much more giving life to it.

But she was hesitant still; probably she had not expected his approval, didn't know what to make of it. She had received so little encouragement, had instead had censure heaped upon her. Her confidence was in short supply.

"Can you make the arrangements?" he asked. "Shall I have Entro assist you?"

"Balthier -"

He leveled a look at her. "You wanted my input. Here it is." He thrust the sketch back at her. "This is what I want; make it happen."

She accepted it, wavering even as her fingers closed upon it. But she wanted to do it; he could see it in her face, in her eyes as she scanned the page - even now her mind was working, considering options, placing plants and sorting colors.

"All right," she said at last. "I'll make the arrangements." She rose to her feet, turned to go - and whirled back around once again. She'd been so focused on the sketch, she'd forgotten about the flower that had arrived at her room this morning. As if of its own accord, the question burst out. "Did you -" But she clamped her mouth shut before the rest could escape, uncertain whether or not to continue.

He tilted his head, brows drawn together in confusion. "Did I...?" he prompted.

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's nothing." What did it matter, anyway? Flustered, she turned to leave and nearly crashed into Entro as he entered the room. She jerked, startled, hands reflexively curling, crumpling the paper in her hands. With a muffled curse, she creased the pages, tucking them in the pocket of her pinafore.

"I beg your pardon, miss," Entro said. "The mail's come in." He passed off a stack of letters to Balthier and then a single envelope to Penelo. Balthier surmised that Ashe had likely had Penelo's correspondence forwarded, as she had known where to send it.

But as she broke the seal and scanned the letter's contents, her face shuttered, unreadable - at last she crumpled the letter in her hands and tossed it in the waste basket.

"Excuse me," she said at last, in an inscrutable tone, and she sailed out of the room.

Shamelessly, Balthier snatched the letter out of the waste basket.

"Sir," Entro protested reflexively, appalled by the invasion of Penelo's privacy.

"I've given her the bloody gardens - what more do you want?" Balthier snapped. And wisely, the butler held his peace as Balthier smoothed the crinkles from the paper, looked it over.

It was a plea for assistance, from a tiny village on the border between Dalmasca and the Golmore Jungle - they'd been terrorized in recent weeks by a crew of pirates, and were desperately seeking a bounty hunter that might be willing to take on the task of bringing them to justice.

He sighed, conflicted. She had just been served with an untimely reminder that her obligations to him prevented her from going where she pleased, lending assistance where she could. Stripped of her ship and her freedom, this call for help might very well go unanswered - and she yet owed him a month and a half.

He supposed he could simply ignore it, pretend he hadn't read it, and nothing would come of it - except that she would be unhappy still, chafing at the confines of the house. Even the pleasure she might've found in the gardens would be tainted.

Damnation. There was no help for it.

"Entro," he said wearily. "I'm afraid you're going to have to take on a bit more work."

"Sir?"

Balthier held up the letter. "I'm going to have to take her on a bit of an outing."