Dahlia Eames stomped her way up the wide marble staircase, glaring at the wall ahead of her. A maid called Lily appeared at the top of the stairs and stood there in shock.
"Why…Miss Eames! Whatever can have happened to your dress?" she asked, staring.
"I went for a walk," the dark-haired girl grumbled.
"Miss, at seventeen years, I'd expect you to know how to walk without your skirts dragging," the servant replied warily.
"Mind your place," Dahlia snapped, heading to her room. "Now help me change before someone sees me like this."
…
I've never been one to get distracted on the job. …Well, I have once or twice, but those times don't count. Let it at least be noted that I've never once been caught away from my post on account of a lady. I'm no fool. When I met the Eames girl, all I felt was worry for the future of this nation, if that's the sort of girl that's considered high-class. Don't society's belles brush their hair these days? What is the world coming to?
Anyhow, I was not interested in 'Miss Eames' in the slightest. Heiresses bore me.
…
Dahlia crept up the garden path, wearing her newly purchased riding clothes. Of course, she'd brought a horse along, but that was just for show. Dahlia hated horses; big ugly things that they were, with not a brain in their heads to rebel against those that controlled them. She reached the woods without incident, and finally ran up the hill to confront the groundskeeper or whatever he was.
She reached the tree but found no one there, and walked around the trunk in circles for a number of minutes. Finally she looked upwards, peering through the leafy branches, and spotted A. looking down at her.
"Mr. Raven?" she called, putting a hand up to shield her eyes from the summer sun. "If you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with you." The man frowned and mumbled something about superiority complexes as he clambered down to the lowest branch, a good six feet off the ground. From there he jumped and landed rather miraculously with out injury.
"Alistair Raven, reporting for duty," he growled, bowing in an exaggerated fashion. "What do you want?" Shocked by his frankness, Dahlia paused for a moment before continuing.
"I asked my father about a groundskeeper, and he said he's hired no such person," she said importantly. "I'd like you to give me an honest answer as to why you're here, and if I believe this answer to be satisfactory, I'll go on my merry way and leave you to your squirrel-ish activities." Alistair glanced at the part of the tree where the cluster of thick branches met the trunk.
"I'm…an…ornithologist," he said finally, grinning at his own cleverness. "There's a nest up there; it's the nest of a very rare…Southern…erp…twitch? And I must protect it from predators."
"I see," Dahlia replied. "And this Southern Erptwitch, it makes its nest in the North because…?"
"Well, that…that, you see, is because it's a very contrary creature and…" Alistair frowned. "It…um…likes it here?"
"That seems like a worthy cause for trespassing," Dahlia answered, smirking in a smug sort of way. "You may stay until these 'Erptwitches' hatch." The man gave a visible sigh of relief. "…but," she added, "I will be coming by to check on your progress. You know, to make sure the Erptwitches are alright." He glared.
"By all means," he grumbled. "The Erptwitches must be protected at all costs."
…
There are no Erptwitches. What a silly girl.
…