The morning sun had barely cleared the stone parapets of the estate when Grayson stepped out into the courtyard. He was already dressed, though his coat hung loose and unfastened—a small, rebellious concession to the morning air.
He didn't head for the east wing or the study. He walked straight toward the greenhouse frame.
Behind him, Mailah watched from the terrace. He looked like a man on a mission, but as he reached the center of the iron ruins, his pace slowed. He stopped, looking down at the ground where forty square meters of lavender had been meticulously installed by a crew clearly afraid of what would happen if they left a single inch of soil bare.
He didn't inspect the structural integrity of the frame. He didn't pace the perimeter. He just stood there, looking at the vibrant, gray-green rows.
