L'etica stands before the mahogany armoire, its polished surface reflecting the morning light streaming through the tall window. Mrs. Gable, stout and perpetually clad in her crisp black uniform, holds up a silk gown of deep sapphire. The fabric shimmers, cool against L'etica’s fingers when she touches it. This is for Henry’s dinner, the evening of her 'undivided attention.' The thought tastes like ash.\n\n"A beautiful choice, madam," Mrs. Gable murmurs, her voice soft but steady. She has served the Devereaux household for decades, a living archive of its secrets and rhythms. L'etica allows a small, appreciative smile to grace her lips.\n\n"Indeed, Mrs. Gable. You always know just what suits the occasion." L'etica turns, meeting the maid's gaze. "Though, truth be told, my mind has been rather occupied of late. So many things to consider. This manor, this household… it requires so much of one’s attention, doesn't it?"\n\nMrs. Gable nods slowly, beginning to fold a simpler day dress. "It does, madam. A grand establishment such as this operates like a finely tuned clock, each cog and spring in its place."\n\n"And the cogs outside, in the town itself?" L'etica asks, her voice light, as if musing to herself. She walks towards the window, pretending to admire the manicured gardens below. "I often wonder about the goings-on beyond these walls. The shops, the small businesses… they must be quite different from the bustling city I once knew."\n\nShe glances back at Mrs. Gable, who has paused in her folding. "I recall passing a rather charming little tea shop on Elm Street, not long ago. Though it seemed… closed, perhaps? Such a pity. It looked as if it once held a great deal of character."\n\nMrs. Gable’s brow furrows slightly, a familiar sign of deep thought. "Ah, the old Willowbrook Tea Room, madam. Yes, it has been shuttered for a number of years now. A sad sight, truly. It was quite the fixture in its day."\n\nL'etica picks up a delicate silver hairbrush from her vanity, tracing its intricate pattern. "Willowbrook," she repeats, letting the name roll off her tongue. "Such a quaint name. I imagine it saw many interesting patrons in its time." She pauses, then adds, "One always wonders what becomes of these old establishments, doesn't one? How they thrive, and how they eventually… fade." Her eyes fix on Mrs. Gable, a silent invitation to share.\n\n---\n\nMrs. Gable smooths the satin lining of a coat. Her movements are precise, almost ritualistic. "Indeed, madam. The Willowbrook was quite renowned for its Earl Grey, I remember. A rich, fragrant brew. But times change, don't they? Tastes shift. The proprietor, old Mr. Hemlock, he simply couldn't keep up." L'etica feels a flicker of satisfaction. Hemlock. A name. This is information. She sets the brush down, turning fully towards the maid. "Mr. Hemlock, you say? Was he a local fixture, then? Someone well-known in the community?" She keeps her tone conversational, injecting just enough curiosity to seem polite, not prying. Inside, her mind races, cross-referencing this with the vague mission parameters the System had hinted at regarding 'local investment opportunities.' The derelict tea shop. It felt like a test, a first step. "Oh, yes, madam. Born and bred right here in Blackwood," Mrs. Gable confirms, a faint smile touching her lips. "His father before him ran it, too. A family business, passed down through generations. A shame, really, to see it go. The aroma of baking scones used to drift all the way to the market square on a Tuesday morning." L'etica leans back against the vanity, affecting a thoughtful posture. "A family legacy, then. That must have made its closure all the more difficult for him." She picks at a loose thread on the cuff of her dressing gown. "And what became of Mr. Hemlock, if I may ask? Did he simply… retire?" She needed to know the full story, the circumstances. Was it financial ruin, illness, or something else entirely? Each detail could be a vulnerability, or a strength, in her future dealings. Mrs. Gable sighs softly, a sound that speaks of old memories and hushed conversations. "He did, in a fashion. The business had been struggling for years, even before his wife passed away. That truly seemed to take the last of the fight out of him. He sold the building, well, what was left of it, to Mr. Davies, the timber merchant, for a pittance, or so the whispers went." "Mr. Davies," L'etica repeats, filing the name away. "And he simply… left it derelict? A timber merchant with no interest in running a tea room, I suppose." She raises an eyebrow, a subtle invitation for more detail. Her system hums faintly in the background, a soft, almost imperceptible thrum that only she could sense, confirming each piece of data as 'relevant.' This was how it worked, she realized. Not grand pronouncements, but quiet affirmations as she navigated the world. She needed to extract more.\n\n---\n\nMrs. Gable sets the folded coat aside, her gaze distant for a moment. "Mr. Davies had his sights on the land, madam. Thought to expand his lumber yard, or perhaps build some cottages. But the land proved... difficult. Poor drainage, they said. And then there were the rumours, of course." She lowers her voice slightly, leaning in as if sharing a confidence.\n\nL'etica’s pulse quickens, but her expression remains calm, attentive. "Rumours?" she prompts, a gentle query. This was exactly what she needed—the unwritten history, the local lore that often held more truth than official records. Manipulation, she realized, wasn't just about crafting lies, but about expertly guiding others to reveal the truths they held.\n\n"Oh, just local gossip, madam," Mrs. Gable dismisses with a wave of her hand, though her eyes sparkle with the relish of a good story. "About the old well in the cellar. And the dampness that seemed to cling to the very stones of the building, no matter how many repairs Mr. Hemlock tried to make. People began to say the place had a melancholy spirit, you see. That it had simply given up."\n\nL'etica nods, absorbing the details. Poor drainage, a melancholic spirit. These were practical obstacles, but also potential marketing angles. A haunted tea shop? Perhaps. But the underlying issue of the land, of the building's structural integrity, was more pressing. "So the Willowbrook faded not from lack of charm, but from a deeper, more stubborn problem, then?"\n\n"That's how it seemed," Mrs. Gable confirms, her voice regaining its usual steady cadence. "The customers dwindled. They preferred the brighter, newer establishments on High Street. Mr. Hemlock, bless his heart, he was a traditionalist. Refused to change the décor, the menu. Said his father's way was the only way. He brewed his tea strong and served his scones plain, even when everyone else was offering delicate pastries and floral infusions."\n\nA faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches L'etica's lips. A traditionalist, unable to adapt. A common story, yet one that held valuable lessons. "It sounds as though he loved the place dearly, despite its struggles," she says, feigning sympathy. "To hold onto tradition so fiercely, even at the cost of his livelihood. A noble, if perhaps misguided, sentiment." The building was derelict, the business failed, the owner gone. All signs pointed to a clear opportunity. The System's gentle hum felt stronger now, like a quiet encouragement.\n\n---\n\nMrs. Gable retrieves a small velvet box from a drawer, selecting a pair of pearl earrings that complement the sapphire gown. Her hands move deftly, but her eyes retain that distant, thoughtful look. "He did love it, madam. More than anything, some said. More than his own son, even, after his wife passed." The maid’s voice drops to barely a whisper.\n\nL'etica’s breath catches. A son? This was new. And the implication, "more than his own son," carried a heavy weight. She forces herself to remain still, her gaze fixed on the earrings Mrs. Gable holds. "His son? I wasn't aware Mr. Hemlock had a family beyond his wife." She tries to sound merely curious, not startled. The system’s hum intensified, a sudden spike in its otherwise steady rhythm. This was important.\n\n"Oh, yes. Young Thomas," Mrs. Gable murmurs, polishing one of the pearls with her thumb. "He was a wild sort, even as a boy. Nothing like his quiet father. Never took to the tea business. Preferred to roam the woods, sketching birds and plants, dreaming of being an artist." A soft, almost nostalgic sigh escapes her lips. "His father always hoped he'd come around, take over the Willowbrook. But Thomas... he always had his own mind." L'etica’s mind races. An artist son who rejected the family business. This complicates things. Had he truly relinquished all claim? Had he resented his father's stubbornness, or mourned the loss of a legacy he never wanted? There was an emotional layer here she hadn't anticipated. It wasn't just about a derelict building and poor drainage anymore. "And what became of Thomas?" L'etica asks, her voice carefully modulated, betraying none of the sudden unease she felt. She thought of Henry, of his absolute control, and how even small, forgotten connections could unravel carefully laid plans. She needed to understand every shadow before she stepped into the light. Mrs. Gable leans in, her scent of lavender and starch suddenly more pronounced. Her eyes, usually placid, hold a knowing glint. She glances towards the closed door, as if ensuring their privacy. "He went away, madam, after his mother died and the tea room closed for good. Left Blackwood and never looked back, they say." She pauses, allowing the words to hang in the air, a silent drumbeat of anticipation. L'etica feels a chill. This wasn’t just gossip. This was a warning.\n\nMrs. Gable, with a secretive glint in her eye, leans in close and whispers, "But there are whispers, madam, about the old proprietor's son… he never truly let go."

Chapter 4: Seeds of Treachery