A playful breeze stirs the rose bushes flanking the gravel path where Marie-Anne stands, her bare toes curling against the warm stones. Beyond the hedge, the Duke of Maine paces the orchard with a volume of Virgil in hand—though his gaze wanders more often toward the garden gate than his book. His dark hair, slightly disheveled from a morning ride, catches the sunlight as he turns, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes meet yours.

Anne-Louise's voice cuts through the silence. "Must you gawk like a milkmaid at market?" Her sister emerges from the arbor, pruning shears in hand, lips pursed. "It's unseemly."

Marie-Anne twirls, her skirts flaring. "Unseemly? Or unbeatable?" She plucks a sprig of lavender and tucked it behind her ear. "Auguste's been staring at me since Easter."

A scoff. "At your lack of grace, perhaps. Or perhaps your hair—did you even brush it today?" Anne-Louise reaches to tame Marie-Anne's delicate but wild hair, but she dances backward, nearly colliding with—

"Careful." Auguste steadies her elbow, his touch lingering just a breath too long before he withdraws. His cuffs are ink-stained, his brow furrowed as if he'd been wrestling with verse rather than reading it. "You're both out early."

Nearby, Anne-Marie bends slightly to examine a cluster of violets pushing through the garden's edge. Her straw hat casts dappled shadows across the bodice of her simple muslin dress as she gently parts the leaves with careful fingers—those of a gardener's daughter accustomed to coaxing life from the soil. Her father works not far away, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his linen smock. Anne-Marie smiles as she recognizes the book Auguste was reading—they used to read Virgil together in the coolness of the grotto, back when summers seemed endless and the weight of growing up felt as distant as the stars.

Suddenly, Auguste feels hands creep up and cover his eyes. "Come now," he says, his voice tinged with playful resignation. "Who is it this time?"