ing garden path. Haystrings was already sweeping, gently brushing gravel back into place near the rose bushes. "Haystrings!" Ellen called her shoes crunching on the stone. The ol

ees?" She blinked. "Lavender trees?" He nodded. "Two hundred coins just for the smell." "He's mad," Ellen said, shaking her head. "Oh, definitely," Haystrings said, smiling slightly. "But it's not madness from stupidity. It's intentional. He wants to be remembered. Big men often do." "It still feels like he's trying to prove something," she said. Haystrings looked at her carefully. "That's a good observation. Sometimes, people with a lot of money aren't showing off because they're happy. They're doing it because they're trying to fill something inside." They reached the orchard where trees cast dappled shadows on the path. Haystrings stopped again, leaning on his broom and staring up into the branches. "There was a time," he said, "when he wasn't like this. He still had class, sure, but he didn't try so hard to show it. Things changed after the issue with his brother." Ellen raised an eyebrow. "You mean Peeta?" He nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yes. They were close once. Grew up together. Same food, same tutors. But when it came time to decide who got the inheritance, the old Lord picked Linton. Politics. Family tension. Pride. Ever since then, I think Master Linton has been trying to prove he deserved it-to everyone, maybe even to himself." Ellen looked away, her face thoughtful. "It's like he's chasing something," she said. "Like every time he spends, he's asking a question no one can answer." Haystrings chuckled. "You've got a poet's way of seeing things." She shrugged. "I just notice stuff. The staff flinch every time he buys another chandelier. And don't get me started on those horse paintings-h