In the Garden of Stone Effigies
All those who wander are not lost.
The garden is the first place the Master goes when his duties for the day are over.
He is a diligent man, but all I do is serve his tea when he is bothered by the demons in his mind. He takes it in the library, always, at night when all the ghosts in the house have gone to bed. They only haunt when it is their time, after all — no more, no less.
But the garden? It is filled with stone statues — all from the years of the Master’s travels. The last maid told me the truth. Once upon a time, the Master had the ability to turn what he saw and touched to stone.
All the women he ever loved stand dormant in the garden now.
His gloved hands will trail across their forms as I watch from one of the mansion’s windows. A caress of a cheek there, a pat of a head there — he walks amongst them, doling out his casual affections as if the women are still alive to bear witness to him.
I shake my head and collect the tea tray to begin assembling the pieces for him. A tin of biscuits lies next to the tea pot in which steeps the leaves over which I’ve just poured the hot water. A small container of sugar cubes sits beside the cream decanter and an empty tea cup in its saucer, gilded gold edges along the rims.
