Countess Grimshaw traced her finger along the pressed wheat braid in her poetry journal. Three autumns had passed since Jasper Thornfield taught her to make it at the Harvest Moon Festival. She practiced his surname with hers in the mirror when no one watched. Seventeen love letters sat as ash in her fireplace, each one burned before she lost her nerve. Her mother would faint at the thought of a countess loving a farmer. But Grimshaw wanted freedom more than titles, wanted dirt under her nails instead of jewels on her fingers. She closed the journal and pressed it to her chest. Somehow, she would find her way to him. The next morning, she slipped away from Skelington Manor before breakfast. Her bone feet clicked against the cobblestones as she walked through the awakening streets. She needed to see where Jasper lived, to picture the life she wanted. The village square opened before her, and there stood the golden fountain with its faded glory. Water trickled from its worn spouts. A few villagers gathered there with buckets and whispered conversations. She moved past them, following the road that led to the farming cottages. Her ribs pressed against her bodice as she walked faster. Then she saw it—a small cottage painted dark green with pink flowers climbing its walls. Parts of the paint had crumbled away, and the garden looked wild and free. This was the kind of place she dreamed about. Simple walls, a vegetable patch, Jasper's hands in hers at sunset. Grimshaw stopped at a golden flower pot near the roadside, its surface cracked with age. Blue flowers spilled over its rim. She pulled a folded note from her sleeve and tucked it into a gap beneath the flowers. This time, she wouldn't burn her words. This time, Jasper would know the truth. She turned back toward the manor, her heart beating fast against her bones. The first real step was taken.

Grimshaw waited three days for a response that never came. She walked past the golden flower pot each morning, her note still tucked beneath the blue flowers. Maybe Jasper hadn't seen it. Maybe he thought it was a joke. On the fourth day, she realized waiting wouldn't teach her anything useful. She needed to learn how farmers actually lived. She borrowed plain clothes from the laundry maid and hid them under her bed. The next morning, she changed in the garden shed and walked toward the market square. Her bone hands felt strange without gloves. A woman sold carrots from a wooden cart, dirt still clinging to the roots. Grimshaw watched how she bundled them with twine and made change from a leather pouch. At the bakery, she asked about work. The baker looked at her skeleton face and shook his head. Too recognizable, even in borrowed clothes. She tried two more shops with the same result. Everyone in Skelington knew the Countess. Grimshaw sat on the fountain's edge and stared at the water. Running away meant more than loving Jasper. It meant knowing how to earn money, how to cook, how to survive without servants. She pressed her palms together. Learning in secret would take time, but she had already taken the first step. Tomorrow, she would try again. The next week, she found a different approach. She walked beyond the market to where the cottages sat among their gardens. A wooden workbench stood outside one home, covered with turnips and potatoes waiting to be sorted. An old rain barrel leaned against another cottage wall, catching drips from the roof. She watched how people worked their own land, how they carried water and cleaned vegetables without help. Behind a wall covered in flowering vines, she discovered a hidden door half-buried in blossoms. The perfect spot for two people to meet without curious eyes. Her chest tightened. She pictured Jasper here, his hands in hers, planning their escape together. But first, she needed skills. She needed to prove she could handle this life. Grimshaw returned to the manor with dirt on her borrowed shoes. She hid them under her bed and changed back into her silk dress. Her reflection in the mirror showed a countess, but she felt different now. She had seen how farmers lived their daily work. She had found a secret place to meet. Her dream was taking shape, one careful step at a time.