Jul 21st, 2030
A week after Veronika's somber memorial and funeral, their echoes still haunted Brenda's nights with vivid anxiety dreams. These nocturnal reveries, though fragmented, wove a consistent narrative of frustration—a ceaseless endeavor to accomplish amidst an onslaught of insurmountable barriers. Just the previous night, her subconscious had ensnared her in an absurd quest for a tailor to mend a pair of trousers. The dream, mercurial as mist, twisted upon itself, morphing the narrative until she found herself in a dire predicament—rushing to the memorial, conspicuously devoid of pants.
Awakening from this latest nocturnal odyssey, Brenda clutched at the vanishing threads of the dream, a paradoxical desire to retain its vexing details clashing with the urge to cast it away. In the dim morning light, as the last vestiges of her dream dissipated like dew under the sun, all that remained was the poignant echo of her futile quest for the elusive tailor, leaving behind a lingering sense of unresolved urgency as the day beckoned.
She could almost sense Pike and Hauch stationed vigilantly outside her door, their silent presence a comforting guard against the night. Wilhelm had adapted her room for his vigil, replacing his austere chair with a rocking chair by the door to his servant's quarters. It was a surprisingly quiet fixture in the otherwise still room, its gentle creak barely a whisper in the tranquil dawn.
As Brenda's eyes opened to the soft light weaving through the curtains, she noticed Wilhelm's silhouette, bathed in the morning glow—an unwavering guardian amidst the room's peaceful silence. He ceased his subtle rocking, having refrained from the motion while she slept, but resumed as her gaze met his. "Good morning, my lady," he greeted, his voice a warm note in the cool air.
"You really don't have to look after me, Wilhelm. Isn't that chair hideously uncomfortable?" she inquired, the familiar exchange between them unfolding like a comforting ritual amidst the scent of aged wood and the lingering coolness of the night.
"I'm old, my lady, and I scarcely tip the scales anymore," he replied with a gentle smile, the light humor not quite masking the stiffness of his movements. "Pain is a constant companion, whether I'm confined to bed or perched in this chair. Since sleep eludes me, I find purpose in watching over you, ensuring the silence of our sanctuary remains unbroken."
"It was a fitting memorial, wasn't it?" she said suddenly, not for the first time. "I keep coming back to it. Nothing seemed fulfilling enough. Part of me wants to commission a monument. But if I did, it would depict her in the act of slaughtering that maid..." Her voice trailed off, lost in thought.
Wilhelm shifted the conversation, perhaps to lighten the mood or to redirect Brenda's thoughts to the present. "Speaking of maids, there's a girl you should meet today. Her name is Doroschka, a 13-year-old Russian girl with quite a story. She claims to have no memory of her life before arriving here."
He paused, looking at Brenda to gauge her reaction before continuing. "An elderly Russian couple, their faces etched with the hardships of these desperate times, arrived at the Manor by horse and cart. With a mix of relief and resignation, they offered Doroschka in exchange for a bushel of potatoes and a long, weathered knife—a stark testament to their eagerness to be rid of the obligations she represented."
"Do we often trade for children?" Brenda asked, realizing how little she knew about the day-to-day operations of her Manor. With Otto's departure imminent, she acknowledged the necessity of immersing herself in these matters. "I can't just focus on science anymore and ignore the daily management."
"Otto has always had a strict policy regarding transactions involving children—aiming to remove them from those willing to trade human lives, hoping to prevent them from falling into less savory hands," Wilhelm explained.
"Otto's heart has always been too big for this world. I can't wrap my head around his decision to leave, especially with her," Brenda said, her voice tinged with disbelief and a hint of loss.
"You didn't leave him much choice, milady," Wilhelm pointed out, cautiously navigating the boundaries of their conversation.
Brenda looked stunned, momentarily lost for words. Wilhelm, who had gradually grown accustomed to the expectation of speaking his mind, hurriedly moved on, hoping he hadn't overstepped.
"With no memory and having traveled through Russia at such a tender age, and given her beauty, I suspect her past is best left undisturbed. The only clue to her identity was a piece of paper in her coat pocket with 'Doroschka' written on it, so that is what we called her."
"Continuing with a sip of his tea, Wilhelm said, "Dora learned German in just a month and has become quite useful around here. She's adept at repairing lamps and other simple electrical devices, so much is in disrepair after years without power. She's clever, reserved, and tends to keep to herself—an unconventional choice, perhaps, but then, Veronika was an unconventional choice for her role too."
"I've never gone wrong trusting your instincts, Wilhelm."
As the clock struck eight, the breakfast nook was bathed in the soft golden light of morning. Brenda, dressed in a yellow sundress that added a touch of springtime to her demeanor, occupied her favored seat. She enjoyed a tranquil view through the window to the courtyard, where the daily hustle was paused, awaiting her decisions on the manor's governance.
The nook, usually a space for quiet reflection and morning solitude, today hosted an air of poised anticipation. At the head of the table, Hauch sat with the ease of a soldier at rest, yet his placement in the surplus chair was a clear nod to his new duties. Positioned strategically, he kept a watchful eye on the door, embodying his role as a guardian.
As the early morning sun filtered into the snug breakfast nook, Wilhelm entered, guiding a small girl by the hand. Although Brenda knew Doroschka to be thirteen, her petite stature and youthful features might easily suggest she was closer to eleven. Her slight form was enfolded in a shawl adorned with intricate floral patterns, a rich collage of color that brought out the silver-blue sparkle in her eyes, reflective as if mirroring a hidden depth within. She seemed to blend into the background, yet there was a certain sturdiness about her, betraying a quiet inner strength. Strands of light played through loose tendrils of her hair, highlighting a young yet contemplative face that looked back at Brenda with a quietly assessing gaze, reminiscent of someone used to observing rather than being observed. The soft sound of her movement and a hint of exotic spice drifted in the air as she approached, each step adding a new element to the already cozy atmosphere. Brenda’s eyes remained fixed on Doroschka, drawn to the knowing look in her eyes that seemed all too familiar—a look that missed nothing.
Brenda appraised the girl from the standpoint of a lady's maid, skeptical about her ability to tighten corsets given her slight build. However, Brenda acknowledged the girl could grow into the role, and besides, if Brenda truly intended to dismantle the existing feudal structure in favor of a more civilized society, she should start by dressing herself. Determined to see if the girl could adapt and thrive, Brenda decided to test her with an unexpected question, "How would you keep food production growing during the restructuring that has to occur?"
Dora seemed taken aback, her expression blank for a moment before she turned her gaze inward, searching for an answer.
The room remained quiet as Dora contemplated the question with her eyes closed, a sign of deep thought. Wilhelm, sensing the need to fill the silence, began to speak, but Brenda’s silent gesture for patience stopped him. She waited, giving Dora the space to gather her thoughts.
Finally, Dora opened her eyes, her focus returning with clarity. "I would assign a reliable person to oversee production and waste, someone to gauge the daily rations based on their tallies of the work completed. Keep the specific methods vague, but ensure the overall strategy is public knowledge. With the greenhouses promising an end to the scarcity of winters, there's a collective will for a bountiful harvest. We need to cultivate a sense of civic pride, make it an ingrained motto—then the system could nearly regulate itself." Her German was crisp, with only the faintest echo of a Russian accent.
Leaning back, Dora’s gaze met Brenda's obliquely, watching for her reaction while maintaining a degree of respectful detachment.
Brenda raised her eyebrows, impressed by Dora’s suggestion. She glanced at Wilhelm, who appeared equally intrigued. Hauch, usually silent, shifted in his seat, indicating his attention was fully engaged. Brenda decided to probe deeper, looking for the practical aspects of Dora’s proposal.
“That’s an interesting concept, Dora. But overseeing such a system requires a great deal of trust and accountability. Who would you consider trustworthy enough for this role?” Brenda asked, her tone serious but encouraging.
Wilhelm chimed in, “And how would you ensure that this person remains impartial? In a system where one individual wields significant power over resources, there’s always a risk of corruption.”
Dora thought for a moment before responding. “Transparency and community involvement could mitigate that risk. Regular reporting to the community, perhaps during weekly gatherings, might keep the overseer accountable. And involving different segments of the community in oversight could help maintain impartiality.”
Hauch, who had been listening intently, added his perspective. “Security measures would be essential, especially in the early stages. Not just physical security, but also checks and balances within the system to prevent misuse of power.”
Brenda nodded thoughtfully. “What about incentives for increased production? If we’re aiming for civic pride to fuel our efforts, there should be recognition for those who go above and beyond.”
Dora nodded, “Recognition and perhaps additional rationing for those who contribute the most. Not substantial enough to create envy, but enough to motivate.”
Wilhelm looked at Brenda, his expression one of cautious optimism. “It’s a delicate balance, but it could work. Especially with the greenhouses promising a more stable future, this winter could indeed be our last ‘scarce’ one.”
Brenda smiled, musing over the collective input. “It seems we have the beginnings of a plan. Civic pride, transparency, and a system of rewards and recognition. Dora, your idea has merit. Let’s flesh this out further and consider how we can implement it.”
The debate had turned into a brainstorming session, with each participant contributing their insights and concerns. It was clear that while challenges lay ahead, the foundation for a sustainable and inclusive approach to managing their resources was beginning to take shape.
As the doors on the Bavarian clock swung open, revealing the intricately carved figure of a bearded mountain man, the room was filled with the rhythmic pounding of drums, each beat echoing the hour. Ten deliberate strikes resonated through the space, serving as a quaint yet compelling reminder of the morning slipping away towards midday.
Brenda's suggestion cut through the aftermath of their discussion, her voice carrying a hint of levity after the deep dive into planning and strategy. "We have to see Otto off at noon. Shall we make this a brunch?" she proposed, her tone light but carrying a practical edge, mindful of the day's obligations and the time constraint they faced.
The notion of brunch, a meal that blended the best of breakfast and lunch, seemed an ideal solution, offering a pause for sustenance and reflection amidst the weight of the morning's discussions and the anticipation of the afternoon's farewells.
Her voice, clearly audible to those beyond their immediate vicinity, prompted swift action. The sound of quick footsteps indicated that someone had taken up the call, darting towards the kitchen to relay Brenda's wishes. The suggestion of brunch, spontaneous yet fitting, reflected Brenda's ability to adapt and make the most of the moment, blending the demands of leadership with the need for camaraderie and sustenance.
As the echo of the clock's chimes faded, replaced by the emerging sounds of meal preparation, the group found themselves momentarily united in a shared anticipation of the meal to come. It was a simple yet profound reminder that, amid the complexities of governance, strategy, and societal restructuring, there remained the basic human connections and rituals that bound them together, offering comfort and continuity in the face of change.
The warm embrace of late morning sunlight filtered through the slender window curtains, gently bathing the room in a golden glow that seemed to ignite the very air with a sense of anticipation. As the light warmed the back of Hauch's head, there came a sudden crack from the window glass—a sharp, unnerving sound that made Hauch start but barely registered among the others. It was a familiar harbinger in this household, a sign that the wind had shifted its course, bringing with it a rapid rise in the outdoor temperature. Moments before, the world outside appeared inviting, bathed in sunlight, but they all knew too well that this fleeting comfort would soon give way to an almost oppressive warmth.
"If that was the interview, I think I'm confused as to what the job entails," Dora ventured, her earnestness cutting through the mirth like a knife through butter. Her eyes, wide with a mix of curiosity and confusion, sought Brenda's for clarification.
"You and me both," Brenda replied, her laughter ringing clear and bright, echoing off the walls. The lightness in her voice seemed to lift the weight of the morning's seriousness, if only for a moment.
"I warned you you might be working for a lunatic," Wilhelm chimed in, his voice rich with amusement. His comment, tossed into the mix like a spark to tinder, only served to fan the flames of their laughter.
"Be flexible in thought, be clever, and be loyal. That'll be 90% of your job. Also, you're my maid," Brenda managed between bouts of laughter, her statement a mixture of jest and sincerity. Her laughter, infectious and genuine, spread around the table, binding them in a moment of shared joy.
As the laughter died down, the room settled into a comfortable silence, filled with the promise of new beginnings and the warmth of newfound connections. The nook, once a space for solitary reflection, had transformed into a sanctuary of camaraderie and hope for the future.
"Есть тонкая грань между гениальностью и безумием," Dora said to herself knowing no one else understood her.
In the wake of their morning's conversation, which had unexpectedly unraveled layers of thought and emotion, the room's atmosphere subtly shifted gears. What began as a session of strategic plotting evolved into a tapestry of reflective musings and quiet anticipations. The dialogue, a rich mosaic of discussions ranging from the complex weave of governance and the ambitious blueprints for societal restructure, to intimate ruminations on the essence of leadership and the ephemeral nature of legacy, drew them inexplicably closer. With each topic meticulously unraveled and explored, a bond of communal purpose intertwined with threads of personal resolve began to form. As the golden hues of morning matured into the amber warmth of nearing noon, the passage of time made itself known not by the celestial dance above nor the march of clock hands, but through the thinning veil of subjects left untouched. The air around them seemed to thicken, laden with the silent, shared recognition of the day's inescapable pivotal event.
"Dora, ideally, I'd involve you in everything from the outset, but having you at today’s proceeding might stir curiosity and draw focus away from its solemn purpose," Brenda said, her ascent from the chair marking a transition in the conversation.
"Yes, Bossin," Dora replied, her acknowledgment carrying a hint of formality shadowed by distance.
"I'm not sure I'm fond of that title any more than 'milady.'"
"In Russian culture, euphemisms are often sidestepped for blunt truths. You are, unequivocally, my boss. While you seek a confidante to fill the void left by Veronika, and I aim to rise to that occasion, our current acquaintance is tender, barely budding."
"Your insight belies the youth in your years. You’re free to address me in whatever manner you find fitting. It strikes me as peculiar, though, your retention of Russian cultural nuances."
"I embody an enigma, it seems. Basic knowledge—how to navigate, communicate, foundational skills—are as clear to me as daylight. Yet, the moment I attempt to delve into personal specifics, they dissipate, like smoke slipping through my fingers."
"It must be a maddening way to navigate life," she murmured, her voice a blend of empathy and contemplation, as much a reflection to herself as a comment to Dora. After a brief pause, colored by the weight of shared understanding, Brenda added, "Why don't you use this time to settle into your new quarters adjacent to mine? Wilhelm, with his wealth of knowledge and gentle guidance, will be there to assist you should any questions or needs arise."
Stepping through the Manor’s southern portal, Brenda, Pike, and Hauch were met with a day bathed in brilliance, their elongated shadows casting a stark contrast against the verdant lushness of the courtyard gardens, a testament to resilience and renewal.
Wilhelm halted at the grand archway leading into the wings, a silent tableau of hesitation. He reached out, a gentle tug on Brenda's sleeve serving as a wordless plea for her attention. "Milady, I fear my attendance today would be ill-advised. The path is long, and weariness already takes its toll on me. More critically, my heart is a battlefield of emotions, and I dread an inadvertent gesture or glance might unravel the united front we’ve so carefully woven."
Brenda felt a pang, akin to the sharp sting of betrayal, but her response was masked in stoicism, her nod silent and her smile painted with the brush of necessity. Thus, they continued, a trio against the tide.
The procession through the archway was a passage through time itself, each step resonating with echoes of past and present, the stone pathway beneath their feet a bridge between eras. The Manor stretched behind them, a beacon of past glory and future hope, as the path spilled out towards the old driveway, which stretched on out of sight to a frontage road paralleling the highway—Munich’s chaos to the left, Mittenwald’s rebuilding to the right.
As they made their way, Brenda couldn’t help but notice it seemed as though the entire population had gathered, forming a silent sea of onlookers across the lawn. They lined the edges, carefully demarcated from the stone pathway, allowing Brenda and her companions unobstructed passage. She kept her gaze firmly on the ancient stones underfoot, deliberately not meeting the eyes of any spectator, her face a mask of focused solemnity.
What felt like an eternity of measured steps finally culminated at the base of the six steps leading up to the newly erected wooden platform. It stood out, a stark silhouette against the Manor’s timeless stone facade and the expanse of vibrant greenery that surrounded it. This structure, assembled this last week and marked by meticulous attention to detail, contrasted sharply with the natural and ancient backdrop. Its smooth, splinter-free surface and sturdy build lent an unexpected grace to the day's somber events, a testament to the human effort to maintain dignity in the face of nature’s unfazed permanence and the fleeting nature of human endeavors.
In her imagination, Brenda had envisioned the assembly neatly arrayed across the driveway, yet psychologically, the crowd had been reluctant to leave the grounds. The platform, intentionally designed with a handrail only on the driveway side, now seemed to her an architectural miscalculation, with the crowd unexpectedly positioned behind her. The notion of orchestrating a cumbersome crossing of the road for everyone had crossed her mind—but opting for practicality, she decided to simply pivot, performing an about-face to address those gathered.
Flanked by Pike and Hauch, Brenda experienced a mental disquiet stemming from the absence of the handrail at her front, a subtle architectural prompt that instinctively made her step back, seeking the slight reassurance of the handrail's solid presence behind her for support. In this pivotal moment, bullhorn in hand and poised to deliver her meticulously prepared speech, she was met with an unforeseen emptiness. The words she had so diligently rehearsed, crafted to impart resolve and direction to her community, evaded her, as elusive as shadows at dusk. While the personal messages meant for Otto and Sophice remained etched clear in her heart, the grand proclamation intended for the crowd dissolved into the silence of the moment.
Her intent was steadfast, her resolve unbroken, yet the precise articulation of her vision for their collective future momentarily evaded her, leaving Brenda in a silent struggle between the clarity of her inner convictions and the elusive nature of speech under the weight of expectation.
There, atop the makeshift stage with the expanse of expectant faces before her, Brenda felt the grip of silence tighten around her. The meticulously memorized words, once clear and compelling in the solitude of her preparations, now evaded her at this crucial juncture. Yet, the weight of the moment hung heavily in the air—silence was a luxury she could ill afford.
From her vantage point on the platform, Brenda caught a glimpse, from the corner of her eye, of where the driveway curved gently before coming to an end. There, partially obscured by the bend and shrouded in an air of finality, was the cart drawn by two horses that symbolized a poignant farewell. It stood as a silent herald of change, its presence a stark reminder of the day's gravity. The driver, on the cusp of adulthood and tasked with guiding them to the highway before returning on foot, awaited his cue to proceed—a silent figure amidst the ceremony of farewell.
Most of the cart was hidden from view, tucked away as if to spare the onlookers the full weight of its significance. There was no sign of Otto and Sophice; they remained unseen beyond its sides, their absence from view adding to the heavy cloak of anticipation that hung over the assembly. The cart, though barely visible, was a powerful emblem of the transition at hand, marking the moment when Otto and Sophice would exit Brenda's life, carried away by the steady pull of the horses into a future unwritten.
The truth, she realized, might not just be her only recourse but perhaps the most fitting prologue to the monumental task of reorganization that lay ahead.
"I guess we embrace the truth," she whispered to herself, a resolve settling within her. "After all, standing at the dawn of reorganization, what better foundation than transparency?" With a renewed sense of purpose, she lifted the bullhorn once more, its heft somehow less daunting as she prepared to bridge the gap between her internal tumult and the anticipation of the crowd. The truth, unvarnished and sincere, was about to thread itself into the fabric of their collective future, beginning with her next breath.
"Ruhigers! The words I’m about to share aren’t the ones I meticulously planned, so please forgive their unpolished nature. But know this—they will be honest. My thoughts are a whirlwind of emotions and priorities, clamoring for voice. Yet, let me begin somewhat tangentially, by expressing my profound pride in each and every one of you. Your collective efforts, your unity in striving for a better existence, have not gone unnoticed. I’ve heard whispers, flattering yet unfounded, dubbing me 'Saint Brenda.' Let me be clear—I am far from saintly, replete with flaws like any other," she paused, not just for breath but to weave her next words with care, allowing a moment of shared vulnerability and reflection.
"There have been countless rumors and outright falsehoods swirling among us, some stretching back for months, others blossoming just within this past week. The story began upon my return to reclaim the land of my forebears, only to find that Otto, a dear friend from my childhood, had safeguarded it in my absence. What might not be common knowledge among you is that he graciously offered me the mantle of leadership over this community. Leadership was never my ambition, especially seeing the commendable job Otto was doing," Brenda shared, her words prompting a wave of cheers from the crowd. The sound made her pause, wondering what thoughts and feelings were stirring behind their collective applause.
"So, in the privacy of counsel, we forged an agreement. Otto would continue to lead, while I dedicated myself to the initiatives close to my heart, such as restoring our power supply," she continued, the crowd's response growing louder with approval.
"And now, our focus shifts to the greenhouses, aiming to lessen the severity of our winter rations," she added, the response from the crowd reaching its zenith. The temptation to ride the wave of their enthusiasm was strong, but Brenda held her resolve, sticking to the essence of her message.
"We agreed that no major decisions would be made without mutual consent. This clause was seldom invoked, but when it did come into play, it was handled with the utmost discretion, preserving the facade of Otto's autonomous rule." At this revelation, a hush fell over the crowd, their attention now laser-focused. Brenda sensed the shift; they were truly listening, hanging on her every word.
"As many of you are undoubtedly aware," Brenda began, her attempt to neutralize the bitterness in her voice unsuccessful when she mentioned, "last week, Otto’s... companion," the word laced with an involuntary tinge of venom, "made an attempt on my life. This set off a tragic chain of events culminating in the loss of our dearly cherished Veronika. My initial impulse was to demand retribution, to see her face justice. However, executing such a judgment would have shattered the facade of Otto’s leadership. I directed him to carry out the sentence, and he refused." Brenda’s voice wavered, the emotional turmoil barely contained.
"It is important for everyone to understand: Otto is not banished. He is, and rightfully remains, cherished by us all, free to return once he reconciles with the situation. However, Sophice is not capable of surviving on her own, and Otto, with his boundless compassion, has chosen to accompany her into exile. While he himself faces no banishment, let it be known," Brenda paused, her voice hardening, "should Sophice ever reappear within our sights, there will be no second chances." The declaration left Brenda breathless, her heart pounding as she delivered the ultimatum in one continuous stream.
Now, she inhaled deeply, the humid air filling her lungs, searching for calm in the wake of her own storm.
"This leads us to the pressing issue of leadership. My stance remains unchanged; the mantle of leadership does not allure me. Yet, I find it imperative to retain a veto power and to serve as a silent spring of ideas at the helm. So, I pose a question to you all: How many among you feel equipped to self-motivate and independently coordinate your respective duties?" Brenda's inquiry was met with a scattered burst of enthusiasm, albeit perplexed and tepid, rippling through the crowd.
She scanned the faces before her, noting a significant detail — not a single person was departing, neither forward nor back. Their physical stillness mirrored the uncertainty that Brenda's words had stirred, yet it also hinted at a collective willingness to navigate the ambiguity together.
"How many of you would prefer I set aside a month from the greenhouse projects to determine who might step into Otto’s shoes and define their new responsibilities?" Brenda posed to the crowd, her voice cutting through the tension. The response was immediate and unequivocal: a chorus of boos and a sea of thumbs pointing downward swept through the assembly.
"Let me propose an alternative, and bear with me, as this is coming straight from the cuff: Otto surely relied on a cadre of foremen, lieutenants, or whatever title suited, who transformed 'his' visions into reality. Why not adopt this model for the interim? Furthermore, we could enlist our six and seven-year-olds, too young for physical tasks, as Quatschtüte—little 'chatterboxes,' tasked with ensuring everyone's diligence. They'll report their observations, and through their collective insights, we can navigate towards the truth," Brenda suggested, watching as a wave of tentative enthusiasm, laced with confusion, washed over her audience.
They were struggling to grasp the concept, yet Brenda saw potential where they saw perplexity. "I believe this can work," she assured them, confidence anchoring her words. "And I intend to prove it to you."
"The path forward is straightforward. The inception of our dreams and ideas has always originated with me. Our immediate challenge is to identify those among us capable of transforming these visions into tangible outcomes, allowing me to forge ahead with new dreams and innovations. What I ask of you, now, is unity and dedication—through the harvest and into the preparations for winter. We must operate as a single entity, many contributing to the welfare of the whole. Once winter brings its quiet, we will have the opportunity to thoughtfully restructure. The internal strife that has emerged must cease. We once thrived under a democracy before the collapse, and I believe it’s within our grasp to return to such a system," Brenda declared, her voice imbued with a blend of command and hope.
She paused, expecting an uproar of support, but was met instead with an unsettled murmur among the crowd, people exchanging glances and whispers. It wasn't the response she had anticipated, yet the undercurrent of dialogue was a start.
"To the foremen among you, seek me out at dinner. Together, we’ll devise a strategy that demands minimal time from me while maximizing our collective output."
As she concluded, a subtle change permeated the air—the sweet scent of lilacs mingling with the oppressive humidity, hinting at a shift not just in weather but perhaps in perspective. Brenda reviewed her address in her mind, reassured that despite the unconventional delivery, the essential messages had been conveyed. Now, it was time to focus on Otto’s departure. She gave Pike a discreet nod, and he, understanding, signaled to the driver.
As the cart aligned itself alongside the stand, Brenda's gaze wandered into its depths. It was laden with supplies, a testament to Otto's preparedness—a collection of essentials complemented by the sturdy cart and the two horses that would carry them into the unknown. Brenda's heart swelled with a mix of gratitude and resignation; Otto had been her rock, her steadfast ally, and he deserved nothing less than everything he might require for this journey.
Sophice presented a heart-wrenching sight amidst the provisions. Her trousers were crudely shortened, the ends tied off above where her feet once were, and she was swathed in a blanket that, under the relentless sun, must have felt like a furnace. Her appearance struck Brenda with a pang of pity and unresolved anger. The young woman's eyes, clouded and unseeing, wandered aimlessly, not settling on any one thing, her gaze as lost as she seemed to be. Incoherent murmurs escaped her lips, disjointed words that dissolved into the heavy air, carrying no meaning. Otto sat by her side, his presence a silent vow of protection, as he tenderly dabbed her forehead with a damp cloth, offering whatever comfort he could muster in the face of such profound despair.
Brenda had prepared words for Sophice, a speech laden with the weight of judgment and the sting of betrayal, but seeing her in this diminished state, the words lost their purpose. It was a confrontation that would bear no fruit, a closure that would remain elusive.
There she lay, a figure hobbled and partially sightless, possibly enfeebled, ensnared within a blanket that seemed more a prison than a cover. And yet, despite Sophice's evident helplessness, a visceral thread of fear twined through Brenda's heart, prompting her to subtly ensure Hauch remained slightly closer to the railing than herself. A relentless mantra, 'What would I do in her place?' echoed through Brenda's thoughts, a testament to the strategic planner within, always assessing, always preparing. Brenda knew the actions she would take, the decisive steps of self-preservation, but the mechanics of execution eluded her in this moment of moral quandary.
Sophice's vulnerability did little to dampen the perceived threat she posed. The idea that it wasn't too late to end the potential danger Sophice represented with a single, decisive act gnawed at Brenda. A part of her couldn't shake the feeling that she might live to regret this moment of mercy or indecision.
"Otto, my gratitude for all you’ve done knows no bounds. Even with the full weight of knowledge between us, your choice to remain by her side baffles me. Yet, perhaps it's that very expansive heart of yours—the one that protected my Manor when it needed it most—that guides your actions now. It wrenches my heart to witness this departure, so I'll keep this brief. You will always have a home here, always. If ever you return, even if merely for supplies, Tal der Ruhe will welcome you with open arms. Your presence here is missed, deeply. As for her, stepping back into this territory would seal her fate." Brenda paused, the weight of her words hanging in the air, a sudden realization of her harsh phrasing shadowing her expression. "That was a poor choice of words. Keep heading north—whether west or east."
Otto remained silent, a choice that spoke volumes to Brenda as she searched his eyes. Within their depths, she discerned a tumult of pain, numbness, a sense of betrayal, and a swirling confusion. He had always been a man of measured silence, choosing to withhold his words rather than voice something he might later lament. Yet, the raw emotion Brenda saw reflected back at her—the unspoken dialogue of his gaze—promised to etch itself into the fabric of her nightmares, a haunting reminder of the cost of their decisions.
At that moment, Sophice emitted a startling squawk, sudden and sharp, that sent a flurry of blackbirds exploding out of a nearby tree. Every onlooker flinched at the unexpected cry—every onlooker, that is, except Hauch, who remained unshaken.
"Wurfsendung! Drive!" Otto's command cut through the ensuing silence, urgent and resolute, urging the driver to hasten their departure.
As the cart began its retreat, Brenda found herself caught in a whirlwind of emotion. Loss gnawed at her, panic fluttered in her chest, and a strange sense of relief whispered through the tumult, alongside a myriad of feelings she couldn't quite name. She stood motionless, a silent sentinel, as the cart carrying Otto and Sophice dwindled into the distance, eventually vanishing down the driveway until it was nothing but a memory fading into the horizon.
Only then did she turn back around and look at the crowd that clearly didn't know if it was allowed to leave.
"Those of you who already know what your tasks are for tomorrow, please stick to them. We can't afford to lose any vegetables. And to those whose role it is to oversee others, make sure you're doing just that. The next few days are going to be tough. But I assure you, I will get my shit together."