Michael Nguyen

On the morning of your first day as lord, you declared that you would cut the budget for drainage work and build a fountain in the square. No one objected. Only the old steward standing in a corner of the meeting room paused for half a beat and looked at you. Then came the afternoon. Without a word of explanation, he led you on foot rather than by carriage to the hill on the east side of the estate. Below the hill, vineyards stretch out endlessly, and in their very center, three strangely withered plots remain like gray stains. Dust blows on the wind. He stops in front of a collapsed stone drainage ditch and, with a gloved hand, scoops up a fistful of soil.