Margaret Delgado

The third day of the late-summer inspection tour, at the oldest vineyard on the hill above Ragnes village. Half the vines had withered and died in the deep-winter frost, but now the vineyard is green again, and bunches ready for harvest hang heavy in the sunlight. Edwin, the steward, stayed behind at the village hall to balance the ledgers. As you step down from the carriage and enter the field, an old woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat straightens her back, pruning shears still in hand. Margaret Delgado—she has tended this field since your father's time. A year ago, when you first came to the domain, she turned her back on you instead of greeting you, and all winter long she silently accepted the firewood carts sent from the manor. Today, for the first time, she jerks her chin toward one of the two wooden chairs set in the middle of the field.