"Satisfied?" he asks.
"Mostly," I admit. "Creativity is always a compromise between vision and execution."
"A philosophical approach to flower arranging."
"Everything is philosophy when freedom is limited," I reply, unable to resist the subtle jab.
Rather than showing irritation, he seems almost amused by my persistence. "Even in captivity, the mind remains free to create. To find meaning in constraint."
"Poetic justification for imprisonment."
"Realistic assessment of universal conditions," he counters. "All lives operate within constraints, Penelope. The difference lies in recognizing them rather than fighting against immovable boundaries."
I begin cleaning my workspace, gathering scattered stems and leaves. "Is that how you justify what you've done?"
"I don't need justification." His voice remains even, matter-of-fact. "I entered a business arrangement with your father that happens to include marriage. The legal and ethical frameworks surrounding such arrangements may be complex, but they are entirely legitimate."
"Ethics that conveniently align with your objectives."
"As opposed to ethics that would condemn me while failing to improve your situation?" He moves to help me clear the workspace, the domestic gesture incongruous with our conversation. "Moral outrage without a practical alternative offers nothing but emotional satisfaction, Penelope."
I find myself unable to form an immediate response. Instead, I focus on completing my cleanup, maintaining physical activity while organizing my thoughts.
"The arrangement for Violet's wedding is nearly complete," I say, changing topics. "I should deliver it to her preparation suite personally."
"Victor will accompany you," he agrees, the concession coming more easily than I'd anticipated. "Fifteen minutes of private conversation, as agreed."
I nod, relieved that this small mercy remains intact despite Richard's disruptive presence. "Thank you."
"Your compliance these past weeks has not gone unnoticed," he says, studying me with that assessing gaze.
We work in companionable silence for several minutes, placing tools in their proper storage, disposing of plant waste, preparing containers for the next day's work. The domestic rhythm feels almost normal, a dangerous illusion of partnership rather than captivity.
"My uncle mentioned your lunch was productive," Gage says finally, breaking the silence. "He found you 'refreshingly direct' compared to his usual social interactions."
"He was surprisingly forthcoming about your childhood," I reply, watching for reaction. "Though more through implication than direct statement."
That tell again—the slight flexing of his hand. "Richard has always excelled at saying much while revealing little. Whatever picture he painted is likely distorted by his own agenda."
"Which is?"
"Complex and primarily self-serving." Gage leans against the workbench, his posture more relaxed than usual.
"He mentioned your mother," I venture cautiously. "That you protected her."
Gage goes still, his expression hardening into something dangerous. For a moment, I fear I've pushed too far, crossed some invisible boundary that will result in renewed restrictions.
"My mother is not a topic for discussion," he says finally, voice controlled but with an undercurrent of genuine emotion. "With anyone. Including Richard."
I nod, accepting this boundary as something different from his usual strategic limitations. This feels personal rather than tactical—perhaps the most genuine response I've witnessed from him.
"I apologize," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to intrude on private matters."
He studies me for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of my apology. Whatever he sees appears to satisfy him, because his expression softens marginally.
"You're working with the black dahlias tomorrow?" he asks, deliberately changing the subject.
"Yes. They're reaching peak bloom." I accept the conversational shift, recognizing the olive branch for what it is. "I'm planning an arrangement for the front entryway."
