It was a half an hour later when Arnold got tired of being in the sitting room and excused himself with the idea of visiting the greenhouse outside. To his delight, it happened to be unlocked and without anyone else in sight.

The building wasn’t particularly large, but had a high ceiling, and what took Arnold by surprise was the warmth inside: he had never been in a greenhouse (Whitelake didn’t have any, as most of the products were bought from other regions), and although he’d heard that a certain level of temperature was to be maintained in them, he was still unprepared for this. When the feeling of being sucked into a stuffy vacuum receded, Arnold caught himself wondering if the gardener really was a Summer Witch – he’d heard that Northern Witches weren’t good at taking care of plants and besides, someone had to preserve the warmth in here.

He looked around.

There was a small gravel road in the middle and a patch of grass next to it. The rest of the view was obscured by tall greenery. He spotted a small cabin in one of the corners and approached it, peeking in through a small window. There was a bed, a radio, a pile of newspapers and books, as well as a table and some gardening instruments Arnold had only seen in illustrated books. There was no one inside. Arnold looked around cautiously, and, trying to look as oblivious as possible, stepped on the grass.

When nothing happened, he made another few steps. Arnold paused, as if waiting for someone to come in and stop him. Finally, he took off his vest, sat down on it with his back to the entrance, and ran his hand over the top edges of the trimmed grass. It was the oddest sensation he’d ever gone though; Arnold had never had the chance to touch grass before, and according to a few black market books he had, it was supposed to be ‘soft’. With disappointment, Arnold found it… sharp. It was also not clear green or fresh like the descriptions in the books had said. Green did exist somewhere in the spectrum of colors, yes, but there was also yellow, gray and patches of brown, and to top, there were also many other strands of what Arnold was quite sure wasn’t grass that didn’t seem to belong here. He thought he spotted a few clovers, too.

“I’m surprised you’re still alive in here.”

Arnold yelped and pulled his hand away. Looking up, he saw Ian, standing tall above him, examining their surroundings.

“Er…um. He-hello, Sir.” Remembering Ian’s statement, he added, “W-why, Sir?”

Ian slumped down on the grass and stripped his jacket. He made a bundle of it and used it as a head rest.

“I can barely breathe,” he said. “It’s too hot.”

“I-I think they are supposed to be warm.” Arnold leaned forward and looked up at the glass ceiling.

“Green… house…” murmured Ian slowly, “This has always made me picture houses painted green.”

“I-I think, uh, people from the Unfrozen built them… for cultivating edible plants. It m-makes sense, doesn’t it, Sir? The—the name, that is.”

“Arnold,” Ian opened one eye and looked up at him. “Just Ian will do. I am not a knight, nor a prince.”

Arnold lay down on his stomach and rested his chin on his arms. He was able to look at Ian this way.

“You d-deserve the title, Sir.” Arnold gave him a smile. His eyes darted to look at Ian’s cheeks and he pressed his lips together, directing his gaze in another direction.

Ian had noticed Arnold’s stare and touched the side of his face with the tips of his fingers.

“No, they are—“ Ian groaned and raised his voice with the correction, “They aren’t recent. Don’t mind them.”

“You can speak Aurorian if you prefer, Sir.”

“I know English well enough.”

“S-sorry, Sir. You just seem more—more comfortable—”

“Thank you, but this is fine.” Ian said, “…And those are result of a few training duels I’ve had in my childhood, that’s all.”

“C-childhood, Sir?…” Arnold’s mind raced. “I thought—I thought applying the official duel rules only happened after seventeen…”

Ian didn’t respond, and Arnold felt his stomach clench in embarrassment.

He quickly said, “Uh, but ac—actually, it was—your hair. That I-I had been… focusing… wondering about, Sir.”

“My hair?” Ian gave him a confused look.

“The—style, Sir. If you allow, Sir, are you, um, are you… a—reb—rebel?”

Ian sat up with what Arnold thought was a short, stifled laugh.

“I wouldn’t go that far. No, I felt it more comfortable when cut short, and I simply do not believe that Mraz Creator would give—would care whether or not my appearance as a Witch has been slightly altered.” He paused for a brief moment. “I suppose that does put me on the same level as rebels, doesn’t it.”

“Ah—but—but, Sir, not all of it is…?” Arnold stopped, feeling he was heading into dangerous territories.

Ian moved his gaze to the ceiling and there was silence for a while.

“Father told me that if I was going to cut my hair, I should at least keep… those covered. In his opinion it would look like I was parading my losses around.”

Arnold needed a moment to contemplate that strange use of words.

“Y…you mean, um, showing you’ve lost?”

Ian nodded. “I must say I agree with him. I’m supposing the scars’ position on my face was lucky.”

After some hesitation, Arnold said, “Sir Ian, I-I do not think… t-that it would have been… shameful. To show them. After—after all, Sir, scars are… they just show we’re still—” Arnold halted, as if struck by a thought. He looked down at his hands, and then gave Ian a smile. “—that we’re standing even after losing a few battles. You did— your best.”

“You’re the second person who says something similar to me.” Ian managed a smile. “I don’t think I could see it that way, but thank you.”

Though he wanted to protest, Arnold couldn’t think of anything coherent to reply, so he remained quiet.

The blizzard outside raged on at full strength.