Ophelia flits here and there these days like an easily-startled deer, diverting her path the moment she hears someone coming. For all that the mansion and its environs make a miniature world, to her it feels impossibly vast, as if she spent her days in Denmark only moving from her closet to the chapel to the lobby to the banquet hall, never venturing outside the palace walls. (She did.)

She could've spent her days in the woods outside her brother's house, and never seen an end to them. The winter weather keeps more people in-doors, and she can walk for hours without chancing on a single soul. She has a vintage Canon camera around her neck, and birdseed in her pocket to lure birds for closer shots. She needn't go to the main house for anything. (She did.)

Like a deer, she freezes when she sees the young man's face. "Good morrow," she murmurs. She moves to curtsy, then abruptly remembers she's wearing over-alls and snowboots.