Robert
Lately, Ernest had had a hard time handling the fact that all this land was *His* Now. Ma and Pa were too old, and frankly, not right anymore since they had disappeared into them woods. Francis had been the one to take it all on, and as much as Ernest had disliked praising his brother in the past, he knew the man had run this place well... For the most part. It was a well-oiled machine, even if Francis was dealing in some particularly shady business towards the end of his life. Christ almighty, Ernest didn't even know where to begin siftin' through all those letters. Angry letters, mostly. Demandin' a whole lotta shit that Ernest didn't have. How do ya explain that Francis Estep had up and died, and sorry, he didn't have what they were askin' for no more? 

Either way, Ernest couldn't rightly believe that these acres now were all in his hands. He'd always wanted a piece of the pie but he didn't know he'd get the whole damn pan with it. Hell, he wondered if he even deserved it. He didn't work for a damn thing. All Francis had to do was up and die on 'em for Ernest to get what he'd wanted for so damn long, and that just didn't sit right with him. But to hell, he wasn't about to watch this operation go under, neither. He wouldn't squander this opportunity none. 

He liked to familiarize himself with the land - it was a damn lot, wasn't it? Ernest had taken to try and look around every corner, 'cuz God knows, things changed in five years. The biggest tree on the orchard lay dead ahead; a great big thing, the top leaves felt like it could nearly brush the sky. The silhouette of a woman below was what caught his eye, and as Ernest drew nearer, he felt he could certainly recognize her face. *Marianne Wilburn*, if he was recalling correct. They were around the same age, yeah? She looked real sad, didn't she? 

"Y'alright?" He called to her, stepping into the shade with his eyebrow raised.
James
He had promised her, back in the winter, that when the apple trees burst forth in colour and the sun shone through the branches, dappling the rich ground in light and life, that he would bring her here. That they would walk where small feet had once run, talk where children's laughter had been carried on summer breezes. That he would take her by the hand as she had when she was small, and rather than drag her onward in search of adventure, he would stay by her side. 

Francis had not made it to the summertime. But Marianne had, and so, one afternoon late in May, when the air hung thick with bright, wet heat, she had followed the hum of the bees and found herself in the orchard alone. 

It was strange to her, to walk alone in a place where she had always had company. It had been many years since she'd come by the orchard and actually walked *In* The gates instead of simply looking through the elaborate wrought-iron bars. The Estep orchard had been a bustling place when the brandy operations were in full swing, scattered with workers and more often than not, Francis himself - he had, after all, never been a man to shy away from work to be done.

And if she had come to enjoy the view of him between the trees, freckled skin shining with sweat and callused hands shining too with the gold of the rings that Marianne now wore around her neck... Well, who could blame her?

She held those rings, now, feeling the cool of the metal in her hand. Imagined them hot, instead, burning skin the way that that damned cross had burned April Abrams' palm in the town square months before. Had Francis burned the same? When had he known? When, exactly, had he taken them off, and why hadn't he told her, and...

It was, altogether, far too much to think about. 

Under the largest tree in the orchard, Marianne stopped, and leaned up against its great trunk, to catch her breath and feel the breeze ruffle through her curls, and to try to clear her mind of all thoughts. The shade here felt good - she had been out for long enough already, and no doubt would find herself freckled and burnt in equal parts come the next morning. But none of it mattered. 
He had promised her they would come, and in his absence, she had come alone, and in that, she would find sanctuary among the leaves he had loved so much. If he had stayed, and loved her even half as much as he loved the saplings, then she would have been loved enough to last her a lifetime. 

A voice broke through, then, seemingly out of nowhere and achingly familiar, and she looked up from where her eyes had landed on her own feet.

If the great tree had not been at her back, then she would perhaps have collapsed where she stood, for her gaze landed upon Estep brown eyes and strong shoulders, on tight curls and full lips and contoured cheeks. 

*Francis.*

And then, she blinked, and it wasn't Francis at all. 
This man was younger - like the Francis she had come to know again when she first returned to Briar Ridge. His hair was longer and his clothes were more of the city-style and he wasn't so tall, and... She knew him, still, but this was not the man she longed to see again.

For a moment, though, it had been as though his spirit stood before her. The May heat had been forgotten, and her very bones felt heavy and cold as January snowfalls. 

Marianne opened her mouth, to try to tell Ernest - *Ernest*, who she hadn't seen in many years, not Francis, whose body lay buried only a short walk from here - that she was fine. 
Instead, she promptly burst into tears. 

||
Robert
He damn near jumped back a foot or two as the floodgates of Marianne's emotions seemed to burst. He hadn't meant to make her cry; certainly not! He would have to be plain stupid to not understand the root of her upset. He had know Marianne, once upon a time, though she had always been closer to Francis. Of course, Ernest didn't mind that - women had never been an object of his affection, but he also knew that Marianne and Francis' relationship had been far more complicated. He was older, and she had been doe-eyed and young. From what he'd gathered from his own sister, their romance had been a more recent development. Marianne didn't just mourn a friend, but a *Lover.* Ernest couldn't blame her for the tears, nor her ghostly presence in the orchard. 

"Marianne," He said, voice real gentle as he came closer. "S'awright, I didn't mean t'...Startle ya." Though he wasn't sure if it was his presence that had made her cry, or perhaps he'd just caught her at a bad time. Surely, she didn't think he would throw her off the property, did she? He dropped down into the grass, settling in by the roots, just as she did. Ernest pulled his knees in towards his chest, looking up into the branches above their heads. "....Y'remember," He started, chewing on his bottom lip. "He was real good at entertainin', huh? Charismatic son of a bitch," He cracked a small smile. "Gotta give him that. Charming as all hell." Ernest paused for a long time. 

"...Those his rings?" He asked her, pointing to the chain 'round her neck. "Glad they ended up in the right hands."
James
Though she did all she could to stem the flow of her tears, stopping them appeared to be out of the question for the time being. How bitter it was that every time she thought she was past crying over what she had lost, it came back to bite her. How grief stung like nettle-barbs, scratched into her skin like tiny thorns over and over until it grew to be something she could no longer ignore. Seeing Ernest should not have made her cry so, and yet, cry she did, even as he came to sit by her, offering apologies, and then going on. 

Ernest and Francis had never been the closest of brothers - at least, hadn't seemed that way to Marianne, though she had shared in childish play with both of them and Dotty more times than she could count. It was still strange to hear folks talk of Fran in the past tense, in *Was* In place of *Is*. She followed his gaze up to the leaves overhead, and clung to his words, and when she thought she had full control of her voice again, gave a small nod. 
"He was... Oh, he was." Charismatic and charming were only the beginning when it came to describing Francis. "Could give him a lot of things, really - I *Did* Give him... So much." 
She sighed softly, and though she could not muster a smile to mirror Ernest's, she could look at him, and remind herself that he was a friend despite it all, and watch as he gestured to the rings that hung around her neck. 

Her hand came to them again, fingers closing around the metal. "Dotty gave them to me... Just before he passed on, really. My guess is that she'd no idea you'd be coming home, though. I- I got some other pieces of him. His scarf, and a sapling he was tending to, and..." She stopped herself before she could say *His heart*, for it was truer that Francis had taken a part of hers, and that it lay buried in his grave alongside his own poor ruined one. "I don't mind, if you wanted them back. If they ought to stay with the family rather than with me."

||
Robert
Ernest shook his head, eyes flickering about her person for a moment more before casting them off towards the orchard once more. "Naw. They ended up with the right person," He assured her. He couldn't help but think that Francis would like how things ended up, in a way; not the whole *Dying early* Bit, but the impression he'd made on people. Marianne would always carry a piece of him with her, wherever she went. This orchard would have his blood, sweat, and tears in it's soil. His soul was soaked into the roots of every apple tree in this damned place. Francis was a bit of a cocky bastard; liked to show off, didn't he? Well, he had really left this world with a bang. 

He felt his chest get tight in a way that he hadn't allowed himself. When the letter had come from Dotty, he hadn't wept. When he took the long train back home, when he'd stepped in the house, when he'd walked the length of the orchards and back - not a tear had fallen. But now, looking at Marianne, his chest felt constricted. Like a great snake of grief had wrapped itself around his body and tightened, willing him to give up his breath to be consumed in one large, jaw-unhinged gulp. 

"I ain't-" He paused, his voice was gravelly and rough, and he cleared his throat. It felt like he had something lodged in his throat. "I ain't get to 'pologize to him, before he..." He bit down on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood as he did. "I said a lotta... Lotta mean shit to him 'fore I left town." He glanced to Marianne. "Some of it he rightly deserved, you know he was a hardass 'n a bastard at times but-" He sucked in a breath. "He was still my brother. Still... Francis."