A small wooden horse lay in Joseph Lancaster's broad palm, not exceptionally exquisite, but certainly crafted with care.
The entire body had been smoothed with fine sandpaper, and the mane and tail were threaded with thick yarn. Let's not even discuss the effort required for those precise little holes; even the body of the horse had been colored.
The Lancaster family's courtyard was large, filled with countless flowers and plants. The colors on the wooden horse's body were made from petals Joseph Lancaster picked himself, crushed into juice with a rolling pin.
Pure natural dye, not only harmless but also releasing a faint fragrance. Yet, Violet Zimmerman's attention was on the palm holding the wooden horse.
Her fingertips tremblingly touched, gently stroking the scars that had yet to fade. Violet bit her lip, trembling as she asked, "These... are they knife wounds?"
