Why, [ He waits until she’s seated to slip down beside, cautious to balance the tray. A passing glance from the tips of her toes and back, to find her face once more. ] Are you thinking to rob me of it?

[ His own smile is worn-in, wry; as ready and waiting as the sleeves of a favourite coat. Shrugged on and off again as need demands, and no less genuine for the way it now crinkles about his eyes.

(No more for it, either). ]

No, if only. The Inquisition tends it. I understand that bringing it back was quite the undertaking — still withered, even a year ago.

[ Once there'd been another woman, another garden; older: Hedgerows, maze, that same pleasant laugh. It had been the work of servants' lifetimes to keep both tidied away. And for what? If there's been magic shed here, time given,

Well. Better company. At least you don't get lost in the bloody thing. ]