He nodded. “I enjoy the process, even when I make mistakes and have to go back a hundred measures.”
“You haven’t had much time for that lately.” Aside from the music he’d written for darksouls and the memorial, anyway. He was too busy walking around Range with me, escorting me to lessons, doing all the things the Council required of him if he wanted me to stay in Heart. He’d put so many things aside for me.
Sam shook his head. “I’ve had a lot of time to do a lot of things, and I’ll always find time for what I enjoy. Don’t forget, I do enjoy you.”
His words warmed me as we continued to Cris’s house.
I didn’t have to ask to know when we arrived: the entire yard was a garden. Vines climbed over an iron archway wrought into silhouettes of hawks and storks and grouse. Hedges lined the path toward the house, hidden behind immense trees.
From the main walkway, more paths broke off like cracks in glass. One grew into a tiny wooden bridge—posts capped with flowerpots—that went over a stream so small it wouldn’t get your ankle wet to step in it. Benches, birdbaths, and huge stone flowerpots with leaves spilling over the sides stood in a tiny clearing. Statues of the Range megafauna lurked in corners or at a fountain, as though lapping water.
Leaves hissed in the wind, and ancient maple trees rattled. Mourning doves cooed, jays and wrens and shrikes sang, and a woodpecker tapped rhythm. The scents of green and water and flowers replaced the fumarole stench, and I drew a long breath, smiling.
“What is it?” Sam touched my elbow.
I looked up at him, a dark figure against the bright sky and foliage. “I can hear music.”
“Don’t let it go. Keep it in your head until we get home and you can write it down.” His voice lowered as he leaned toward me. “I want to find out if it’s the same music I hear.”
His was probably better than mine, but I smiled. “This way?” I motioned in the direction we’d been going.
To either side of the white stone house, which was covered with climbing roses, a pair of long glass buildings reached just as tall. Their windows were fogged, but it was impossible to ignore the green inside, and my heart jumped when I caught sight of familiar indigo roses near the door of one.
I squeezed Sam’s hand. “Where do you think he is?”
His tone was easy. Happy, almost. “Somewhere in the garden, I assume.”
Really helpful. The entire place was a maze, shades of green plants, gray cobbles and stonework, and the occasional squirrel or chipmunk peering from hidden houses someone had built as nests. That seemed like something Cris would do, sheltering animals others treated like pests.
He emerged from a greenhouse and waved us closer. “I was just cleaning up for your visit,” he said as we approached. “Come inside. I think you’ll enjoy this.”
Though I smiled and thanked him, I felt clumsy trying to watch my step, to make sure I trampled nothing. Sam, of course, glided through easily, and the plants barely seemed affected by his passage. I watched enviously, trying to find the same footing through a patch of tall—I didn’t even know what they were without blooms—plants, but my foot slipped on a rock, and I had to grab his shoulder for balance.
“Step this way,” Cris said, offering a hand. “I just watered that area, so it’s still damp. Sorry.”
I nodded, keeping one hand on Sam, and used the other to take Cris’s. We made it safely over a cluster of slick stones without incident, then onto a path that led to the greenhouse door.
The air glowed verdant with the many-tiered shelves running the length of the building. It was hot and humid, a weird shift from the coolness outside. No breeze, either.
But the colors were amazing. Shades of green certainly dominated, leaves and stems and buds, but splashes of orange and yellow and pink made dizzying patterns on shadows and glass.
I slipped away from Sam and Cris, letting my bag drop as I tried to slow my frantic heartbeat. There were so many roses, all shapes and colors, and the sweet scent was overwhelming. I felt like I could open my mouth and breathe it all in, capture the perfume in my chest, next to my heart.
He didn’t have just white roses, but ivory and cream and old lace; and not just red roses, but ruby and scarlet and burgundy. I leaned to smell individual flowers, fiery petals tickling my nose and chin.
My face must have burned as bright as the roses when I glanced up to find both boys watching me. Sam had picked up my bag and hung back while Cris approached.
“These are Phoenix roses,” he said, indicating the ones I’d just been sniffing. “Do you like them?”
I gazed at the perfect red, the spiral of petals, and the spicy scent so thick I could almost taste it. “Very much.”
Cris chuckled. “That’s not a surprise. They’re Sam’s favorite, too.”