Evan found Althea in her garden, as he'd come to expect. She was pruning a bush with silver leaves, her movements precise and gentle, her attention completely focused on her work.
"Lord Carter," she said without looking up. "The Memory Tree has been singing all morning. I wondered if you'd visit."
"I didn't mean to disturb it."
"You don't disturb. You... encourage." She snipped a dead branch. "The tree hasn't been this lively in years. It remembers something. Or anticipates something."
Evan sat on the stone bench beneath the tree. The crystal fruits chimed softly, their sounds weaving into something almost melodic—a song of memories, of moments captured in crystal.
"I was in the library earlier," he said.
"Ah. Mira's domain. How is my granddaughter?"
"Your...?" Evan blinked. "Mira is your GRANDDAUGHTER?"
"On my daughter's side. She takes after me. Curious. Pragmatic. Prefers books to people." Althea smiled faintly. "People are messy. Books are orderly. Until you came along, of course."
"She showed me something. A ledger. With patterns."
Althea's pruning shears stilled. "Did she."
"Expenditures every third month. Always the same. Always hidden."
The old gardener was silent for a long moment. The only sounds were the Memory Tree's chimes and the distant murmur of the palace.
"Some secrets," she said finally, "are secrets for a reason."
"Even if they're wrong?"
"ESPECIALLY if they're wrong." She set down her shears and came to sit beside him. "The palace is an old place, Evan. It has layers. Like a garden. What's on the surface is beautiful, ordered. What's beneath... that's where the roots are. And roots are rarely pretty."
"What are the roots of this secret?"
"I don't know. And I don't WANT to know." She met his eyes. "I'm old enough to understand that some questions are better left unasked. And some truths are better left buried."
"But if it's wrong—"
"Right and wrong are gardener's concepts. In nature, things just ARE." She gestured to the garden around them. "This rose has thorns. Is that wrong? It just IS. That vine chokes the tree. Is that wrong? It just IS. The tree dies, the vine thrives, something else grows. The garden doesn't judge. It just... continues."
Evan looked at the Memory Tree. One of the crystal fruits glowed brighter than the others. As he watched, it showed him a memory not his own:
A younger Althea, maybe twenty, kneeling in this same spot, planting a sapling. Tears on her face. A man's hand on her shoulder. A voice saying, "Some things must grow in secret."
The memory faded. The fruit dimmed.
Althea saw where he was looking. "The tree shows you things."
"It shows me YOUR memory."
"Some memories are meant to be shared. Others..." She touched the fruit that had glowed. It chimed softly. "My husband planted this tree. The day before he left for a war he didn't return from. He said it would remember him when everyone else forgot."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. The tree remembers. That's enough." She stood, brushing soil from her robes. "Be careful with secrets, Evan. And be careful with your magic. It reveals things. And some things... some people don't WANT revealed."
She returned to her pruning, the conversation clearly over.
Evan sat a while longer under the Memory Tree. The fruits chimed, showing him glimpses—not full memories, just fragments. A laugh here. A tear there. A whispered promise. A broken one. A kiss in the rain. A goodbye at dawn.
His magic had improved the tree. Made its memories clearer. Sharper. More true.
But truth, he was learning, was a complicated thing. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes it just made everything more difficult.
As he left the garden, he passed the hedge-dragon. It had continued to change since his first night. The metallic sheen was more pronounced now, covering most of its body. The shape was more detailed—scales, claws, wings folded against its back. And now, tiny flowers bloomed along its back like spines, red as rubies, each one perfect.
It was becoming real. Or as real as a hedge could be.
Evan touched one of the ruby-flowers. It was soft, velvety, warm. It smelled like cinnamon and something else—something wild, something ancient.
The hedge-dragon didn't move. But he had the distinct impression it was pleased. That it had been waiting for this attention.
"Just don't start breathing fire," he told it. "That would be problematic. Very problematic. The gardeners would have opinions."
The hedge, of course, didn't reply. But the flowers seemed to glow a little brighter, and for a moment, Evan could have sworn he saw it smile.
Back in his rooms, Evan found a note on his desk. Elegant script on thick paper that hummed faintly with magic.
Lord Carter,
Your presence is requested at the Twilight Court this evening. Informal gathering. No demonstrations required. Music, conversation, refreshments. A chance to meet the court in a more... relaxed setting.
I do hope you'll attend.
- Lady Cordelia
Emma, who had let herself in and was examining the now-synchronized sphere and orb (they had added a third object to their orbit—a small vase that had somehow gotten involved), glanced over. "Twilight Court. Fancy."
"What is it?"
"Less formal than day court. More... social. Music, conversation, subtle politics, strategic alliances. Also better wine. The queen stocks the Twilight Court with her personal collection."
"Do I have to go?"
"Requested by Lady Cordelia? Yes. She's... influential. And holds grudges. Long ones. She once ruined a family because they served her cold soup at a dinner party."
"Wonderful." Evan looked at the note. "What does she want?"
"To assess you. Outside of formal demonstrations. To see how you handle yourself when you're not being tested." Emma grinned. "Also, her son is recently single, and she's famously ambitious. So maybe she wants to see if you're marriage material."
Evan stared at her. "I'm not marrying anyone."
"Tell her that. I'm sure she'll be very reasonable about it." Emma's grin widened. "She's very reasonable about everything. That's what makes her terrifying."
The sphere and orb chose that moment to increase their orbit speed, circling each other in a blur of metal and light, the vase trying desperately to keep up.
"See?" Emma said. "Even your decorations are nervous."
Evan sighed. Another event. More politics. More people watching him, assessing him, trying to figure out how to use him.
He was starting to miss the simple days of accidentally breaking furniture. At least that was straightforward. At least that made sense.
***