Lane touches one of the buds, almost reverently. “In spring, this one’s always first. Doesn’t wait for warmth, just pushes out and takes its chances.”
I look up at him, at the planes of his face, at the way the winter light softens the scars and deepens the shadows. He’s a handsome man, but his roughness disguises it. There’s a gravity to him that makes everything else seem frivolous. He looks real. Raw.
He notices my gaze and looks away, as if embarrassed. “My father used to call these hope flowers,” he says, voice rough. “Said if you got a good bloom, it meant the year would go easy. Never did for us.”
I wonder what he means, but I know better than to ask.
Instead, I ask “Do you live in the house? I haven’t seen you around.”
He shakes his head. “Got a cottage out back by the river. Used to join old Miss Maeve for dinner sometimes, though.” He almost smiles at the memory and that does something to my insides.
“I didn’t know. You’ll have to join me—or, us—from now on.”
His face twists like he knows I was referring to Larkin. “S’okay. I manage.”
“I’m sure you do, but that’s not the point. The house is too big for one or two people. The more the merrier, I think.”
“Fine.” And that’s all he has to say about it. Just a lukewarm commitment. I can’t help but smile at his simple reactions, but tamp it down.
“You know a lot about plants,” I say after a short silence.
He shrugs, but there’s pride in it. “Better than knowing about people.”
I laugh, and the sound breaks the hush of the maze. Lane seems startled, then pleased.
We circle the clearing, our breath streaming in white plumes. He shows me the twisted remains of a rose garden, the climbing vines trained into cruel geometries against the old stone, the beds of foxglove and hellebore and aconite. It’s a murderers’ row of botanicals, every one beautiful and deadly.
“Why so many poisons?” I ask.
Lane runs a hand over a cluster of monkshood, the flowers long gone but the stems still rigid. “It’s a kind of tradition. Story goes, the Vales always liked to test the limits.” He stops, studies me for a moment. “Most people who come here can’t tell the difference between what’ll kill you and what won’t. But you—” He trails off.
“But me what?”
He shrugs. “You pay attention. Most city people walk straight into it.”
I want to ask how he knows where I’m from, but realize it doesn’t matter. Everything about me, from my shoes to the cut of my coat, is a dead giveaway. I wonder what he thinks of me, this trespasser with no history, this reluctant heir.
We complete the circuit of the maze and emerge at a low stone bench, carved with a family crest—my family’s crest, I suppose—that’s been eroded into near-illegibility. Lane sits, stretching his legs out in front of him. I hesitate, then join him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
He studies the garden, not looking at me. “You planning to keep the place?” he asks, voice careful.
I consider lying, but the truth is easier. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means yet. The house, the grounds, Mrs. Whitby’s formality . . . it’s all more overwhelming than I expected.”
He nods, as if this is the only acceptable answer. “Place like this, it’ll make up your mind for you.”
We sit in silence, the kind that would be awkward if it weren’t so peaceful. The wind stirs the branches overhead, and the magnolia shivers. I think about what Lane said, about hope flowers and hard years and tradition. I wonder what it would be like to belong to something the way he belongs to this garden—to have your roots sunk so deep you can’t be dug out, not without killing the whole damn thing.
Lane stands, dusts off his hands. “Storm’s close now. Better head in before it gets dark.”
I nod, reluctant to leave the maze behind. As we retrace our path, I notice that Lane walks more slowly this time, matching my pace. When we reach the main path, he stops and faces me, his expression unreadable.
“If you need anything,” he says, “I’m always out here.”
I try to think of a clever reply, but all I manage is, “Thank you.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I curse myself for it.
He gives me a look—a long, searching look—and then turns away, vanishing between the hedges without another word.
I watch him go, feeling the cold settle into my bones. When I finally head back to the house, the sky is almost black, and the first fat flakes of snow are beginning to fall.
