Fairy lights and paper lanterns illuminated the Enchanted Gardens, lending credence to its name and making him feel as if they’d stepped into another world. Even just a few dozen feet beyond the entrance, the sensory assault of the city had already faded. The temperature was warm and comfortable, the air scented with flowers, the occasional flapping of a bird’s wings their only company.
“The Rothsman Enchanted Gardens,” Gabriel said, draping their winter coats across a park bench.
He was still dressed in the black suit he’d put on earlier for work, but now he ditched the tie, abandoning it with their coats. Jacinda wore a fitted button-down sweater and a pair of dark jeans that hugged her arse, the combination making him itch to run his hands along every curve.
“Here?” she asked, as if she still couldn’t believe it. “In New York City?”
“It’s a little-known secret, nearly forgotten among the splashier tourist attractions. It’s been here since the mid-1800s, maintained by the same family—humans, if you can believe it. Passed on from one generation to the next. My brothers and I attended the grand opening.”
“Wow. That must’ve been incredible.”
“It was a different time, to be sure. The city was still bustling with life—just not in quite the same way it is today.”
“I’m glad no one else knows about this place now. It’s like a little slice of untouched heaven in the midst of concrete hell.”
“And not an orange cone in sight.” Grinning, Gabriel put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Shall we wander?”
“I’d love to, but…” She glanced behind them, then back to Gabriel, lowering her voice as if they were about to plan a felony. “It’s closed for a private event. There was a sign out front—”
“Placed there at my request.”
“Really?” She smiled so earnestly, it made Gabriel’s heart skip.
“Really. Now let’s go, before the clock strikes midnight and our coach turns back into a pumpkin.”
The rose gardens were breathtaking—rows upon rows of blooms so deeply red they were almost black, gradually transforming to lighter reds and pinks as they continued along the path. In every direction, new pathways branched off, boasting even more colors—creams and yellows, oranges, violets. It was as if the whole place had been carpeted in a living rainbow, and the more time they spent among the rosebushes, the more lively Jacinda became, her eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks, her cheeks flush with a joy that was as childlike as it was contagious.
In what looked to be the very center of the rose gardens, Jacinda slid out of her boots and socks and dug her toes into the damp earth, closing her eyes and letting out a contented sigh Gabriel couldn’t help but mirror.
She was truly in her element, and he cursed himself for not bringing her here sooner.
Watching in quiet admiration as she soaked up the moment, he marveled once again at her beauty, her aliveness. But after a few blissful minutes, Jacinda’s brow furrowed, and she gasped, turning and heading off down one of the paths, her steps urgent.
“What is it?” Gabriel asked, jogging to keep up.
They reached the end of the section with the white and cream-colored roses, and the last two bushes looked a little frail. Some of the blooms had already died, their petals brown and desiccated.
Wordlessly she knelt down in the dirt, cupping one of the dead blooms in her hands. She bent over it as a mother might a child, whispering an enchantment Gabriel couldn’t hear.
Seconds later, the petals unfurled, the brown fading away as the original creamy-white returned.
Gabriel watched in amazement as she performed the same ritual on every dead bloom until the bushes were once again bursting with gloriously healthy roses.
Jacinda turned and looked up at him over her shoulder, beaming with pride and happiness.
“You brought them back to life,” he whispered. “But that’s…”
He didn’t even have the word for it. Impossible? Miraculous?
“The roses weren’t technically dead. Only a little sad.” She ran her fingertips over one of the newly restored blooms. “Sometimes they get lonely at the end of the row here.”
“The roses… They told you this?”
“Not with words, no. Plants have a language all their own. Much more subtle than the spoken word, but just as complex and nuanced.”
“You speak plant?”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it, but yes. It’s how I ask permission to work with them—everything from my teas to my Obsidian cocktails, my bath rituals, my cooking… Absolutely I speak to them. More importantly, I listen.”
