He knocked at the door, carefully not looking to see if he’d tracked mud onto the scrubbed and swept stones of the stoop, and it was opened almost instantly by a very young girl, a child, almost, in miniature livery. Her lack of expression, however, was perfectly adult, the polite disinterest of a well‑trained servant, and like a good servant, she waited for him to speak.

“Adjunct Point Rathe, to see the landseur, if he’s home.” If he’ll be home to me, Rathe added silently, and the girl looked up at him.

“I–I think he’s in the succession houses, pointsman–Adjunct Point, I mean. Will you wait here? And may I tell him what this is about?”

“It’s about his gardener. Or possibly ex‑gardener. A man named Ogier.”

Her eyes widened, her voice suddenly and completely southriver. “Oh, sir, have you found Ogier? We’ve all been worried–the landseur’s been most unhappy since he left, we all have.”

“You liked him, then,” Rathe said, and the girl nodded.

“Oh, yes, sir. I miss him.” Her manner changed with her voice, so that she was suddenly a child again, despite the drilled manners and the livery, but then she shook herself back to her duty. “Please step in. If you’ll permit, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe did as he was told, grateful for his own childhood. He’d worked hard enough, his parents had needed the extra hands more than once, for harvest and planting and in high summer, when the groundsman’s work was at its height, but there had always been time for play, for pleasure. He hadn’t had to take on adult responsibilities until he’d become a runner, and he’d been older than this girl. She disappeared down the long hall without a backward glance, and Rathe made himself look around. He could smell the ashes of a fire somewhere close at hand, but the hall itself was almost cold, the last of the sunset filtering through the narrow window above the door. The light fell on a series of engravings, fine work, better than the average woodcut, and Rathe took a step closer. They all showed a great estate, the same estate, and its gardens, each drawn from a different angle, playing up a different feature, and he wondered if it was Aubine’s ancestral home, or some as‑yet‑unrealized dream. There were drawings of plants as well, single plants in the various stages of their growth, hand‑colored–all late‑year plants, he saw, and wondered if Aubine had another set for each of the seasons. The drawing of the winter‑creeper was particularly fine, the pale berries luminous against the tangle of vines, and he started when the girl cleared her throat.

“If you’ll come with me, Adjunct Point. The landseur is busy in the succession houses, and asked if you’d join him there.”

Rathe nodded, not at all sorry to have the chance to see them, and followed her through the house to a narrow stone‑floored hall that led to a shallow courtyard. The greenhouses lay beyond, four long, glass‑walled houses, smoke rising from their narrow chimneys, the rippled glass fogged by the warmth inside. They were easily the largest Rathe had ever seen, made Estines’s little house look like a child’s toy, and he shook his head, amazed. The girl led him to the one at the far end, opened the door and hurried him inside, careful to close the door again behind her before she spoke.

“Adjunct Point Rathe, maseigneur.”

Rathe had been expecting warmth, but not the heat of summer. The reddened light poured through the glass, and for a second he could almost believe that it was a summer sun that set beyond the walls. But the winter‑sun hadn’t risen, no pinpoint of brilliance standing high in the sky, and he shook himself back to the present, impressed again. Aubine stood at a gardener’s bench, coat and waistcoat discarded on a form, his shirtsleeves rolled back and a dozen plants standing unpotted, ready for his hand. All around him, the shelves were crowded with summer plants, most of them close to blooming, and that, Rathe realized, was part of the disorientation. The glasshouse smelled of summer, flowers and dirt and heat, and even the smoke from the stove couldn’t quite destroy the illusion.

“Adjunct Point,” Aubine said. “It’s a surprise to see you away from the theatre.” He lifted a heavy, short‑bladed knife, gestured apologetically with it, scattering dirt. “Forgive me for receiving you like this, but as you know, it’s a busy time for me.”

“Not at all,” Rathe answered. He thought for a second of saying how glad he was to have a chance to see the succession houses, but decided against it. Let the man assume he knew less than he did; if Aubine wanted to lie, this would be a chance to catch him. “I’m pleased to find you here, actually. I was afraid you might be at the theatre.”

Aubine smiled, tipping a plant into a pot that stood ready for him. The girl reached instantly for a bucket that stood nearby, sloshed water over the new dirt. “Ah. Thank you, Bice. I would love to be there, but if the flowers are to be ready for the masque, well, there’s still much work to be done. Bice tells me you have news of Ogier?”

“Some questions, first, if I may,” Rathe said, and realized Aubine was staring at him. “Sir?”

Aubine shook himself. “Of course. Ask what you must.”

“When did you last see Ogier?”

“Ah.” Aubine blinked, eyes focusing on something in the invisible distance. “That would be–what, Bice, one week ago? Two?”

“Almost two weeks ago, sir,” Bice answered. She reached for another pot, but Rathe saw the flicker of distress cross her face. The girl had liked Ogier, that much was obvious, and he winced at the thought of the coming sorrow.

“What happened?” he said aloud. “Did he send word, just not show up one morning?”

“Exactly that, Adjunct Point,” Aubine answered. “He simply didn’t arrive. I thought perhaps he was sick, but then he didn’t come the next day, either, or the day after that. I have no idea where he lives, or I would have sent for him–it’s probably just as well I don’t, I don’t think I would have been very moderate in my summons.” He laughed softly, ruefully. “Master Aconin has not made my job easy, I assure you. Only someone utterly unversed in flowers would manage to feature all the most difficult to bring into bloom at the same time. But I wish Ogier had warned me. I need his help, and he knew it, knew I was counting on him. Have you found him?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rathe said reluctantly, and kept his eye on the girl. “He was murdered last night, in Point of Dreams.”

Bice gasped, her face suddenly as white as chalk, and she set the pot hastily on the table. Aubine took it blindly, his expression still uncomprehending.

“We had his name,” Rathe said, “but we had no notion he worked for you until today. My understanding was that he never attached himself to any one household.”

“No,” Aubine said, “no, that’s quite true. But I asked–he had worked for me before–and he graciously agreed to give me a large portion of his time so that we could get the flowers ready for the masque. I think he liked the idea of being involved in that–and of working in my houses, I know he enjoyed that.” He shook himself then, as though Rathe’s words had finally made sense. “But–murdered? How? And where did you say?”

“He was stabbed,” Rathe said. The second question was an odd one, and he watched the landseur closely. “On the border of Hopes and Dreams, in actual fact, an alley there. He died shortly after he was found.”

Aubine dropped his knife, stared at it for a long moment before stooping to pick it up. “This is terrible news. And there I was, talking about my inconveniences, when the poor man was dead. What you must think of me. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

Rathe slanted a glance at the girl, saw her still listening, and gave the same lie he had told Frelise. “Not much, no.”

“Did he name his attacker?” Aubine went on. “Was it robbery? He could be difficult, but–why in Demis’s name would anyone kill him? Why would anyone murder a gardener?”