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Gabriela Aaron has his back to me when I slip through the c***k of the door and into the conservatory. He's bent over something on a wooden bench, his shoulders moving in quick motions while he uses some kind of tool. Growing closer, I realize that, on the bench, is a small bushel that he's clipping the leaves off of. "What are you doing?" I ask. He doesn't seem startled by my sudden presence, the quick flicks of his wrist not once hesitating. His long hair is pulled back from his face in a loose tie at the nape of his neck, with some of the slightly shorter layers falling past his shoulders. "Pruning," is what he answers with. I hover behind him, not quite sure where to place my hands while wringing my fingers together. So far, he isn't acting any different than normal. Which is and
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