I found the old garden on my third morning home, tucked behind the east wing where I used to escape as a girl whenever court felt like too much noise pressing in on me from every direction. It had grown wild in my absence, vines climbing untended over the low stone benches, weeds crowding out whatever had once been deliberately planted along the winding paths. No one had touched it since I left. I wasn't sure whether that felt like neglect or like something closer to a promise kept.
I stood at the entrance for a long moment before I let myself step inside.
The Blackthorn garden was still fresh in my mind, roots torn pale and exposed from soil I'd turned with my own hands, three years of quiet mornings undone in a single afternoon because Lyra wanted hibiscus and Marcus wanted peace bough
