6Iris knelt by a parterre outlined in miniature English boxwood. The shrub grew very slowly so it didn’t often need her attention, and that evening she let her hands drift over the top of it, releasing its distinctive scent, and then leaned over to ferret out some weeds that were trying to advance into the santolina and lavender which she had planted in a large sunburst design.
It was dusk. Pierre was still at work, as he almost always was. It was one of Iris’s favorite times in the garden—the light was soft and she could hear animals scurrying about in the woods close by. The birds were singing their hearts out and the sound expanded her sense of melancholy, but in a way that felt more pleasurable than not. She was not working with any sort of fervor but kept sitting back and breathing i
