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The work comes without thought. My hands know where to go and what to do. They always have.

I move through the herbs next. I pinch back the basil, remove several flowering heads from the mint, and turn one of the pots so the growth will stop leaning toward the glass. When I finish, I collect my shears and make my way toward the fruit trees.

One of the branches needs pruning.

I position the shears and cut.

Perhaps Boone is in his garden.

My hand stops.

I stare at the branch lying on the ground, retrieve it, and drop it into the basket.

I move to the next tree.

Perhaps he’s cutting wood. He told me how much time that consumed when winter approached. Perhaps he’s repairing that miserable fence near the road or pulling weeds from those pathetic rows of vegetables beside his house.

Perhaps he’s sitting with his father.

I close the shears around another branch.

Perhaps he’s happy.

The blades snap together harder than necessary.

I lower them.

My teeth ache from how tightly I’ve been holding them together.

I set the shears on the workbench and reach for the watering can instead. There’s no reason to be angry. This is exactly what I wanted for him when I left him in front of that house.

He wanted his father.

I gave him his father.

He wanted his freedom.

I gave him that too.

The watering can fills from the pipe, and I carry it toward the herbs. Water darkens the soil around the rosemary, then the thyme, basil and lavender.

I know exactly how much each plant needs.

There was a time when this was enough to occupy my mind completely. I could spend hours in here without thinking about anything beyond the plants in front of me.

Now I keep listening for footsteps.

I know they aren’t coming, yet every small sound from the corridor outside the greenhouse draws my attention toward the door. Once, it’s nothing more than the castle settling. The second time, Soleil scratches at something somewhere down the hall. The third time, there’s no sound at all.

I look anyway.

No Boone.

I return to watering.

The castle has become unbearably quiet since he left, but I’m beginning to understand that the castle itself hasn’t changed.

I have.