@animuspcrditus plotted.
their gardens have mulberry trees and roses, marigolds and hyacinths growing left and right, in random order and some — organized circles. they’re mazes she wishes to explore, watching from above. he smells of flowers, too, she thinks. of flowers and sea-salt. his voice is a buzz in her ear, burrowing. she then turns to take a look at death in a gentleman’s clothes; he is tall and as breeze brushes past them, she figures——it’s not sea-salt she smells, it’s copper.
the sticky path downstairs, the soil looking fresh in the garden far too much, the iron on her tongue; she’s but a human girl, a bird trapped between golden walls, but she can put these things together. here, her dainty fingers touch a corner of Marcus’ cloak, lift it up in the gentlest way she can. she inspects, she tugs on it. “ ——this seems a bit crunchy, sir Marcus. have you no laundry days? ”
