“What?”
The corners of his mouth rose, caught. “I’d always hoped Alexander and I would have moments such as these—sleeves rolled up, side by side, working toward a common goal.” His half-smile died away. “But he’s shown no interest in any of this. Tonight gave me a little taste of those daydreams.”
I paused, freezing the paintbrush just above the paper,wondering how to best approach such an obviously delicate situation. “Why do you think that is?”
Gerard traced his finger over the edge of one of the leaves. “He thinks my work frivolous. Blasphemous even.”
“Blasphemous?”
His eyes rolled up to the top of the greenhouse. “Alexander reminds me so much of my father at times. Very devout. Very strict in his beliefs.” He shook his head and downed the last of his champagne. “I hate to see him following Father’s path. That man was unbearably stubborn.”
“Stubbornness isn’t always a bad thing,” I murmured cautiously. I had the distinct feeling both men were trying to pull me toward their side of the argument and I didn’t want to let either of them down. “Alex said it took you a year to grow these flowers, trying again and again.”
Gerard nodded.
“A less stubborn man wouldn’t have bothered.” I added in a soft shadow beneath the pot and the rendering was complete.
“Perfect,” he agreed, letting the matter drop as he refilled our glasses with the dregs of the bottle. “To you…and to Alexander’s portrait. If it’s anything like these watercolors, I’ll have to find a better position for it in the Great Hall.”
“To you,” I said, my face flushing with pleasure under his praise. I raised my glass toward him. “And your achievement here today. You’ve created a true marvel.”
His chest puffed with pride and our glasses chimed happily as we clinked them together. The dancing bubbles tickled my throat on their way down, making me feel warm and a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Alexander showed me your red bud trees. They’re beautiful.”
He smiled, pleased. “Those were a tricky lot.”
“How do you decide what plants to graft together? I wouldn’t have the slightest idea on how to go about any of this.”
Gerard took a great swallow, mulling over my question. “I look around the world and try to imagine the best version of everything I see. Like…that line of strawberries growing there?” He pointed. “The climate of the greenhouse helps them to grow year-round, but the winter ones never seemed to taste as sweet. One day I went for a ramble in the forest after a big snowstorm and discovered a cluster of pink berries, growing in the dead of winter. They were delicious. I dug up a plant and brought it back here to study. There was quite a lot of trial and error, but now our berries are perfect all year round.”
“What a thrill that must be,” I mused. “Creating something so useful out of nothing.”
“I imagine it must be like when you finish a painting. You started with a blank canvas and then—behold! Art! It does rather make one feel a bit like a god, doesn’t it?”
I tried to mask my face into a look of indifference. I’d never met anyone who spoke so casually about the gods and it gave me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I suppose it does. A little. Maybe.”
He raised his glass again. “To achieving godhood!”
His boisterous irreverence drew a smile to my lips but I was not daring enough to repeat it myself. When I clinked my glass against his, the last of his champagne sloshed out, and I could feel our evening wind to a close.
“What will you call this one?” I asked, drawing my attention back to the flower for one last glimpse.
He set the coupe down, leveling an unsteady eye toward it. “Callistephus constancensia.”
“Beautiful.”
He nodded. “It’s only right. She’s helped so much with this.”
“Dauphine?” I guessed, wondering why she hadn’t joined us, especially knowing how long Gerard had worked on the blossoms. Dinner must have been over by now. There were no clocks to confirm it but it felt close to midnight.
“Constance,” he corrected without explanation. “I suppose it’s getting rather late…and you’ve already had a full day’s work.” Gerard glanced up through the condensation-slick windows above us. “A full moon tonight.” He chewed on the corner of his lip, mulling over something. “Would you be interested in seeing one last spectacle before you retire?”
Curiosity pushed aside any weariness I’d felt. “A spectacle?”
He nodded once more. “I promise you there’s absolutely nothing like this at Highmoor. Come on. Follow me.”
Out in the garden of Chauntilalie, dozens of eyes glowed at us, blinking realistically as the flowers swayed in the soft evening breeze.
