The garden of the Schmith residence in the late November afternoon was precisely as she had promised: a space that demanded the specific attention of the dying light. At three thirty, the sun hung low and bruised against the horizon, casting long, amber fingers across the stone paths.
The light hit the winter-dormant flower beds at an angle that warmed the frost-nipped earth, suggesting the entire garden had been engineered or perhaps surrendered to this exact moment of daily transition.
Aveline walked slightly ahead of him. Mike noted this immediately. It was her default mode in familiar territory, a subtle assertion of ownership over her domain, but also a way to lead rather than simply follow.
She pointed out the garden's particulars with the intimate precision of someone who didn't just inhabit the space but understood its history.
