Author: Jodi Meadows

How could he be so confident when I could hardly accept his emotions toward me? “It helps. Knowing someone can”—I gathered my courage—“love me, it helps.”

His smile grew relieved. “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it, so you’ll never doubt.” He touched my cheek. “A hundred times? A thousand?”

“Start now and I’ll tell you when.” Part of me wanted to cry again, not from fear or disbelief, but from joy. As incredible as it was, Sam—Dossam—loved me, and he wanted me to understand. To believe.

I was Ana who Had Love.

Sam swept his fingers through my hair, down my arm. “All right.” His voice was light and deep and open. “I love you because you’re clever. I love you because you’re talented.” He touched my chin. “I love you because you have a perfect smile. I love you because you bite your lip when you’re nervous and I think it’s adorable.”

I ducked my face. “Go on.”

“I love you because you’re good and honest. I love you because you’re brave.” His tone shifted, filled with melody that made me shiver inside. “I love you because you’re strong. I love you because you don’t let anything get in the way of doing what’s right.”

He went on, touching my hands and hair as he spoke. His words kindled a fire inside of me. I grew familiar with each sound, each letter. I memorized the softness in his voice, and the way he made “love” sound different and the same every time.

Maybe he was right: I didn’t have to decide whether I could love. Not right now. All I had to do was accept and enjoy the idea that someone else could love me.

13

JUNGLE

CRIS SAID HE’D be happy to fit us in, so the next afternoon, Sam and I headed through the city, toward the northeast quarter.

The walk through the market field involved no fewer than three rude gestures, two rocks—one that Sam caught before it hit me—and at least a dozen not-quite-hushed conversations discussing my relationship with Sam or sylph.

I kept my head down while he navigated the crowd, not relaxing until we reached North Avenue. “How does someone make a living gardening?” I asked, because I didn’t want to talk about what people were saying about me.

Sam eyed me askance, but let me avoid the subject. “Same as with music. He grows things people want. His passion is roses, but he also works in the agricultural quarter. He’s the most knowledgeable person when it comes to growing seasons, which crops to plant where, and when to send the harvesting drones out.”

“Sounds like the city would starve without him.”

“Probably.” A note of pride and respect filled his voice. “But he gives lessons as well, or assists when someone does something seemingly irreparable to their private gardens.”

And hadn’t Cris said he helped geneticists’ research by breeding different plants to see what traits were passed on? “I don’t understand how anyone can get so much done and still have time for hobbies and friends.”

Sam’s grip slackened. “It’s best to keep busy. A lot of tasks no one wants to do are automated now, like mining or recycling waste, but other things”—his gaze shifted into the distance—“it’s better to do ourselves, even when we could have machinery do it for us. Five thousand years is a long time, and there can be joy in mundane tasks.”

“That’s why you always write music by hand, even though Stef could create a program to make it easier?”

He nodded. “I enjoy the process, even when I make mistakes and have to go back a hundred measures.”

“You haven’t had much time for that lately.” Aside from the music he’d written for darksouls and the memorial, anyway. He was too busy walking around Range with me, escorting me to lessons, doing all the things the Council required of him if he wanted me to stay in Heart. He’d put so many things aside for me.

Sam shook his head. “I’ve had a lot of time to do a lot of things, and I’ll always find time for what I enjoy. Don’t forget, I do enjoy you.”

His words warmed me as we continued to Cris’s house.

I didn’t have to ask to know when we arrived: the entire yard was a garden. Vines climbed over an iron archway wrought into silhouettes of hawks and storks and grouse. Hedges lined the path toward the house, hidden behind immense trees.

From the main walkway, more paths broke off like cracks in glass. One grew into a tiny wooden bridge—posts capped with flowerpots—that went over a stream so small it wouldn’t get your ankle wet to step in it. Benches, birdbaths, and huge stone flowerpots with leaves spilling over the sides stood in a tiny clearing. Statues of the Range megafauna lurked in corners or at a fountain, as though lapping water.

Leaves hissed in the wind, and ancient maple trees rattled. Mourning doves cooed, jays and wrens and shrikes sang, and a woodpecker tapped rhythm. The scents of green and water and flowers replaced the fumarole stench, and I drew a long breath, smiling.

“What is it?” Sam touched my elbow.

I looked up at him, a dark figure against the bright sky and foliage. “I can hear music.”

“Don’t let it go. Keep it in your head until we get home and you can write it down.” His voice lowered as he leaned toward me. “I want to find out if it’s the same music I hear.”

His was probably better than mine, but I smiled. “This way?” I motioned in the direction we’d been going.

To either side of the white stone house, which was covered with climbing roses, a pair of long glass buildings reached just as tall. Their windows were fogged, but it was impossible to ignore the green inside, and my heart jumped when I caught sight of familiar indigo roses near the door of one.

I squeezed Sam’s hand. “Where do you think he is?”

His tone was easy. Happy, almost. “Somewhere in the garden, I assume.”

Really helpful. The entire place was a maze, shades of green plants, gray cobbles and stonework, and the occasional squirrel or chipmunk peering from hidden houses someone had built as nests. That seemed like something Cris would do, sheltering animals others treated like pests.

He emerged from a greenhouse and waved us closer. “I was just cleaning up for your visit,” he said as we approached. “Come inside. I think you’ll enjoy this.”

Though I smiled and thanked him, I felt clumsy trying to watch my step, to make sure I trampled nothing. Sam, of course, glided through easily, and the plants barely seemed affected by his passage. I watched enviously, trying to find the same footing through a patch of tall—I didn’t even know what they were without blooms—plants, but my foot slipped on a rock, and I had to grab his shoulder for balance.

“Step this way,” Cris said, offering a hand. “I just watered that area, so it’s still damp. Sorry.”

I nodded, keeping one hand on Sam, and used the other to take Cris’s. We made it safely over a cluster of slick stones without incident, then onto a path that led to the greenhouse door.

The air glowed verdant with the many-tiered shelves running the length of the building. It was hot and humid, a weird shift from the coolness outside. No breeze, either.

But the colors were amazing. Shades of green certainly dominated, leaves and stems and buds, but splashes of orange and yellow and pink made dizzying patterns on shadows and glass.

I slipped away from Sam and Cris, letting my bag drop as I tried to slow my frantic heartbeat. There were so many roses, all shapes and colors, and the sweet scent was overwhelming. I felt like I could open my mouth and breathe it all in, capture the perfume in my chest, next to my heart.

He didn’t have just white roses, but ivory and cream and old lace; and not just red roses, but ruby and scarlet and burgundy. I leaned to smell individual flowers, fiery petals tickling my nose and chin.

My face must have burned as bright as the roses when I glanced up to find both boys watching me. Sam had picked up my bag and hung back while Cris approached.

“These are Phoenix roses,” he said, indicating the ones I’d just been sniffing. “Do you like them?”

I gazed at the perfect red, the spiral of petals, and the spicy scent so thick I could almost taste it. “Very much.”

Cris chuckled. “That’s not a surprise. They’re Sam’s favorite, too.”

My face grew hotter as I stared at the rose.

“It still surprises me to see roses in colors other than blue,” I said, before the awkward silence could fester. “I only saw the ones at Purple Rose Cottage for eighteen years.” Because Li had never bothered to teach me colors, it had taken me years to figure out the difference between purple and blue, what with the name of the cottage. I’d thought they were two names for the same color.

“Blue, huh?” Cris raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t getting into that debate.”

“I’ve had some time to think about it.”

Cris grinned like I was his new favorite person.

For the next hour, we followed him around the greenhouse, Sam with his hands shoved in his pockets, and me with a notebook, scribbling to keep up with his lecture. Later, I’d copy everything again into more readable handwriting.

“The pruning shears are here,” Cris said, motioning to a shelf with empty pots and jugs of liquid. “Especially in the greenhouse, you’ll want to be careful to disinfect the shears between every plant. Otherwise you can spread a disease.”

My pencil stopped over the paper. “Disease? I didn’t know plants could—” No, that was wrong. I’d seen trees in the forest with strange fungus growing on them. “Never mind. But in the greenhouse? In the wild makes sense, but everything is safe here, isn’t it?”

“Humidity.” Like that explained everything. “I want to go over the main ways of reproducing roses and the results you can expect from them. Growing seasons, when to put fertilizer on them, when to prune. That kind of thing.”

“It sounds like a lot for one afternoon.” Not to mention the symbols I wanted to ask him about, if only I could find an opening.

“We can schedule lessons. Every week or every month.” His gaze flickered toward Sam so, for a moment, I wasn’t sure who the next words were for. “Whatever works for you.”

I answered before Sam had a chance to look around awkwardly. “Every week would be great.”

Cris beamed and drew me toward the workbench, explaining the difference between cuttings and budding.

We spent the next three hours in the greenhouse, me filling up pages of my notebook, before Cris declared that was all for the first lesson. We headed outside. Wind snaked between trees and bushes, stealing perspiration off my forehead and the back of my neck.

“So you’ll call when you figure out a time to come every week?” Cris asked as Sam wandered off to look at something growing in a stone basket held by a stone rabbit.

I nodded. “Before we go, I was curious about something. Sam said you were the best person to ask.”

Cris glanced at Sam, expression blank, and returned his attention to me. “Okay.”

I pulled the folded paper from my pocket. “I caught Sam doodling and asked what they were. He said maybe something he saw a long time ago, but he couldn’t remember exactly.”

Cris raised his eyebrows. “And he thought I might know?”

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “They look old, and I heard there were remnants of things before everyone came to Heart. And that you discovered most of those things because you put the agricultural quarter together.”

“Hmm.” Cris studied the paper, turning it on its side and upside down. “Some of these look familiar, but even if I’d seen them before, I couldn’t tell you if they meant anything.”

“I was hoping you might remember something like a label.” I shifted my weight to one hip. “I know it’s unlikely.”