"It sounds wonderful," she said, her voice a little breathless.
She looked away, back at her small, safe, familiar garden. It suddenly seemed... very small. And very... gray.
"I would love to go there," she said, her voice a low, wistful murmur. She thought of the "emerald sea" he had described. A place where you could float. "Even though summers here are beautiful... they can be a bit dull sometimes."
It was the understatement of her life. Her summers were not "a bit dull." They were a prison of endless, identical days. They were needlepoint, and lukewarm tea, and polite, boring walks, and a sky that was, more often than not, just there.
Carcel watched her. He saw the light that had been in her eyes—the bright, fierce, living light he had seen when she was angry, or when she was... curious—suddenly dim. He saw her gaze fall to the sad, little lavender bushes. He had given her a glimpse of a world of color and heat, only to trap her, once again, in her polite, gray cage.
