He looked through the bars again. Still darkness, but now with suggestions of shapes—furniture, plants, the outline of something that might be fountain.
His phone’s beam still died after three feet. No visible source for the jasmine. No vines on this gate, no gardens visible in neighboring yards.
But mixed with the jasmine now was the scent of mint. Lavender. Sun-warmed soil.
“Impossible.”
Mirror Bleed was now affecting more than reflections. Gideon’s network was pulling past into present through sensory channels, using scent as anchor the way it used light and reflection.
Knowing that didn’t stop the memory from surfacing.
The scent pulled him under.
New Orleans, July 1906. Late afternoon.
The courtyard garden behind Delia Moreau’s boarding house. Brick pavement warm under his feet, fountain in the center—broken, hadn’t run in years—garden beds along the walls bursting with controlled chaos. Light filtered golden through magnolia leaves, creating patterns that shifted with the breeze.
Trolley bells rang distant. A vendor called something about fresh fish on the street beyond the wall. Cicadas were starting their evening song, building toward the crescendo they’d reach at dusk.
Heat had broken in the garden shade. Bearable here, almost pleasant.
Delia appeared carrying a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses, ice clinking against ceramic.
Late twenties. Dark hair pinned up with several curls already escaping in the humidity. Cotton dress with dirt on thehem from morning gardening. Bare feet on warm brick—she never bothered with shoes in her own garden.
“You’re late.” She crossed to the fountain where he’d been examining her mint plants. “I’ve been keeping this lemonade cold for twenty minutes.”
He straightened. “Your mint is taking over the lavender.”
“I know. They’re negotiating territory.” She set the pitcher down on the fountain’s edge. “The mint will win.”
“The mint always wins.”
Her smile reached her eyes. “Then why do I keep planting lavender?”
“Optimism. Or stubbornness.” He took the glass she offered. “With you they’re the same thing.”
They sat on the fountain edge. Her bare feet dangled into the dry basin, toes flexing against ceramic that still held afternoon warmth. His boots stayed planted on brick, heels grinding small circles in accumulated dust.
Comfortable silence first. The kind that developed over three years of courtship conducted in gardens and on doorsteps, never quite progressing to the question neither of them would ask. Three years of careful proximity, of boundaries respected and desires unspoken.
The lemonade was perfect—tart enough to cut the heat, sweet enough to drink quickly. Ice clinked in her glass when she moved. A bead of condensation ran down the side, leaving a wet trail she traced with one finger.
Delia broke the silence. “Mrs. Landry asked me again if we’re engaged.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re on your own schedule and I’m too proud to suggest it.” She drank, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “She didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a ridiculous answer that happens to be true.”
His almost-smile. “Accurate.”
She bumped his shoulder with hers, casual touch that nevertheless sent awareness through him. “Most men would take that as an invitation.”
“I’m not most men.”
