"I made you something," Clara said finally, producing a small package wrapped in brown paper.
Inside was a pressed flower from their rose, the first bloom it had produced, pink edged with gold, carefully preserved between glass plates.
"Clara," Gabriel breathed. "This is…this is brilliant."
"It's just a flower," she said, but she was pleased. "For your room at school. So you don't forget about the garden."
“As if such a thing could ever escape my recollection!” He reached into his own pocket. “I too have something for you.”
It was a small leather journal, the kind sold at the stationer's in the village. Nothing fancy, but on the first page, he'd written: "Clara's Book of Extraordinary Occurrences and Suspicious Behaviors."
"For all your stories about the neighbors," he explained. “The concoctions of your imagination.”
"They're are not concoctions! Mrs. Weatherby is definitely hiding something in her cellar."
"Bodies?"
"Cheese. Illegal French cheese."
"Even more scandalous."
They laughed, but it had a hollow sound to it, echoing in the greenhouse with all the words they weren't saying.
"I should go," Gabriel said finally. "We're leaving at dawn."
"I'll be here," Clara said. "Tomorrow. To wave goodbye."
"You don't have to…"
"I'll be here," she repeated firmly.
He stood to leave, then suddenly turned back and hugged her, quick and fierce and slightly awkward, the kind of hug young awkward boys give when they don't know how else to say goodbye.
"Take care of our rose," he said into her hair.
"Take care of yourself," she replied into his shoulder.
And then he was gone, running through the rain, leaving Clara alone in the greenhouse with the sound of rain and the weight of change pressing against the glass.
True to her word, she was there the next morning, standing by the garden gate in her nightgown and shawl, hair still mussed from sleep. Gabriel saw her from the carriage window and pressed his hand to the glass. She waved with both arms, as if she were signaling a meaning from afar, with every motion of her person
Don't forget,her waves seemed to say.Don't forget us.
Never,he thought back, watching until the garden disappeared around the bend.Never.
The first letter arrived two weeks later.
Dear Clara,
School is horrible. The food tastes like sadness and the older boys are tyrants. My roommate plays his violin at dawn. Quite badly, I might add. I may perish from lack of sleep and decent pudding.
But I've made a friend! His name is Edmund and he's from London and he's never seen a cow. Can you imagine? Never seen a cow! I told him about our garden and he didn't believe me that we grafted a rose. He says girls don't do gardening. I told him you do everything. He wants to meet you to see if you're real or if I've invented you. I told him no one could invent someone as odd as you.
How's our rose? Have a care, and let it not perish, I beseech you!”
Your friend,Gabriel
P.S. - Latin is still dead. More dead than before, if possible.
