Julian pottered. Yes, he wanted the geraniums and lilacs in before Thursday, before the guests arrived, his esteemed and noble guests, but he also just liked remarking the various hidden aspects of the garden as he paced its acres, studying the root of its appearance—what it was and what it was made of and how it made him feel. He would touch a certain thing or catch the scent of a certain flower. He liked looking back at the house and feeling like he was walking away, away, to be lost in a secret corner somewhere where he was someone else. And Agnes would call from the steps for him to come out of the dirt where the gardeners belonged and back into the house, and a different Julian would jump up obediently from the bushes and ascend the steps, but he would descend the garden, into its shadows and senses, into its roots.