In the dirt as she demonstrated exactly how the earth needed to be worked around the roots of the bushes.

She didn’t shy away from the rank fertilizer; she did the opposite. The Empousa helped scoop it into the dirt

and even laughed and made jokes about the irony that such a horrid smell could make sweet roses thrive.

He ignored the looks the women gave him. He was used to it. No matter how often he walked amongst them,

the women of the realm were always uncomfortable around him. More so now than ever before. They all

knew what he had done and the rage his actions had evoked from their goddess. They, too, had paid for his

error. They hadn’t been encased in stone and banished from the realm, as he had. They had only to wait . . .

without aging . . . without changing . . . unable to do more than watch time pass around them for all the

centuries he slept. He could only imagine how disturbing it must be for them to see him beside their new

Empousa, especially when she made it clear that she appreciated his opinion and she treated him like . . .

Mikado treated him as if he were a man.

What a true and wondrous miracle she was. And she did stay in his presence—or rather, he stayed in hers.

She began the inspection of the roses in the east, and after thoroughly examining all of the beds, with Aeras

promising to follow each of her directions, she had moved to the south.

He would never forget how he’d stood there pretending to be busy piling empty baskets easily within the

women’s reach as Mikado waved a bright farewell to the little Wind Elemental. He thought he would stay

there in the east and continue working, that perhaps later in the day he would catch a glimpse of her as she

moved amongst the plants, but she’d had other ideas. When she’d realized he wasn’t leaving with her, she’d

marched right back to him and said, “I need you to stay with me. I would very much appreciate your help

today.”

“Of course, Empousa,” he’d said formally, but the joy that had rushed through him hadn’t been formal and he

hoped she could see its reflection within his eyes. As they’d hurried away from Aeras and her women,

Mikado’s palla had fallen from her shoulders and snagged on a nearby rosebush. Deftly he had extricated it

and then placed it back around her, letting his palms rest againstlea d‡ the roundness of her shoulders until he

felt the stinging burn of pain.

But when she smiled up into his eyes, he forgot the pain and remembered only the warmth of her skin against

his hands. Little wonder the handmaidens’ eyes followed them wherever they went. He couldn’t keep his

hands from her, and she . . . she smiled at him, often taking obvious pleasure in his company.

It had taken Mikado longer to inspect the southern section of the gardens. The roses were more ill there,

though he didn’t need to look at the plants to know that. Watching Mikado become grim faced and pale told

him more than inspecting the rosebushes ever could.

Midday came quickly. He was readying a bed of wilting, multicolored roses called Masquerade for their

baskets of fish entrails fertilizer when he caught the scent of food. He didn’t look up when the women from

the palace arrived with the midday meal. He kept working. The most uncomfortable part of the day before

had been at exactly this moment. The women had separated into their little groups to talk and laugh and eat

together—things that were denied him. He could guard them, but he would not be accepted by them, not

enough to share a simple meal with them. Last night Mikado had granted him a great gift when she’d shared

her table with him, and he silently cursed himself for ruining the evening.

He could hear the women breaking for the meal. They grouped around the fountains in the area, letting the

garden’s clear water wash their hands free of dirt. Their laughter came easily, and it mixed musically with the

sound of the tinkling fountains. He wondered where Mikado was—probably in the middle of the laughter. She

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laughed readily, and the women of the realm responded well to her. He hoped she was busy, distracted

enough that she would not notice him and see how they shunned him. He did not want her pity.

He knew one of the palace servants would soon find him and offer him food and drink—not because she

wanted to, but because it was her assigned duty. Without looking around, he slipped from the rose bed in

which he’d been working and headed toward the rose gate. A large tree sat near it, under which he could call