They never used the gate. It creaked, and the gardener slept with the window open in the small house by the path.
The side wall was easier. One loose stone, a place to step, and then the drop into gravel that always sounded louder than it should.
“You’re late,” she said, already in the shadow of the yew.
“They locked the courtyard earlier,” he said. “I had to wait.”
She reached for the nearest rose and cut it free with the small knife she carried. Not the fullest bloom, just one within reach before anyone might notice it missing.
“They’ve arranged it,” she said. “I leave in the morning.”
He didn’t ask where. Only took the flower when she held it out, as if it were something that needed to change hands before the rest could be said.
Alterations: Not quite your size? Feel free to get in touch. Many pieces can be adjusted or remade to suit you, I'm always happy to see what's possible together.
