Daniel can feel something shifting imperceptibly but it all seems oddly peripheral, subtle flickers of an environment reshaping itself. He returns his focus to the book and tries not to stumble over descriptions of irises and white lilies and clusters of roses growing over the sundial. The book is old, the ink discolored, the pages almost crumbling beneath his fingers no matter how gingerly he handles them.

But he can tell Melanie's idea is working as the horrible soft grays gradually sharpen into the eponymous garden's predominant green. He nods at her suggestion and continues:

"Fair fresh leaves, and buds – and buds – tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air."

Daniel takes another breath and gets a lungful of said garden air which, after the stale, trapped feeling of the tiny room, feels like a blessing.