The Ashbluff gardens had a gardener, and the gardener hated us on sight.
He was a stooped old man with soil ground permanently into the creases of his knuckles, and he met us at the iron gate with a look of great suffering, as if Prince Jin's letter of permission were a death sentence he'd been asked to sign personally.
"His Highness," he said, "has instructed me to let you walk. You will stay on the paths. You will not touch anything with leaves. You will not touch anything without leaves. If something touches you—" he glanced at Rose and then, for a longer moment, at me "—you will stand very still and call for me, and you will not under any circumstances try to help."
"Understood," Rose said gravely.
The gardener looked at her with deep suspicion. Then he unlocked the gate.
