The transition from the cold, clinical architecture of the house to the exterior was like stepping into a different world. Zen led Mild through a set of heavy glass doors into a sprawling, private conservatory that opened into a hidden courtyard.
The garden was a masterpiece of botanical engineering, arranged with a precision that only a man like Zen could command. Rows of bleeding hearts, white lilies, and deep violet irises were bordered by perfectly manicured boxwood hedges. The air was cool but lacked the biting sting of the Canadian winter, kept at a constant, comfortable temperature by hidden thermal vents.
Zen walked slowly, his hands deep in the pockets of his cashmere overcoat, allowing Mild to take in the vibrant colors. The only sound was the gentle trickle of a limestone fountain and the soft rustle of leaves.
