That afternoon, Loren was in the garden.
He sat beneath the shade of an oak tree, his back against the trunk, a book on botany in his hands.
His gray eyes moved slowly across the pages, but his mind was not entirely on the book.
He listened—to the distant waters of the Hudson River, to the rustling oak leaves overhead in the wind, to the voices and laughter of the women busy in the garden.
Nymph and Astraea had already given up trying to talk to the butterflies.
The butterflies had flown away.
They were now crouching beside the flowerbed, digging into the soil with small trowels as they tried to plant a new rose.
There was dirt on Nymph's antennae, and several flower petals had fallen onto Astraea's golden hair.
The two chatted as they dug. Their voices were soft, yet they carried far through the quiet afternoon.
"Astraea, the hole you dug is too shallow."
"It isn't. Rose roots are shallow."
"Rose roots go deep. Tifa said so."
"Tifa was talking about Chinese roses, not roses."
"Are Chinese roses different from roses?"
"They are. Chinese roses have big flowers, while roses have small ones."
"Then what are we planting?"
"...I don't know."
The two fell silent at the same time, then laughed at the same time.
Tifa came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of lemonade.
She walked over to the flowerbed, handed the lemonade to Nymph and Astraea, then crouched down to inspect the hole they had dug.
"This is a Chinese rose, not a rose."
"Astraea said it was a rose," Nymph said.
"I said it was a Chinese rose," Astraea said.
"You said rose."
"I did not."
Tifa stood and looked at them both with a smile.
"Whether it's a Chinese rose or a