@animuspcrditus plotted.
their gardens have mulberry trees and roses,  marigolds and hyacinths growing left and right,  in random order and some  â  organized circles.   theyâre mazes she wishes to explore,  watching from above.   he smells of flowers,  too,  she thinks.   of flowers and sea-salt.   his voice is a buzz in her ear,  burrowing.   she then turns to take a look at death in a gentlemanâs clothes;   he is tall and as breeze brushes past them,  she figuresââitâs not sea-salt she smells,  itâs copper.Â
the sticky path downstairs,  the soil looking fresh in the garden far too much,  the iron on her tongue;   sheâs but a human girl,  a bird trapped between golden walls,  but she can put these things together.   here,  her dainty fingers touch a corner of Marcusâ cloak,  lift it up in the gentlest way she can.   she inspects,  she tugs on it.   â ââthis seems a bit crunchy,  sir Marcus.   have you no laundry days? â
