Early this morning as I was Believing
the Lie, I stepped out of The House I Loved into the garden and bent down to
touch The Children.
As dawn broke and I took in my surroundings
I noticed several things: Wicked Autumn was struggling due to Footsteps in the
Dark; Catherine the Great had been dug up Below Stairs under Dorchester Terrace; but
with help from An Unexpected Guest and knowledge gleaned from The Forgotten
Affairs of Youth, I was able to bury {her} with The Body in the Boudoir.
Later, A Woman of Consequence popped
in to take a cutting or two; “I Am Half-Sick of Shadows,” she told me, but she
pointed out American Bloomsbury.
Taking a well-earned rest from the weeding
and chatting over the wall with The Technologists from next door, I mentioned That
Woman and remarked on Gilded Lives, but then when Death Wore a Diadem, we said Beastly
Things and I went back to do a little light pruning.
My garden was once a Country Plot, but
tending it is a joy and part of A Rather Lovely Inheritance.
. . . . . .

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