After the Civil War, the life in Vittil Ghar has changed beyong recognition. With the reign of the new government, Cassandra, William and Jethro's parentless lives became an ongoing struggle for survival. Their routine of Countings and travelling to...
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For his ninth birthday, his mother gave him, among other things, a heavy present wrapped in colourful paper and tied with a red ribbon.
"Go on, open it."
His eyes were glistening with anticipation as he dived into the paper and ripped it into pieces. When he saw what was underneath the paper, he took it and hugged it with both arms. He looked at his mother in disbelief and a huge smile spread across his face. She gave him the prettiest herbary he had ever seen. Even prettier than the one in her office. The dark brown leather cover was smooth to the touch, except for the carved golden lettering and ornaments on the spine. The edges were painted in browns and goldens, and when the book was closed, it formed a miniature painting of a flower field.
"Let's take it outside, hm?"
Sargon was still clutching the big book on his chest. He wanted to run through the gardens and explore them with his new herbary, but he walked slowly alongside his mother, taming his excitement. As they walked the sandy path that led through the fields of flowers in the backyard of their mansion, they started playing their little game. His mother would point at a flower and Sargon had to name it.
She picked a little bush in bright pink bloom.
"Azaleas. Easy peasy."
"Very well." She let out a little laugh and it turned into coughing. Sargon was concerned about her cough but she assured him it was nothing to worry about.
As a reward for naming all the plants correctly, Sargon and she spent the whole morning examining new flowers and naming them together, looking them up in the herbary. Sargon would later sneak out and come back to the gardens to pick some of those flowers, press them and put them in a little notebook that he kept under his mattress.
Sargon then indulged himself in the new herbary often, for hours at a time, savouring every word and every picture, engraving it all into his brain.
He sat down on a bench in the centre of the garden, the book in his lap, and watched the Mermaid's fountain nearby. The fountain was a statue of a woman in a long, flowy dress, made of polished basalt. Her delicate hands were reaching up to her tilted head, making it look like she was brushing her hair, flows of water coming out of her head. To Sargon's child's eyes, it was mesmerizing.
It was the exact fountain where the servants or gardeners, pale with fear when Rena's son didn't show up for dinner on time and there was no sign of his lively laughter in the house, often found him. In the gardens, sitting or lying down next to it and watching the water fall down into the pool.
The rain caught him in the middle of reading about the culinary uses of magnolia. He closed his book, put it underneath his shirt before the raindrops had the chance to ruin the pages, and ran for cover. He made it to the house. Shivering, water dripping from his hair, but book intact. He started walking in the direction of his rooms.
