The Nutcracker, Op. 71, Act 2 No. 13

An exclamation of wonder escaped her. She tightened her grip on his arm, finding herself upon the threshold of a landscape that seemed to belong to another world.

Red roses in abundance bloomed along a gravel path, reaching up past Jack’s head. They had been meticulously cultivated to transform the space into a living tapestry, replete with vibrant hues and heady scents. It was warm, the cutting wind that had rarely ceased all year was gone, the absence of it a noticeable relief.

“May I… have the honour of… carrying your reticule?”

“For what purpose?”

“So that you may… walk through the garden unencumbered.”

She bestowed a swift, affectionate kiss upon his cheek, gave him the reticule, and twirled away, her dress mimicking the soft petals in a dance of pure joy. Each rose appeared to quiver in harmony with the echo of her laughter—a melody that breathed life into every corner of the garden.

Almost skipping from one rose to the next, her gaze alighted upon a concealed pathway, an unspoken summons nestled between two clusters of roses. With steps light and spirited, she ventured forth, Jack following close behind, into a realm suddenly divided into orange blossoms ahead and red behind. The air, charged with floral fragrances, resonated with her delight.

Grabbing his arm, she declared, “You did not!”

His smile served as his sole response, a tacit admission of the care he had taken in orchestrating his garden, and he indicated for her to take the lead once more.

Abruptly encircling him with her arms, she pressed her face into his chest and drew a deep breath. He nearly recoiled in surprise. She beamed up at him, radiant with realisation.

“It is the garden! You smell like your roses!”

Seizing his hand, she turned it over to inspect his palm. He attempted to close it; she gently coaxed it open again and traced her fingers along the mostly healed scars and scratches. Then she peered into the rose bushes nearby.

Wooden posts and trellises supporting rose bushes were set into the ground, curving to the left. A shallow gravel-lined ditch ran beside them, containing water that shimmered as it babbled its way through the garden. Small channels branched off like delicate veins, each fitted with a narrow gate. With a simple turn, water could be directed towards the base of each post, nourishing the rose roots with measured care.

This was no mere collection of flowers; it was a deliberately arranged spiral, where each post, each gate, had been positioned with painstaking precision.

“How?” said she, pointing at the structure with a trembling finger.

“A stream emerges not far from here, a segment of which is diverted and returned through a tunnel that traverses beneath one of these shortcuts.”

The answer was prompt, delivered without hesitation.

“What of the trellises and posts?”

“Oh, that was simply a matter of design. I admit driving in posts was difficult, but by the thirtieth, I had developed a good system. The trellises are placed as needed to ensure the spiral continues properly.”

“Thirty?”

“Indeed… Unfortunately, I… lost track of the total number I had… dug, but by thirty, I… was not yet halfway.” Reluctant to admit he had lost track, his hesitancy returned.

“How did you accomplish all of this by yourself?”

“Well, I simply… undertook the task.”

Her pretty forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. He simply shrugged as if to say, ‘that was about it, really’.

Her brow smoothed as she tilted her head at him with a mischievous smile. “I have seen roses damasked, red and white…”

“…but all such roses see I in your cheeks,” finished Jack with an impish grin of his own.

As he observed her delight blossom at his alteration to the sonnet, so too did his confidence in what he had accomplished increase.

They proceeded, their hands entwined, as the path gradually became bordered by yellow roses. She brushed against one, and a petal came loose to float gently downward.

His hand darted out, capturing the petal before it could reach the ground. At his sudden movement, she gave a small gasp and swayed away; he placed a hand upon her waist to steady her.

“I beg your pardon; it is a customary diversion of mine.”

“Do you always attempt to catch the petals if they descend?”

“When they descend,” he amended absently, tucking her reticule under his arm and tearing the delicate yellow petal in twain. He took her hand, turned it palm upwards, and traced the fresh edge across her wrist.

A giggle escaped her at the featherlight caress. She inhaled the striking fragrance of the rose, a sharp, almost citrus scent mingled with hints of ripe apricots and an elusive touch of black pepper.

He bestowed upon her a grin and gestured for her to resume their walk when ready.

“May I have the petal?” she asked.

He regarded the two halves resting in his palm before extending one to her. She accepted it with an enchanted kiss, then spun and darted forward, her posture beckoning him to give chase as she took flight.

The path unfurled in a gentle curve, whispering tales of unending beauty as if she were traversing an earthly rainbow. The crunch of his footsteps on the gravel echoed just behind her, sending a tingle across her back, as though his presence alone propelled her onward.

Her skirts swung forward as she skidded to a halt, her eyes wide with wonder. A surreal melange of green shades shone with an otherworldly glow against the lush backdrop of the garden. Her heart quickened; for an instant, the entire world appeared to contract into the vivid, verdant blooms that challenged her own eye to comprehend.

With slow, reverent steps, she extended a trembling hand and lightly touched one, as if to confirm the reality of such a botanical anomaly.

He approached quietly from behind and encircled her waist, a touch that conveyed hesitance yet open affection.

She leaned back into his embrace, his presence as reassuring as the weight of a leather-bound tome. “Green roses? Such a notion had never even crossed my mind!”

“The green ones are my favourite,” Jack confessed softly, his breath warm against her ear. His admission felt intimate, a secret shared between them and ensconced within this magical moment.

She treasured this newfound knowledge as she nestled further into his embrace, feeling the steadfastness of his presence anchor her amidst the emerald spectacle. After a moment savouring both the novelty and his proximity, she stepped forward, the enchantment of the green roses lingering as she once again took his hand to resume their exploration.

Upon reaching the shades of blue she paused, her entire being suspended between excitement and realisation. “Lucy informed you of my fondness for violet.”

“Indeed.”

“Violet was not among your blooms when you sent the first?”

He shook his head, a crestfallen expression crossing his features as he gazed out over the garden.

Despite the look on his face, she persisted. “But the second time, you sent violet.”

Nodding, he smiled with a hint of pride. “I procured a cutting from Lady Fitzroy’s ramblers and have nurtured them these past months.”

“And they are ahead.” Her face held a hopeful glint of almost childlike wonder.

“Indeed,” confirmed Jack.

Overcome with excitement, she flung her arms around him, and pressed a kiss upon his lips. Together they continued, hand in hand, hurrying past the indigos.

Abruptly stepping into a grassy clearing, she found herself encircled by a riotous spectrum of violet hues. She turned slowly, admiring the subtle gradations in colour that distinguished each variety.

Then her lonely soul found itself confronted with something beyond imagination. Her skin prickled with goosebumps. One hand clutched at her chest while the other flew to her mouth in disbelief.

An impossibility stood before her.

At the heart of this chromatic whirl, a pillar rose shone with copper petals in perpetual cascade around a polished post of deep mahogany. Its brilliance was so dazzling that the surrounding bushes seemed like dull courtiers in attendance.

She felt that any advance might somehow diminish the enchantment before her. The desire to touch was overwhelming; yet, even as the breeze invited her closer, whispering through the petals with a siren’s song, she could only stand and marvel. Fear of altering its singular beauty anchored her feet firmly to the earth.

In the vibrancy and structure of this garden, she discerned more than a fantastical array of flowers; she saw the reflection of a solitary man’s soul. His longing for order amidst chaos, an appreciation for beauty, and beneath it all, an eloquent passion that he could not express with words.

The garden served not only as a sanctuary but also as an embodiment of Jack himself, conveying to any attentive soul the depths of his true feelings.

And she, Anastasia, was displayed, in this exquisite rose, at the very centre of it all.