Lucius had long enjoyed spending time in the gardens, largely because they occasionally gave him a shot of much-needed optimism. They were orderly (most of the time), they were his, and he suspected they were home to hedges older than he was. But after a few more minutes of silently trudging along the boxwood borders, he decided he had drawn about as much consolation from it all as he was going to get, and he came to a slow stop where the path split off towards the back of the house. Nearly time to go inside.
How strange, that he could still draw strength from his property, and from his son, when they were both so close to being taken away from him. "How's your broomstick holding up, then?"