“My Thomas?” Nory asked in surprise.

“You could say that Pippa threw the first punch and then Thomas came along and finished the job.”

Nory could feel her eyes widening above the rim of her hot chocolate mug. “He didn’t actually hit you, though, did he?”

Isaac laughed. “No, only a good metaphorical punching to snap me out of my self-pity. He said it was against your programming ever to do anything purposely unkind or immoral.”

“Blimey!”

“He told me you had only ever wanted to fix things for me, and that if I broke your heart, I’d have him to deal with.”

“Oh dear.” Nory sighed.

“What?”

“This means I have my brother to thank for making things right. You have no idea how much he likes to gloat.”

Isaac gave her hand a squeeze and smiled. “I think he was just being brotherly. If I had siblings, I’d want someone like Thomas looking out for me.”

“Ugh, I suppose you’re right,” she said, pulling a face. A physical memory woke in Nory’s chest, spreading its warmth through her in a way she’d almost forgotten, it had been so long. The unquestioning certainty she’d felt when she was a child that her big brother would always be there for her.

“You’re not here because you’re scared of my big brother, are you?”

Isaac laughed. “No. The only thing that scares me is not being with you. I think I fell in love with you the moment I hauled you out of my wheelbarrow.”

Nory felt her cheeks flush.

“Which reminds me,” he said, standing up and slipping an envelope into his pocket. “I’ve something to show you.”

“You’ve got a new wheelbarrow?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Come on,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up off the upturned terra-cotta pot she’d been sitting on.

All around them, the gardens were an undulating mass of feathery white snow, and in the gaps between the naked trees, the view of the valley below was a patchwork eiderdown of misshaped chalky squares.

They held hands as they walked. Nory had borrowed a pair of Isaac’s gloves and her fingers didn’t reach the ends.

Isaac pushed open the gate in the wall to the Winter Garden. The sight of it was otherworldly, as though the garden existed entirely separate from the rest of the world, untroubled by time or the problems of human beings. It was fully embracing its name this morning. The pale silver birch trunks stood like ghostly sentries behind the crimson stems of the dogwood, which rose up out of the snow like a tangle of blood vessels. The coral quince blooms shone out from snow-laden branches, and in the beds, spots of color speckled the white as determined flowers poked their heads triumphantly above their frosted blanket. It was so quiet. Even the wildlife seemed to have decided to stay home today.