The entire effect was of something that had been upthrust by the very earth and grew into forms nearly indistinguishable from the roots and stems of the garden itself.

“Wow,” Greta sighed.

Muriel smiled and placed the glass tray on the table top. It fit perfectly, showing the mosaic beneath.

On it were delicate white china cups with gold-etched rims and peonies. A small glass cafetière was filled with dark coffee, and a pitcher that matched the cups was filled with milk. Pale pink sugar cubes were piled in a clear glass dish, tiny tongs resting beside it.

“Wow,” Greta heard herself say again.

It was the most beautiful tableau she’d ever seen.

Then Muriel placed a white china bowl full of water on the ground beside her chair and rubbed her fingers together. Horse walked to her side, licked her fingers, then lay down to drink from the bowl.

“My mother planted this garden,” Muriel said as she poured coffee into the peony cups. “Cream and sugar?”

Greta usually drank it black, but she was curious about those pink sugar cubes. “Yes, please.”

“She was a painter, and she loved to paint flowers most of all. She planted every flower you can think of, in every possible color. When you looked out the windows into the garden, all you saw was a riot of color and shape, like a pointillist painting. It looked like chaos all together. But when my mother would set up her easel, she would frame the painting exactly right, so that the flowers she painted went together perfectly.

“I asked her once if she had planted them with composition in mind, and she said, ‘You don’t compose nature. Nature composes, and it’s up to you to find the right perspective.’”

“Do you think that’s true?” Greta asked.

Muriel nodded. “Perspective is everything.”

Chapter 5

Greta

They had talked for hours, about plants, mothers, and a host of other topics, and Greta left Muriel’s with an invitation to take tea in her garden the following week. She wandered for a while longer before walking back through the French Quarter toward home. As she crossed Burgundy Street, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The miniature pony she’d seen earlier was tied to a hitching post outside a bar in the middle of the block. At least she assumed it was the same one. How many miniature ponies could there be around here? She was delighted to realize she had no idea. For all she knew, there could be dozens.