He drops his fork. “I like it down here,” he replies.

“But you must come see! The tulips are in bloom, and there are rowan trees growing from the ruins.”

“I like the quiet,” he says softly.

“It is quiet outdoors, too. All one hears are the pleasant sounds of the world going about its business: the wind blowing, and the sheep bleating, and the meadow grass rustling in the wind.” I lean forward so my face is close to his, and whisper, “If you prefer it to be quiet, I will not say a word, I promise.”

He pays no attention to me. Instead he gazes up at the cellar door, which I had left ajar when I came downstairs, as I needed both hands to hold the breakfast tray. A barely perceptible current of air wafts down to us.

Weed closes his eyes and breathes in the clean scent of spring. Then he cocks his head, as if listening.

“All right,” he agrees. “It is time.”

Father’s old shirt is loose on Weed but otherwise suits him well. The trousers are too long, so I help him roll them up at the leg. There is no need for a coat today; the sun soaks into our skin until it feels as if the warmth radiates from our very bones.

We walk slowly. In my mind, I explain every detail of my world to him: how the fishpond, now drained and covered with a heavy wooden board, once served as a place to store live fish until they were to be eaten. How, as summer comes, the clematis vines will climb and weave all over the ruined walls inside the courtyard and turn them into flowering monuments, blanketed in deep purple and crimson.

I could point out the marigolds that must be moved into a sunnier spot this year, and the patch of bee balm that has grown too big and needs to be divided. Too, I could show him the path up the slope that leads to Father’s locked apothecary garden, where we may not enter, though I suppose we could go look through the gate if Weed is curious.

But I promised to be quiet, so I do not speak of these things. Would he even care about them? I do not know; whatever opinions he has are hidden away behind the locked gates of his own silent lips.

Once we cross the courtyard and pass through the outer wall, the view of the countryside opens up before us. There are sheep meadows on either side, cresting over the softly rolling hills like waves. In the distance lies the deep green mystery of the forest.

As we proceed along the path, Weed’s eyes rove over the landscape as if they would devour it. We pass a copse of trees, so intimately arranged they seem to be leaning in to whisper secrets to one another.

Even as I think it, Weed pauses, then smiles.