“Well, as it goes,” Ben says, “I’m not Klaus’s type.”

“Mmmm,” I murmur in agreement. “Not like the violinist over there.”

“You are observant…” Ben smiles. “But you should know that Klaus’s interest in the violinist does not preclude him from being interested in you.”

“Oh really?” I say. “He’s attracted to men and women? How interesting.”

‘“Anyway, enough about Klaus,” he says, tugging at my hand. “I have something I want to show you.”’

“Are you just trying to get me into a dark corner?”

Ben gives me a long look. “Maybe later,” he says, pulling me further down the path into the garden. “I want you to see my work.”

“Oh!” I exclaim. “I would love that.” Hopefully I can manage something better than “nice” this time, I think.

The noise from the crowd recedes as we follow a path lined with candles. Ben leads me towards the fountain, where ropes hung with lanterns cast the space in a warm golden glow.

There, standing on three easels, are the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen. They are alive with swathes of bright colour, and though they are not faithful reproductions, it is easy for me to recognize them.

“Anisoptera,” I murmur, standing in front of a canvas of dazzling blues and greens and purples. “A dragonfly.” I turn to the next painting. “Gonepteryx cleopatra.” This canvas is all saffron, gold and cinnamon. “The Cleopatra butterfly.” And finally, “Upupa epops.” The hoopoe, the bird I longed to see the most, its striking black and white comb displayed in geometric shapes against coppery peach feathers. “I can’t believe you painted them.” Somehow Ben has captured the freedom of the creatures, their beauty and the way they move.

“I was thinking of you,” he says. He touches the painting of the dragonfly. “The first time you came here to the fountain.” He turns to the next canvas. “And our terrible first attempt at a romantic picnic.” He rests a hand on the final one. “The fountain again … after you pushed me in.”

“Those don’t seem like the happiest memories,” I murmur, still spellbound by the paintings in front of me.

“Oh, they were,” Ben says quietly. “They were with you.”

I turn to look at him, and for some reason there are tears prickling at my eyes. “I love them,” I say simply. “Thank you for painting them.”

Ben swallows. “It looks like the great experiment has helped us both. I think it’s some of my best work.”

“I’m glad,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful. “I wouldn’t want to think that I was the only one who experienced positive results.”

I think he’s going to make a joke, something sly about the “positive results”, but instead he smiles, a slow sweet smile.

“No,” he says. “You’re not the only one.”

My heart thumps irregularly in my chest. “You’re being very romantic now.”