The herb garden was exactly right.
Not perfect in the way of staged perfection — not the decorated, managed, produced version of right. The specific rightness of a place that was itself on a day that was itself, nothing performed, nothing added that the space hadn't already earned.
The rosemary was at its spring height. The thyme was coming into its own. The small paths between the beds had been walked so many times in the months of the compound's gathering that they had taken on the smooth quality of paths that knew they were paths. The light at ten in the morning was the exact light that ten in the morning gave to an east-facing herb garden in spring.
The people were gathered.
Not a crowd — the specific people. The ones whose names were in the building story. Roan at the edge with th
