(Catherine POV)
I moved through the gardens like a ghost, my sketchbook filling with images that felt more like evidence than art. Every flower bed told a story, every carefully placed stone suggested intention beyond mere decoration. This wasn't just a garden—it was a autobiography written in growing things.
The hedge maze drew me despite myself. It rose in the distance like a green fortress, its walls towering higher than seemed natural for trimmed yew. Even from across the expanse of formal gardens, I could sense its complexity—paths that doubled back on themselves, choices that led to dead ends or deeper mysteries.
A puzzle, I realized. Like everything else in this place.
I found another bench positioned to give me a clear view of the maze's entrance, and settled down to capture wh
