The ball was winding down. The older nobles had retired. The younger ones were getting louder, the champagne flowing more freely. The music had shifted from stately waltzes to something livelier, more reckless.
Evan was looking for a way to slip out unnoticed when he saw her.
At first, he thought he was imagining things. A trick of the light. A result of too much champagne and not enough sleep.
But no. There, standing by the improved champagne fountain, was a woman who looked exactly like—
"Althea?" Evan murmured.
But it couldn't be. This woman was younger. Maybe forty, not seventy. Her hair was dark, not silver. Her posture was straight, not bent from years of gardening. Her skin was smooth, unlined.
And yet... the eyes were the same. The way she held herself. The slight, knowing smile.
She saw him looking. She nodded once, then turned and walked through a side door, out onto a balcony.
Evan followed.
The balcony was empty except for the woman. She stood at the railing, looking out at the moonlit gardens. As Evan approached, she turned.
"Lord Carter," she said. Her voice was Althea's, but younger. Clearer. Stronger.
"Who are you?" Evan asked.
"You know who I am. Or you will." She gestured, and the air around them shimmered. For a moment, Evan saw two images superimposed: the young woman before him, and the old gardener he knew, bent and weathered. Then they resolved into one—the younger version.
"An illusion?" Evan guessed.
"A memory. Or a possibility." She smiled, and it was Althea's smile exactly—warm, knowing, slightly sad. "Time is... flexible in certain places. In certain presences."
"My presence."
"Yes." She touched the railing. Under her fingers, the stone smoothed, became almost glassy, reflective. "You improve things, Evan. Even time. Even memory. Even me."
The air around her shimmered again, and for just a moment, Evan saw her as she might have been—a powerful mage, staff in hand, robes swirling with captured starlight. Then the image faded, and she was just a woman in simple clothes again.
"What are you?" he whispered.
"What I WAS. What I could be again, if you keep improving the garden. If you keep improving... me." She looked at her hands—smooth, strong, unlined. "The Memory Tree doesn't just remember the past. It remembers POSSIBILITIES. Futures that didn't happen. Selves that were lost. Dreams that never came true."
Evan remembered the crystal fruits. The glimpses of memories. Of Althea young, planting the tree. Of tears. Of loss. Of a man's hand on her shoulder.
"You were a mage," he realized.
"I am a GARDENER. But once... yes." She looked out at the gardens. "I tended different things. Deeper things. The roots of the palace. The foundations of reality."
"The hidden artifact," Evan said. "The thing that needs maintenance every third month."
Her expression tightened. "You shouldn't know about that."
"Mira found records."
"Mira is too clever for her own good." The young Althea—the memory, the possibility—turned back to him. "Listen to me, Evan. The Weaver can teach you control. But she can also teach you TRUTH. And truth has consequences."
"What truth?"
"The truth about what's beneath this palace. About why your magic is the way it is. About why the Carters have always been... different."
She was fading now, the image growing translucent, the edges blurring. "Go to the Weaver. Learn. But be careful. Some knowledge changes you. And some changes can't be undone."
"Wait—"
"You're not ready. Not yet. But you will be." Her smile was sad. "Tell the Memory Tree I remember. Tell it I never forgot. Not really."
She was gone.
Only the night air remained, cool and empty and smelling faintly of roses.
Evan stood alone on the balcony, the sounds of the dying ball behind him, the silent gardens before him.
Improving time. Improving memory. Improving... people?
What was his magic capable of?
And what had it already done without him realizing?
***