Before the garden had become a place she hated, Airam had loved it.
She had been six years old then.
At six, she only knew that the garden was beautiful.
It spread across the southern side of the palace, vast enough that she could not see its far end from where she sat. Tall walls surrounded it, covered in climbing vines and pale flowers. Stone paths wound through carefully trimmed hedges. Fountains poured clear water into wide basins where silver fish moved beneath the surface. Trees with dark red leaves stood along the paths, their branches heavy with blossoms that smelled sweet in the afternoon heat.
Airam sat alone on one of the marble benches.
Her feet did not reach the ground.
She kicked them slowly beneath her pale dress, the heels of her shoes moving back and forth above the path. Her long dark hair fell around her small face. The strands had been braided that morning by one of the palace attendants, but several had already slipped loose near her cheeks.
