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There is some kind of stillness and silence in Mary's garden, broken only by quiet footsteps or the rustle of wind in the leaves.
Alan thinks it is the same sort of stillness he finds in his music.
There is a dedication and a work within it, something deeply personal, and a symphony of color that he thinks he can only barely appreciate; he suspects it would be like a whole other kind of music beneath his eyes, if only he knew how to read the language of the rose petals and the dew upon their thorns. As it is, he hears the bees and sees the butterflies and there is something here that speaks to him, in this bright and quiet place in Mary's care.
They are still betrothed at the moment, despite their feelings for other people, so they attend formal functions together, and Mary is obliged to come to his recitals. He hopes she appreciates his music- he can accept he's got a talent for it, can take pride in it, but he knows it takes a lot of time out of a day, and he's not sure it's something she admires in him.
He admires her rose garden.
He's gotten to know a little about agriculture over the years- you can't stick around Katarina very long without learning something- but it's never really been something he's gotten the way she and Mary have.
He remembers, sometimes, that the very first time he met Mary Hunt, they spoke in her garden.
It was lovely, that day so long ago- he remembers the vivid reds of the petals and the verdant leaves . There was something quiet there, just the two of them, and he remembers being relieved to be away from the prying eyes of her older sisters. He remembers seeing their expressions, some mingled derision and jealousy in their gazes- he remembers bitterness, and eyes that spoke volumes: "a useless fourth prince is still a prince".
But when they stepped into that garden it was as if the rest of the world had melted away. There was the wind in the leaves and the soil beneath their shoes and a stillness as though nothing else existed but that place and that moment.
He had loved it, he remembers. And when he had learned it was Mary who tended this beautiful place, he had been bursting to tell her how much he loved it- how much her talent with plants had him in awe.
Ah, but Mary had told him then what Katarina had said to her, the compliment paid to Mary's green thumb.
Alan had been bitter, then, too; about something else that had seemed to have been stolen from him by Geordo by proxy. But even before he met Katarina Claes, he'd been curious about the girl who'd admired Mary and the work she put into this garden, the same as he had felt.
...
Sometimes, Alan visits Mary's house; they're more or less friends as well as engaged, and they can't be with Katarina every day of the week. Well, not when they're away from the academy, anyway.
On those days, they often find their way to that garden- it's grown now, and Mary with it. They talk, a little, but mostly they sit in one another's company, absorbed in their own pursuits. Mary eyes him curiously and seems to be plotting, sometimes, but they've known each other a long time; and as Alan writes his music resting there, and Mary tends her roses or reads up on whatever new crops Katarina has decided to look into growing, there is a comfortable silence between them.
He's not sure how he feels about the idea of going through with their marriage, if neither of them find success with the true targets of their feelings. But Mary is as dear to him as all their old friends are, and occasionally, when he's idling at his piano, possessed by some strange formless inspiration, his fingers will ghost across the keys in the imitation of rain on garden leaves, whispering wind, and the quiet breath of the earth.
No, he knows, it is not a love song. But it's something there is peace in.