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[June 1859]
The garden is quiet. A solace.
Morning light filters through the live oak branches overhead, casting dappled shadows over rows of herbs, roses, and wild Texas blooms. Gwendolyn Hayes kneels in the soft dirt, her pale blue wrapper gown gathered neatly around her legs. Cotton petals sway gently in the humid breeze as she hums a half-forgotten tune—something her mother used to sing in the kitchen while kneading bread.
She works with care, fingers steady as she snips the lavender stalks one by one. Only the ones in full bloom—ripe and ready. The scent clings to her hands and sleeve. Her bouquet grows steadily, a blend of cultivated blossoms and bursts of color from the wildflowers that crept into the garden years ago and never left.
A cicada sings somewhere in the trees. She pauses, head tilted, listening. Then continues.
The bundles she gathers aren’t large, but they’re lovely. Arranged just so, tied with twine she wound herself the night before. She tucks a sprig of rosemary beside the pale golden coreopsis, and it makes her smile—her father always says rosemary brings luck to the buyer.
Her golden hair is swept up and curled in the careful fashion of the day, every pin precisely placed. A pale pink rose peeks from behind her ear, plucked from the oldest bush in the yard—the one that always blooms early, no matter how late the last frost.
The soil is warm beneath her knees. A bee circles close, investigating her bouquet, then moves on. Gwendolyn brushes a streak of dirt from her glove and leans back slightly on her heels.
She isn’t thinking of anything in particular—just the weight of the summer sun on her shoulders, the sound of cotton brushing cotton as she moves, the quiet joy of doing something gentle. Something hers.
Later, she’ll bring the bundles into her parents’ shop, place them in the front window, maybe offer one to the widow Alden when she stops by for thread. But for now, she’s here. Among the flowers. Still. Calm. Home.
The sun climbs higher as Gwendolyn leaves the garden, her basket nestled in the crook of one arm. Each bundle is snug and fragrant, wrapped in soft muslin and tied with twine, ready for the day’s offering. She walks the dusty lane with her chin held high, boots crunching softly over the path between rows of clapboard homes and climbing fences. Her gown sways gently as she moves.
“Morning, Miss Hayes!” calls Mr. Beauchamp, lifting his hat as he balances on the ladder outside his tailor’s shop. He’s patching the awning again—third time this year.
Gwendolyn smiles and nods. “Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp. Do be careful up there!”
“Aye, your flowers are prettier than the fabric I work with—don’t let my wife hear I said so.”
She laughs and keeps walking, the breeze teasing the hem of her dress. The scent of baking bread floats from the corner bakery, and she lifts a hand in greeting to young Clara James behind the counter, face already dusted in flour.
“Off to the square?” Clara mouths through the glass.
Gwendolyn nods and holds up the basket. Clara waves and disappears back into the oven’s heat.
Children race past her near the old fountain—barefoot and shrieking with laughter. One boy pauses just long enough to tug at her skirt and say, “Miss Hayes, your hair looks like spun gold today!” before darting off again. Gwendolyn blinks in surprise, laughing as she shakes her head. The rose tucked behind her ear wobbles a little but stays in place.
By the time she turns onto Market Street, the town is already stirring with the pleasant hum of business. A wheelwright’s hammer rings steady in the distance. Horse hooves clatter over cobblestones. The scent of tobacco and peaches mingles in the air.
She passes Mr. Delaney setting up his apothecary stand—already sweating through his waistcoat—and tips her head to old Mrs. Winthrop, who sits stiffly beneath her parasol like a hawk surveying the square.
“Good day, Mrs. Winthrop,” Gwendolyn offers.
“Miss Hayes,” the old woman replies curtly. “Your hydrangeas were late this year.”
Gwendolyn’s smile never falters. “And all the more lovely for the wait, I think.”
She rounds the last corner, and there it is—Hayes Florals, the soft green sign swinging slightly in the breeze above the door. The shopfront is flanked by twin barrels of marigolds, and the windows bloom with cut flowers in vases of every kind. Her mother’s handwriting curls over the chalkboard in front: Fresh Lavender & Wild Bouquets – Limited today!
Inside, she can already see her father at the counter, head bent over the ledger, and her mother behind the window arranging violets with exacting care.
The bell over the door jingles as Gwendolyn steps inside Hayes Florals, the quiet hum of morning giving way to the cooler hush of the shop. Her mother glances up from a bundle of violets and smiles softly, fingers still moving as she works mindlessly.
“You’re late,” she teases gently.
“I was careful,” Gwendolyn replies, placing her basket on the front table beside the glass pitcher of lemon balm. “The lavender was slow to wake this morning.”
Her father chuckles from behind the leger. “That’s a fine excuse for taking your time, little dove.”
She rolls her eyes and begins unpacking the bundles, laying them out in neat rows. The scent of earth and herbs fills the shop, curling beneath the floorboards and through the open windowpanes.
Not five minutes later, the bell rings again. She doesn’t have to look up to know who it is.
“Miss Hayes,” comes the polite drawl, low and warm with a hint of teasing pride.
She straightens too quickly. “Mr. Whitlock,” she replies with a practiced curtsy, though her cheeks bloom pink beneath her freckles.
Jasper Whitlock stands in the doorway, hat in hand, boots dusted with the ride in. He’s all pressed linen and summer-tanned skin, his golden-brown curls a little wind-tossed from the morning breeze. There’s a scuffed book under one arm—some cavalry history, no doubt—and a glint of mischief in his brown eyes.
“You weren’t at church Sunday,” he says as he steps inside.
“I was,” she answers, arching a brow. “You were late.”
He grins. “Then I missed the best part.”
Her father clears his throat pointedly from the corner. Jasper’s smile falters just a bit, and he straightens.
“I mean no disrespect, sir. Just… thought I’d stop by. Mama asked if we’d any rose oil left and figured I could see for myself.”
“And I suppose you couldn’t have sent Abigail for that?” her mother asks, though there’s amusement in her voice.
Jasper shifts slightly. “Well, Abbi’s at her piano. Couldn’t pull her away if the barn was on fire.”
Gwendolyn exchanges a smile with him before turning back to her work, but her hands are suddenly clumsier than before, the twine slipping between her fingers. She tries not to watch him watching her, but he always does. He never stops.
“How old are you now, Jasper?” her father asks, folding his arms.
“Fifteen, sir. Sixteen in November.”
He nods slowly. “Still a boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Jasper says. And then, braver: “But I’ve never felt more certain of anything than I do sitting here, looking at her.”
The room falls silent. Even Gwendolyn stops fidgeting with her bundles.
Her mother lifts her brow, but it’s Gwendolyn who speaks, voice soft but steady.
“I’ve saved the best lavender bundle for your mother,” she says, setting it gently in Jasper’s hands.
His fingers brush hers. “She’ll be real pleased. But it’s not for her I came.”
Her blush deepens. Her father doesn’t interrupt.
Jasper stands a little straighter when Mr. Hayes doesn’t send him packing.
Instead, Gwendolyn’s father steps around the counter, slow and measured. He picks up a bundle of sage and lavender, inspects it, then places it carefully in the basket near the window.
“You still studying under Mr. Ainsworth?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” Jasper replies. “He says I’ve a good seat for cavalry. I’ve taken to riding most mornings before it gets too hot.”
Mr. Hayes nods once, considering that. “Discipline’s good for young men. Especially these days.”
Jasper’s jaw tightens, just slightly. “Yes, sir.”
The subtext sits heavy in the room. Gwendolyn feels it settle in her chest—this constant awareness that something’s shifting. That the world, as it stands now, might not hold.
But her father doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he glances toward her. “You were saying about that rose oil, Mr. Whitlock?”
Jasper’s eyes flick toward Gwendolyn, grateful. “Yes, sir. My mama’s nearly out.”
Mrs. Hayes moves to the back without needing to be told, disappearing behind the velvet curtain that hides the apothecary shelf. She’s gone just long enough to make the silence a little awkward.
“I saw Abigail with the Judge’s daughter last week,” Gwendolyn says gently, filling the space. “She had a new green ribbon in her braid.”
“She begged Mama for that ribbon for near a month,” Jasper replies, and for a moment, the tension eases between them. “Said it made her feel like a lady.”
“She is a lady,” Gwendolyn says firmly, and Jasper smiles—slow and warm like the start of summer rain.
“She misses you, you know,” he adds. “You used to come ‘round more.”
“I’ll visit soon,” Gwendolyn says. “I’ve just been—busy.”
She doesn't say with what. But they both know it’s been more than flower bundles and morning gardens. It’s been thoughts. Restlessness. Worry no one dares name out loud.
Mrs. Hayes returns with a small glass vial, corked tight. “Tell your mama this batch is from the spring harvest,” she says. “The petals had good sun.”
“I will,” Jasper says, accepting it with care. But his eyes never leave Gwendolyn’s.
Mrs. Hayes gives him a look—not sharp, exactly, but observant. “That’ll be five cents,” she says.
Jasper sets a silver dime on the counter and waves off the change. “Keep it. The shop always smells like heaven.”
He turns back toward the door, hesitates. Then: “Miss Hayes, would you walk me partway back?”
Gwendolyn’s heart gives one swift knock inside her chest. Her parents don’t speak.
She unties her apron without waiting for permission. “I’ll be just a minute.”
Outside, the sun has grown brighter, hot against the boards of the walkway. They stroll in silence down the edge of the market square, Jasper slowing his pace to match hers.
When they’re out of sight of the storefront, he reaches over—tentative—and hooks his pinky through hers.
Her breath catches. It’s barely anything. Just a touch.
“I heard talk,” he says softly, “about Richmond. And Charleston. Folks getting… ready.”
Gwendolyn’s throat tightens. “I know.”
He glances at her, then away. “Do you think it’ll come here?”
She doesn’t answer right away. The wind picks up and tugs at her skirts, ruffles her sleeve. She can feel the weight of the rose still behind her ear.
“I think…” she says finally, “that whatever comes, we hold to the good while we can.”
Jasper nods. They walk another few paces in silence.
Then he stops. “Lynny.”
She turns.
He’s flushed now, nervous, like he hadn’t meant to say her name quite so softly. But he doesn’t take it back. He lifts the rose oil vial slightly in his hand. “This… I’ll tell Mama it’s from you.”
“She’ll know better,” she says, smiling.
He laughs, low and quiet, and his thumb brushes against hers.
And then, just like that, he tips his hat, turns, and starts down the road, the bottle tucked against his chest like it’s worth more than silver.
Gwendolyn stands there for a while, the heat on her skin, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to her gloves, and watches him go.
[April 2006]
The rain comes soft and steady, more mist than storm, but it drapes the world in gray and drowns the forest in silence.
Upstairs, in the Cullen house, Jasper Hale sits alone.
He’s surrounded by artifacts from a dozen lifetimes. Record sleeves in careful stacks. Books older than most buildings in town. Maps and field journals arranged with military precision. Everything is in its place—curated. Neutral. Safe.
The room doesn’t have a bed. Just a green velvet sofa, low-backed, with a polished steel frame. An artifact of its own. Forks, 1965—the last time they lived here. He remembers helping Rosalie carry it up the stairs. He doesn’t remember why he kept it.
Jasper sits on the edge of the cushion, elbows braced on his knees, a silver pocket watch in his hands.
He turns it over slowly, listening to the soft scrape of metal against his palm. The engraving on the back is half-worn now—scratched by years of use, dulled by time and memory, but the hinges still give a clean, familiar click as it opens.
Inside, the photograph greets him like a whisper he’s afraid to answer.
Three figures. Frozen in silver.
He stares.
On the left—himself, barely seventeen, Union blues still fresh, his hand resting on the back of a chair. His eyes in the photo are softer, filled with something dangerous and warm: hope.
Beside him, seated in the chair, is her.
Lynny.
Gwendolyn Hayes Whitlock.
She wears a pale dress with delicate embroidery, her golden hair arranged in soft coils, a rose tucked behind her ear. Her eyes are light, her smile gentle—but it’s the way she leans slightly toward him that unravels something inside him. That unthinking trust. That familiar closeness.
In her arms rests the infant.
Their child.
Wrapped in ivory lace, cheeks round, eyes closed. The baby’s tiny fingers curl against the edge of the christening gown. He can’t remember the baby's name. That truth is gone—lost in the blood and fire and unholy rebirth that took everything from him.
His fingers tremble slightly as he closes the watch.
It’s always with him. In his coat pocket. In his drawer. On the shelf, beside books he can’t read anymore without remembering her lips whispering passages aloud in the garden.
Lynny had smelled like lavender and cotton and sunshine. She had laughed with her whole body. She had kissed his fingers when he came home with cuts on them from fencing or helping load wagons for the neighbors. She had held their child in her arms while humming old hymns beneath the stars.
He remembers the sound of her heartbeat.
But not her voice.
His jaw tightens. His fingers close the watch slowly, like it might shatter if he moves too fast.
He’s graduated now. Done with the act of high school, the routine of pretending to be someone he isn’t. There’s no classroom to lose himself in. No hallway chatter to tune out. The smell of human blood and sound of warm heartbeats not filling him with dread.
Just this house. These woods.
Victoria’s shadow is out there, moving through Seattle like a storm brewing just beyond the trees.
But here, in this quiet room, Jasper is still.
He rests the watch on the arm of the velvet sofa and leans back, staring up at the ceiling, where the soft light from the window diffuses through clouded glass.
And he sits here, untouched by time but not by grief, and lets the ache of memory wash through him like the rain against the roof.
Lynny.
He mouths her name like it’s a secret.
Like it’s the only thing left in the world that’s still his.
A quiet knock sounds against the doorframe—measured, but not exactly patient.
Edward steps just inside without waiting. He doesn’t cross the threshold.
“You’re thinking about them again,” he says, voice soft but clear. “Loudly.”
Jasper doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from the ceiling. His fingers rest loosely over the closed pocket watch on the sofa arm. “Then don’t listen in.”
Edward exhales through his nose. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”
Silence settles between them, a few beats too long.
The rain outside thickens, turning to a steady hiss against the windows. Somewhere downstairs, Emmett lets out a muffled laugh at some game he’s playing. But up here, the world feels suspended.
Jasper’s voice comes quieter this time. Rougher. “I wasn’t trying to shout.”
“I know,” Edward says.
Jasper finally glances at him. His eyes are darker than usual, shadowed by old grief, not hunger. “I barely remember her,” he admits. “I know her name. I know I loved her. I know I died thinking I’d see her again. And then I didn’t.”
Edward doesn’t interrupt.
Jasper turns the watch over in his palm. “She would’ve buried me, you know? Properly. With a stone. Said goodbye. She wouldn’t have known what happened. Just that I never came home.”
Edward leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You did what you thought was right. You signed up to protect what you believed in. That didn’t change just because Maria changed you.”
“No,” Jasper mutters. “But everything else did.”
Edward lingers a moment more. Then, “You’re not alone, you know.”
“I am where they’re concerned,” Jasper says, low. “No one remembers them but me.”
Edward’s silence now carries a different weight—agreement.
After a moment, he turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “You should tell the rest of the family what you see in that photo. They’d want to know.”
Jasper shakes his head. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about what can’t be changed. They died in that fire. Because Maria found out, found them.”
Edward leaves without another word.
The door clicks softly shut behind him.
Jasper stays there, seated in the shadows, the green velvet cold beneath his hand. The watch rests in his palm again. Still closed. Still heavy.
Outside, the trees sway in the rain. And the name presses against his tongue once more like a ghost.
Lynny.
The quiet folds over him. He can hear Alice laughing faintly downstairs—light, breezy, like wind chimes caught in sunlight. Cerise is with her, voice low and smooth in contrast, the way she always is.
Alice has her path. He has his ghosts.
Still, she’ll be up here soon. She always is when Edward walks out looking concerned.
He opens the pocket watch again.
Lynny’s face stares up at him—silvered and quiet. Still young. Still whole. The photo’s curled slightly with age, and the infant’s hand is blurred at the edge, mid-motion. He wonders what the child’s voice would have sounded like. Wonders if the baby had her smile.
He doesn’t know. And that’s the hardest part.
There’s a soft knock again—gentler this time, but sure.
Alice doesn’t wait for a response. She never does.
She peeks in, eyebrows raised in that familiar, unreadable way. She’s in high-waisted jeans and a borrowed sweater, damp hair curling just slightly at the ends. “You okay, Cowboy?”
Jasper lets out a short breath that could be mistaken for a laugh. “Did Edward send you?”
Alice rolls her eyes. “No. He tried, though. I told him to stop brooding like a Victorian widow and let me handle it.”
She walks in fully now and slides down beside him on the sofa like she’s done it a thousand times—and she has. She leans into the green velvet and rests her chin on her fist, peering at the watch in his hands.
“Thinking about them again?”
“Apparently, I do it ‘loudly.’”
Alice’s smile is sympathetic, but it doesn’t waver. “He doesn’t mean to pry.”
“I know.” He glances at her. “But sometimes I’d like the luxury of grief being a private thing.”
Alice hums, eyes still on the photo. “She was beautiful.”
He nods slowly. “She was. So was the baby.”
Alice doesn't ask more. She never does. She doesn't need to.
Instead, she nudges his knee with hers. “Cerise found a first edition war ledger from Texas—the kind only printed for officers’ families. She’s bringing it back for you tonight.”
That makes him blink. “She didn’t have to…”
“She wanted to,” Alice says. “She likes you. Doesn’t mean she won’t bite you if you’re rude.”
Jasper smirks faintly. “I’ll try to mind my manners.”
Alice leans over and gently presses her forehead to his shoulder for a moment—comfort without pity. Then she leans back again. “You know,” she says softly, “you don’t have to keep this all locked away. You’re allowed to speak their names.”
He looks down at the photo again.
“Lynny,” he says aloud. “And I don’t know the baby’s name. But he was ours.”
Alice nods once. “That’s enough for now.”