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appeared to. Closer inspection revealed a narrow fissure set at an angle in the tall yew hedge barring his way.
        He paused for a moment, then edged through the crack.
        Beyond the hedge, the path was graveled, with trees pressing in tightly, their interlocking branches forming a gloomy vault overhead. After a hundred yards or so, the trees fell away abruptly on both sides and he found himself in a clearing near the head of a broad cleft in the hillside. This was evidently the heart of the garden, the central axis along which it unfolded.
        To his right, set near the top of a tiered and stone-trimmed amphitheater, stood a pedestal bearing a marble statue of a naked woman. Her exaggerated
contrapposto
stance thrust her right hip out, twisting her torso to the left, while her head was turned back to the right, peering over her shoulder. Her right arm was folded across her front, modestly covering her breasts; her hair was wreathed with blossoms; and at her feet flowers spilled from an overturned vase, like water from an urn.
        Unless he was mistaken, Federico Docci had cast his wife in the image of Flora, goddess of flowers. This was not so surprising, but the conceit still brought a smile to his lips.
        If there was any doubt as to the identity of the statue, on the crest above, a triumphal arch stood out proud against a screen of dark ilex trees. On the heavy lintel borne up by fluted columns, and set between two decorative lozenges, was incised the word:

        The Italian for flower;
Flora
in Latin. There was something telling, tender, about Federico's decision to employ the Italian form of his wife's Christian name—an indication, perhaps, of a pet name or some other private intimacy lost to history.
        Two steep stone runnels bordered the amphitheater, descending to a long trough sunk into the ground. Leaves and other debris had collected in the base of the trough, and a dead bird lay on this rotting mattress, pale bones showing through decaying plumage. A weather-fretted stone bench was set before the trough, facing the amphitheater. It bore an inscription in Latin, eroded by the elements, but just possible to make out:
        anima fit sedendo et quiescendo prudentior
        The Soul in Repose Grows Wiser. Or something like that. An appropriate message for a spot intended for contemplation.
        The presence of an overflow outlet just below the rim of the trough steered his gaze down the slope to a high mound bristling with laurel and fringed with cypresses. From here two paths branched off into the dark woods flanking the overgrown pasture that ran to the foot of the valley, and at the far end of which some kind of stone building lurked in the trees.
        A flight of shallow steps led down to the mound. Adam skirted the artificial hillock, wondering just what it represented. It didn't represent anything, he discovered; it existed to house a deep, stygian grotto.
        The irregular entrance, designed to look like the mouth of some mountain cave, was encrusted with cut rock and stalactites. The angle of the sun was such that he couldn't make out what lay inside.
        He hesitated for a moment, shook off a mild foreboding, then stepped into the yawning darkness.
     

        
Did you see him before he left?
        
Briefly. I told him you were resting.
        
I wanted to see him.
        
Wake me up next time.
        
Of course, Signora.
        
Did he say anything?
        
About what?
        
The garden, of course.
        
No.
        
Nothing? He was very silent.
        
Silent?
        
Distracted.
        
He's handsome, don't you think? Tall and dark and slightly dangerous.
        
He's too pallid.
        
It's not his fault, Maria, he's English.
        
And he's too thin.
        
A bit, I agree.
        
He needs fattening up.
        
That will come with time. He hasn't grown into his body yet.
        
I think he's