[open post: in the gardens]

Claudius feels, to his surprise, rested. None of the swirling melodrama has abated -- he still has a Danish compatriot to worry about, a tender-hearted young man he has to dissuade, a power struggle which in the light of day he did start in a fit of pique because someone implied he didn't have enough experience. He's still concerned about a lack of social cohesion, the difficulties of arranging entertainments for a dance, the state of Lady Tress's experiments, the strange and poignant fragility of some of the newcomers, and about whether to level with Sagramore and say he lied to impress him. He didn't even increase the strength of his sleeping draughts. He had a drink or two with Crowley, talked about life and sin, found himself somnolent when making farewells, then wandered back to his room and slept like the dead.

They do say that wine is the greatest cordial of all vegetables. It must have been enough to balance his unbalanced humors¹. So now Claudius is in his shirt-sleeves in the gardens, with his shears, cutting flowers not to dry for draughts and potions, but because he might make a bouquet for one of the parlors. The mansion does so much on its own when it comes to cleaning, restocking, and rearranging itself, but flowers might make the place more convivial.

¹ Friendship is a greater cordial, and the real reason for his uplifted humor.