She found Rowan in the Glass Garden that afternoon.

He was in the experimental section — the back beds, the crosses, the space that had its own specific quality of quiet. She had come to understand, over weeks at Ravencroft, that Rowan’s presence in the Glass Garden operated on a rhythm she could read: he moved from the main beds to the experimental section in the middle of the afternoon, worked there until the light changed, and returned to the main beds at the end of the day. She had timed her arrival accordingly.

He looked up when she came in. Looked at her face. Set down the tool he was holding.

"You’ve been in the lower level," he said.

"All morning." She stopped at the edge of the experimental beds. "I found her record. The full one."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Then you know she wrote your name in it," he said.

"Yes."

A pause. The Glass Garden was quiet around them. The Winter Rose in the experimental beds was smaller and less potent than the main variety, and the ambient level in this section was correspondingly lower — present, but gentle.

"I want to know about her," Grace said. "Not what happened. What she was like. While she was alive."

Rowan looked at the plants in front of him for a moment. Then he sat down on the stone border of the bed, in the way of someone making a decision about how to settle into a conversation. She sat on the opposite border, facing him, with the low experimental plants between them.

"She was curious about everything," he said. "That’s the first thing. Not curious like someone collecting facts — curious like someone who genuinely couldn’t understand why anyone would accept not knowing something when the answer was findable." He paused. "It annoyed people sometimes. She asked questions past the point where most people would stop."

"She was a researcher," Grace said.

"She was a researcher who had been hired as a botanical worker and who had made herself a researcher through the specific stubbornness of refusing to do only what was expected." He looked at the plants. "She wasn’t supposed to be in the lower level at all. That space was for the physician’s work. She went down there on her own time and read everything she could find, over three years, until she understood what the compound actually was and what it was actually being used for."

---

"The last three years," Grace said. "You said she became more careful."

"She became more careful because she understood she was building a case and that cases had to be airtight to survive what they were being built against." He was quiet for a moment. "She wasn’t reckless. She was methodical. She worked slowly and she documented everything and she made copies of what she found and she hid the copies in different places." A pause. "She trusted me with some of them. I still have what I have. I’ve had them for four years, waiting."

Grace looked at him. "You have copies of her documentation."

"What I could keep safe," he said. "Not everything. Some of it burned when the Conservatory was first damaged — that was before my time, I mean before the current situation, years earlier. But some of it survived. She was thorough about the hiding."

"I need those copies," Grace said.

"I know." He met her eyes. "That’s why I’m telling you about them."

---

He told her more.

The way Mariel had moved through the estate: quietly, efficiently, without drawing attention. The specific relationship she had with the Glass Garden — not romantic sentimentality about the plants, but the deep practical familiarity of someone who had worked alongside them for eleven years and understood their rhythms the way she understood her own breathing. She had been, Rowan said, the only person he had ever met who could walk into the Glass Garden at any hour of any season and tell you, from the smell and the feel of the air, exactly what state the Winter Rose was in.

"She sounds," Grace said, carefully, "like she would have been very good at exactly the work that eventually—" She stopped.

"That eventually killed her," Rowan said. Without inflection. The flat delivery of someone who had said the truth of a thing enough times that it had lost its power to hurt in the saying, though not in the knowing.

"Yes."

"She was," he said. "She knew what she was doing. She understood it better than anyone. That made her both more dangerous to them and more dangerous to herself."

Grace sat with this.

"She knew it too," Rowan said. "She’d known for at least two years before the end that she was being watched. She told me once — just once, she didn’t talk about it much — that the only question was whether she could finish what she was building before they decided she needed to be stopped." He paused. "She almost made it. She was very close."

"What did she have that she was trying to get out?"

"Records of the compound’s use going back twenty years. Names. Dates. Specific instances. Children who had been processed through the system, including —" He stopped.

"Including me," Grace said.

"Including you. She had your entry. She had the documentation of what was done to you and who ordered it and who performed it." He looked at the plants. "That’s what she was carrying when she died. That’s what she was trying to bring out."

Grace was quiet for a moment.

"She died trying to give me back to myself," she said.

It was not a dramatic statement. It was the specific statement of a person who has assembled enough information to understand a thing completely and is saying it plainly, without performance, because plain language was the only kind that fitted something of this size.

Rowan did not respond to it directly. But he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a small bundle of folded papers, held together with a piece of string, and placed them on the stone border between them.

"Her copies," he said. "The ones I kept."

Grace picked them up. Held them.

"I’ve been waiting," Rowan said, "for someone to come who would know what to do with them. Not just read them. Know what to do."

Grace looked at the papers in her hand. At Rowan across the experimental beds. At the Winter Rose around them, the plants that had been both the instrument and the evidence of everything that had happened here.

"I know what to do," she said.