The courtyard garden behind the Fen Hollow Archive was sheltered from the marsh breeze by a semi-circular wall of split cedar hurdles, along which winter pear trees had been espaliered against the weathered wood. Their dark, leathery leaves were turning bronze, and heavy, russet-skinned fruit hung in clusters just out of reach of the grass.
In the center of the garden stood a low, circular table made from the cross-section of an ancient swamp-oak. It was surrounded by four rustic chairs with willow-wicker seats.
The afternoon sun poured down through the yellowing willow branches, warm, golden, and calm. It was the kind of autumn light that made old wood glow like amber and warmed the flat stone slabs until they felt like bread fresh from the oven.
Mirelle Voss set a heavy clay pot teapot in the center of the oak slab. It was unglazed red clay. It steamed from its spout with the fragrance of wild chamomile flowers, crushed peppermint leaves. A pinch of dried elderberries gathered from the levee banks. Beside the pot, she arranged four thick clay pot mugs and a wooden trencher piled high with thin slices of dried winter pears and a round cake of sweet barley flour sweetened with wild marsh honey.
