All living things. Animals and plants, but especially plants. Her delight. The house smells of moss and acorns, of blossom and verdant decay. Her apron still hangs on the hook by the door, the soil-stained pocket sagging with the weight of spade and wrotter and trowel. She favored hand-made tools made by her husband, the blacksmith. He feels about steel and iron the way she did about growing things, knows the magic of fire and air, the muscles of his arms like hawsers, his thick fingers amazingly deft.
He allows nobody into her greenhouse. He is mourning yet, perhaps will forever.