Sarkan throws his arms up, rising back to his full lofty height and dusting off the bottom of his cloak. What a frustrating, contrary girl she is. Dying girl.

"I was thoroughly absorbed." His hand hovers near his concealed pocket. "From now onward, I'll take greater pains to trod gingerly around the greenery at the expense of my twisted ankles."

He regards the winding path through the garden with a pinch to the bridge of his nose.

"Since you clearly have a vested interest in the herbs and flowers, you would know the answer to this. Say I need these for a brew. Are they for public use?" He adds caustically, because he just can't help himself, "Or do I risk the puling of a wrathful gardener-girl if, Heaven forbid, I clip the wrong plant?"