“This was not part of the plan,” said the man with the violet gloves.
He stood above a rosebush which was blooming just outside the entrance to the seventh maze. He sat cross-legged beside it, and tapped a pair of worn shears in a rhythm on his right knee. Tap ta-tap tap, ta-tap tap tap. He stared as if making eye contact with the buds, probing for the bush’s intentions through the dark red portals. At a glance, they were full, crimson, perfect, an open well from which bubbled the life of the entrenching roots. With his neck craned a few degrees off center, however, their shimmered white coats gleamed in the eye. Every petal was a cresting splash of blood atop a frozen wave of quicksilvered milk. Tap ta-tap tap.
