Imogen's empathy is a muscle that could use flexing. Merlin, wherever he is, knows that. Still, there's a little twist in her chest when she looks at his tiny child's face. Eyes with tears in them. It's fucking sad. It's brutal. Even she can feel that, and strangely -- bafflingly -- feeling it makes her wish he were here. Now Merlin. Real Merlin, in his pink prom finery that matches her torn dress. The one who kept this to himself.

"Yeah, okay," she agrees over her shoulder at Armani, prowling toward the caravan. "Let's do this."

The plants in the racks and trellises draw her in, like plants often do, and someone really knew how to take care of these ones. She reaches out to trace a frond of knotgrass, lip in her teeth.