The Balcony Gardener and her beloved dog Teddy were enjoying a patch of late January sun that had wandered, briefly, into February’s jurisdiction.
Teddy lay with his chin on his paws, eyes half closed, listening to the city breathe.
The Balcony Gardener sipped a new experiment: elderflower and orange tea. She considered it carefully. Pleasant, but perhaps a little tart. She made a mental note to remove the orange next time and replace it with passionfruit, which had a gentler way of asserting itself.
Something moved in her peripheral vision. She turned toward the neighboring balcony.
Madame Dupont’s eyes appeared slightly glazed, as though she were following music only she could hear.”
Madame Dupont was swaying, slowly and deliberately, like someone remembering a dance rather than performing it. Her movements were unhurried and circular. From inside her apartment drifted the unmistakable strains of “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” by Tchaikovsky. Madame Dupont’s eyes appeared slightly glazed, as though she were following music only she could hear.
The Balcony Gardener rolled her eyes and took another sip of tea.
“Well,” she thought, “her mushrooms must be coming along nicely.”
The matter of the orange was settled. Passionfruit it would be.
As the sun tilted westward, the light sharpened. That was when the Balcony Gardener noticed something else. Madame Dupont’s hair seemed to sparkle. She reached for her distance glasses.
Upon closer inspection, Madame Dupont was wearing an emerald tiara. Not only that, but there was also a diamond bracelet, and several rings, all catching the light as she turned, scattering green and white flashes across the balcony rail.
The Balcony Gardener lowered her glasses slowly.
She turned back to her chair and opened the latest issue of The Parisian Outlook, a satisfyingly spicy publication full of events, doings, and just enough scandal to be instructive. She liked it for its practical blend of city life and gardening wisdom: broken branches after snowfalls, frostbitten primroses, the hazards of premature optimism.
The feature article this month concerned the theft of the Crown Jewels from the Louvre—in broad daylight. “In-croy-able,” said the Balcony Gardener aloud.
Was Madame Dupont wearing the stolen Crown Jewels?”
Teddy opened one eye.
The article noted, rather pointedly, that the jewels had yet to be recovered. The Balcony Gardener felt a small tightening of recognition. She remembered her own visit to the Louvre months earlier, recalled now as she turned soil in her pots, adding compost and fertilizer. She had been taken with a particular green tiara. She had even photographed it. It had once belonged to Empress Marie Louise in the early 19th century.
Slowly, the Balcony Gardener’s gaze lifted.
Madame Dupont turned.
The tiara flashed.
“Land sakes,” cried the Balcony Gardener. “Oh no. Surely not.”
Was Madame Dupont wearing the stolen Crown Jewels? Curiosity, having made its decision, took over. The Balcony Gardener hastily assembled an excuse. Teddy was already asleep as she slipped next door, carrying a pot of lemon and passionfruit butter she had made that morning, using her own lemons and market-bought fruit.
Madame Dupont answered the door looking flustered.
“Oh,” she said. “Excuse me. I am in costume.”
“In costume,” thought the Balcony Gardener, enlightenment descending.
“I am rehearsing for our latest Zoom play,” Madame Dupont explained. The Nutcracker’s Journey. “I wanted to feel the part, even if I did not dance to it.”
The Balcony Gardener let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Of course. The emerald tiara and accompanying jewels were costume pieces, theatrical and entirely innocent. The world, once again, made sense, at least for the moment.
She paused, recalling Madame Dupont’s glazed eyes, the unhurried sway, the way she had seemed unusually pleased with the world.”
“I’m about to take a break,” said Madame Dupont. “A cup of tea, my dear neighbor?”
The two women sat together as winter eased into evening, chatting easily while the light thinned and the city settled. Madame Dupont was in especially high spirits, her laughter arriving early, her stories drifting pleasantly off course.
Later, back on her own balcony, the Balcony Gardener rinsed her cup and folded Teddy’s blanket. She paused, recalling Madame Dupont’s glazed eyes, the unhurried sway, the way she had seemed unusually pleased with the world.
Tea, she thought, did not usually have that effect.
She smiled, checked her pots, and went inside, leaving Madame Dupont to her rehearsal and whatever else might have been steeping that afternoon.
Editor’s Note: Read more of the Parisienne horticulturist’s adventures here and in The Balcony Gardener Volume 1.