On a sleepy mid-morning, she and I walked through an autumn-kissed city, the crisp wind blowing softly, the leaves crunching under our feet. A thick fog filled the air; frost dusted the tips of the grass and the corners of the windows. Wrapped in an off-white sweater, the standard purple jacket, and a crimson scarf, I nonetheless felt chilled by the weather. Two days earlier a cold snap had rushed over the city, freezing garden after garden before their fruits could be reaped. In the next dorm over, a group of students, all around twelve or fourteen years, commiserated over their lost flowers, rued their failure to save the plants. The queen’s gardens, I expected, would remain in the height of summer.