Van nodded sympathetically.
“You know?”
“Yes. Der Fliegende Holländer. Dad Almaviva sang the captain’s role.” Van wanted to say something about how her middle name fit, because she did seem the good and faithful type, never fully understood…but he scarcely knew her.
After a silence, Emily asked, cheerfully, “I should have asked earlier, but…do you know where we’re going?”
“I did check the maps and directions. We’re taking Knutt Boulevard north to the west guideway, and follow that to the Ridgeline Road exit. Then we go north for two klicks until we see the signs.”
The sign was so small Van almost missed it—just a golden oak oblong affixed to a wooden post with darker letters reading CLIFF SPIRE carved into the wood. An arrow pointed down the lane barely wide enough for two groundcars to pass. The paving was ancient synthstone, flanked by a pfitzer hedge higher than the roof of the groundcar.
Slightly more than a half klick northward, the lane turned east, and then, twenty yards later, the hedge and lane both ended. On the right was a carpark, with space for a good thirty vehicles. There were but three there.
“It’s not exactly thronged,” observed Emily.
“No.” Van eased the embassy vehicle into one of the empty spaces, then got out and stretched. The hillside air was cooler, fresher, and the breeze was welcome.
To the north stood the former governor’s mansion, a single-story structure of a dark green stone that seemed to blend into the walled terraces—also constructed of the same green stone—that rose up the hillside to meet it.
“Look,” Emily said.
Van turned. He hadn’t really been looking, but Cliff Spire had not been a fanciful name. The grounds to the east, overlooking the northern part of Valborg and the bay and ocean beyond, were literally peninsula-like—a good fifteen hectares of low gardens and flowers. The ground was flat, as if it had been cut out of the hillside. The gardens were in flower, and each section seemed to carry out a different color scheme. For a time, Van just stood at the beginning of the gray flagstone path that wound along the gardens on the southern side of the estate.
Emily stepped up beside him. “If this is what he created…”
“It’s a spectacular view and setting.”
They walked slowly along the path, stopping at the first flower bed. The borders were sculpted in scalloped curves, the curves outlined by a pale green permanite edging. Just inside the edging was a border of a low ground cover with pale blue flowers, each not much bigger than the tip of a stylus, but there were thousands, tiny blue starbursts against the dark bluish green leaves. Behind the ground cover were bushes roughly thirty centimeters high. Each bush had been grown and trimmed into the shape of a seven-pointed star.
Van counted several to make sure. All had seven points. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a seven-pointed star before. He looked to Emily. “Have you ever seen a seven-pointed star before?”
“Seven-pointed star?”
“The bushes.” He pointed, then watched as she counted.
“You’re right. Seven points. I haven’t seen that before.”
Van took another deep breath, taking in the perfume of the flowers, a mixture of scents that seemed to change with the light, swirling breeze. One moment, the odor was predominantly cinnamon mint, the next a lavender rose, and then a pungent marigold-like musk.
“Was that obvious to you?” she asked, as they walked through the cool midmorning hill breeze to the second flower bed along the flagstone path.
“The star pattern? It stood out.”
Emily nodded.
They stopped before the second assemblage of plants and flowers—clearly based on pinks, but the shapes, to Van, at least, were ovals that looked most like spiral galaxies. He did not say so, and they moved to the next flower bed.
It took more than two hours, even for a cursory look at the flower beds, the turf maze, and the topiary arrangements in the gardens, before they climbed the wide green stone staircase that ran up the center of the terraces and reached the covered veranda—and a guide who stood there.
“The governor often sat here after his evening meal,” offered the young man, who wore a uniform with which Van was unfamiliar. “He built Cliff Spire with his own funds. That was why he could place it so far from the colonial assembly building. He’d planned to retire here, after his diplomatic service.”
“Did he have any family?” asked Emily.
“He had both a daughter and a son. After his death, the daughter emigrated to Perdya—”
“She went Eco-Tech?”
“That’s right. His son was already in the Argenti space forces, and he never returned to Gotland. His wife lived here another thirty years, then gifted Cliff Spire to the Spire Foundation and left Gotland.”
“How sad,” murmured Emily.
Van agreed, but didn’t say so.
“You can get the best idea of what Cliff Spire is like if you go to the left after you enter,” the young guide continued, “and move from the front sitting room to the formal dining area, and then along the front rooms. Just make a long oval, and you’ll end up in the study on the right side of the foyer.”
“Thank you.”
The front sitting room appeared strangely modern, with a long couch, flanked by two dark wood end tables, facing the east windows. The only object obviously from the past was in the northeast corner of the sitting room—a concert-sized acoustical piano, cordoned off with green velvet ropes.
From the sitting room they entered the formal dining room, twenty-five meters long and ten in width, with a polished cherry-wood table that stretched fifteen meters. Van counted fifteen matching chairs on each side, and two at the end, but another eight were set around the room, flanking the china cabinets and the two sideboards. The table was set as if for a formal dinner.
“Madame Rogh would
