They stroll arm-in-arm along the wall. Lye points out the plants they pass. Once, long ago, he was going to be a botanist. He still knows their names.
“How old is this place?” She trails the tips of her fingers over old bricks.
Lye eyes Miranda sternly. She talks about home with a faraway look, misses shoelaces more than kids her age, and hates being interrupted, but has no problem interrupting him with questions that have nothing to do with the conversation.
“1855, I’ve been told. Before that, it was the estate of a businessman from Boston.”