The Price of Stone The wind off the street had a late-autumn bite, carrying the dry, metallic scent of falling leaves and exhaust. It whipped the hem of Vanessa’s camel-hair coat against her ankles. She didn’t shiver. People who buy things with money they don’t have rarely seem to feel the cold the same way the rest of us do; they’re insulated by an invisible layer of entitlement, or perhaps just shock.

“No,” I said, standing up slowly and brushing the dirt from my knees. “They were just sleeping. The winter kills off the dead wood, but the roots are still there if you know where to look.”

Vanessa looked from the green shoot up to my face, and for the first time since I had known her, she smiled—not the polite, guarded smile she used to wear at Sunday dinner, but a real, open, unvarnished smile that reached her eyes.

“Do they need any fertilizer?” she asked, shifting the grocery bag to her other arm.

“No,” I told her, picking up my pruning shears and heading toward the front door. “Just some water and a little bit of sun. Come inside—I’ve got the kettle on.”

Marcus and Vanessa followed me up the steps, their boots leaving light, damp prints on the wooden boards as we walked together into the house.