Cyprian had not fallen asleep under a peach tree. Oddly, the orange tree - any orange tree - was nowhere in sight, and the voices of the grove were so silent as to be non-existent. He raised his eyes, but the fruit grown green on its boughs remained stalwartly non-citric. Not a dream, then. He sighed.

He was in a garden, that much was certain, but he'd never been in so quiet a place with so many plants. From a distance he spied a wine glass and stared at it wistfully, but in the end settled back beneath the tree he had awoke under and listened to the peaches, thinking.