Firecracker Day

He had perforce to hire a landscaping firm, though he loved plants.  It would be far too odd if anyone were to see him outside, digging and weeding, in the middle of a moonless night.  True, back in his mortal years, it would not have been appropriate for him to do the hard work:  even the genteel poor had managed a jobbing gardener once a week.  Still, he was sometimes tempted.  His vision was keen at all hours; but the colours were never the same at night.  Nor did he dare crack the blinds to view the tulips glowing in sunlight.  Gardening under grow-lights had its satisfactions; but, once upon a time, he had grown his own rosebuds to clip for his lapel.

Of course, it was too early for roses.  He had ordered his boutonnière from a florist, in honour of the day and the lady whose name it bore.

He had met her once, the old queen.  Not in any guise that she’d remember, let alone in a fashion that would risk putting him in the history books.  He’d never been one of those vampires who meddle.  One for the quiet life, that was his style.  Still, he had met her once.

Today was not actually the Twenty-Fourth.  The holiday was now celebrated on the closest Monday before the actual birthday.  But no matter.  Where else in the empire did they celebrate Empire Day?  Or Victoria Day, to give it the local (and most proper) name.

As he did most years since buying the house in Rosedale, he walked along the empty evening streets enjoying the mild May weather.  It had been warm that afternoon.  Even now, the breeze was no more than cool.  Perfect gardening weather, in fact—if one were mortal.  He could quite understand why, here in Canada, the holiday was considered to be the first day of summer.  Unconsciously, his route drifted southerly; and he was not quite surprised to find himself approaching the local garden centre.  It did not have the selection of one of the large suburban nurseries; but, given the district, the latest and choicest were in stock.  Or had been in stock earlier:  business would have been brisk.

Unseen under the streetlights, he sailed slowly over the iron fence.  As he had expected, the rows of benches were more than half empty; but there were still plants enough for him to see the newest varieties and marvel at the ingenuity of the breeders.  He remembered the brash petunias of the fifties, with their flat gaudy colours and bold stripes:  here there were blooms in subtle new tints, duskly veined or shading gently to a pale heart.

The centre was shut; he rarely bothered to carry money on his nightly walks; it seemed beneath him to steal for his hobby; and he was not, in any case, about to carry armloads of pots home with him.  It would be absurdly awkward; and he would be bound to drop something.  Perhaps, he decided, it would be appropriate to make a call to his landscapers in the morning, though it would mean that he would have to stay up late.

It was nearly time.  He lifted into the air.  In gardens below, he saw the blossoming of sparklers.  Booming explosions drew his eyes south to the lake, where the municipal fireworks at Ashbridge’s Bay sent up glittering fountains of silver and scarlet, gold and green.

He went no closer.  Fire is no friend.  But from this height, he had a marvellous view.