Gideon nodded. He watered Button even though the soil was still damp. The big tree shone behind him, magnificent and irrelevant.
Celeste did not go home. She walked to Ms. Kwan's lot, which was half-cleared now, the remaining trees leaning like tired choir members. Ms. Kwan was packing lights into a crate. She looked up and saw Celeste and did not ask what was wrong, which was another mercy.
"Your mother liked the ones with the crooked leaders," Ms. Kwan said. "Said straight trees looked like they had never had to try."
Celeste's throat tightened. "I almost bought the last small one. A man got there at the same time."
"I remember," Ms. Kwan said. "Camel coat. Looked like he pays his bills on time and apologizes too late. Did he buy you coffee?"
"Yes."
"And then he did something stupid."
"Yes."
Ms. Kwan taped the crate shut. "Men are not trees," she said. "Trees grow toward light even when you forget them for a week. Men need clearer instructions. If you want the star on a tree this year, you put it on. If you want him nowhere near that decision, you say so in words small enough for an architect to build from."
Celeste almost smiled. "That is harsh."
"It is horticulture," Ms. Kwan said. "Come back Saturday. I will have one more small pot from the reserve I keep for people who shop with their whole chest. Thirteen fifty. Same as always."
"You kept one back?"
"I keep one back every year for Byrne women," Ms. Kwan said, matter-of-fact. "Your mother trained me. Do not make me carry the tradition alone."
Celeste walked home with that sentence glowing and hurting in equal measure. Tully opened his door, took one look, and handed her a mug of tea without commentary. Pocket inspected her shoes and approved them with a brief rub.