Raising his head, Axel peered over the wall again.  Only the furthest rim of the horizon was lit by the sun, and the great throng, which before had stretched almost a quarter of the way across the plain, had now receded to the horizon, the entire concourse abruptly flung back in a reversal of time, and now appearing to be stationary.

The flower in Axel’s hand had shrunk to the size of a glass thimble, the petals contracting around the vanishing core.  A faint sparkle flickered from the centre and extinguished itself, and Axel felt the flower melt like an ice-cold bead of dew in his hand.

Dusk closed across the house, sweeping its long shadows over the plain, the horizon merging into the sky.  The harpsichord was silent, and the time flowers, no longer reflecting its music, stood motionlessly, like an embalmed forest.

For a few minutes Axel looked down at them, counting the flowers which remained, then greeted his wife as she crossed the terrace, her brocade evening dress rustling over the ornamental tiles.

“What a beautiful evening, Axel.”  She spoke feelingly, as if she were thanking her husband personally for the great ornate shadow across the lawn and the dark brilliant air.  Her face was serene and intelligent, her hair, swept back behind her head into a jewelled clasp, touched with silver.  She wore her dress low across her breasts, revealing a long slender neck and high chin.  Axel surveyed her with fond pride.  He gave her his arm and together they walked down the steps into the garden.

“One of the longest evenings this summer,” Axel confirmed, adding: “I picked the perfect flower, my dear, a jewel.  With luck it should last us for several days.”  A frown touched his brow, and he glanced involuntarily at the wall.  “Each time now they seem to come nearer.”