Around the trees, down that gentle slope of spring green, nestled a small, tranquil lake; in the middle of the lake swam an island; in the middle of the island, surrounded by willows weeping and a couple of apple trees uncurling their new green leaves, sat an octagonal building like something the Romans might have left behind, made of crumbling red brick and pale stone. A swath of massive, purpling wisteria climbed up one side and over the crest of the dome, disappearing down the back. From behind us, the sun turned the stone a luminous rose-gold.
