A Rose by Any Other Name

Jasper

“Wow,” the Knave commented from behind him. “Look at this place.”

The folly had been built as a conservatory in the shape of an octagon, the roof domed dramatically high overhead, and the floor an elaborate mosaic of brightly colored tiles forming flowers, leaves, and curling vines. Roses grew up the supporting pillars to the roof as a testimony to its origins, although they were the only things still growing there other than the marijuana plant in the bathroom that Jasper had brought home with him from college.

In his teen years, Jasper had claimed the space as his art studio, fitting it out with lights and a stereo, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. During his last holidays at home, he’d added the wrought iron bed, which had meant that he could work at his art for as long into the night as he liked, without waking anyone from the household with his comings and goings.

And that was what he had done since coming home. He spent his days and nights painting, falling into bed when he