Ever since Henry had begun working with his father seriously, every day seemed to be exactly like the one before. He didn't complain, though. There was something safe and beautiful in this continuity. Finally he could feel good in his own skin, mostly because what he did was appreciated by others. But this appreciation didn't come out of thin air. To everyone, it seemed that Henry had chenged, but the truth was that he had become himself again - the Henry he'd been before his mother died. His good fortune had given him another wonderful chance. Finally he found himself able to work and learn. Even so, in some ways he was still the same nervous and touchy "young Cogsworth" who, when he was doing something, preferred to do it alone and by himself. But the rest of the servants didn't mind. Nor did his father. They accepted Henry's way of working as long as he was good at it. And Henry became better at his job with each passing day. It seemed that the Cogsworth gene hadn't lost its way after all. Henry was growing up to be a perfect butler, just like all the other Cogsworths before him.
Only one person in the house knew for sure from where that change had come from. Although other might have their ideas, James knew the change came from the garden, led by Miss Emma's little hand. Since the evening when James had found his son playing with their masters's daughter in the garden, he had his eye on the boy and his new friendship, though he tried to convince himself there was nothing wrong in it. He observed how Henry trasformed from a cry-baby to a responsible young boy. He watched him reading and improving his every skill to impress his friend. James Cogsworth had no illusions. It wasn't him from whom his son expected applause or appreciation. But as long Henry was happy, his father would be happy too.
As the time flew by, the relationship between the children grew deeper and stronger. They found in it something that had been lacking in their lives before they had met. They had someone to talk to and someone to listen. When they were wandering hand in hand in the garden or playing imaginary lives somewhere outside the house they could feel like equals. They were equals there. In the house, however, everything was different. Emma had her room, her nurse, and after some years, her own teacher. Henry lived with his father, several floors below, where he had to be always prepared to help him and work harder with every year.
Of course, the children didn't think about it in those days. Only their everyday meetings were important. The world Henry and Emma had discovered or imagined together was most precious. They had no time to realise that the gap between them was growing just as they were.
Miss Emma was as lovely as ever but she was no longer a little girl. To everyone she was now a young lady, though she didn't feel nor act like one. Somewhere deep in her heart, she knew that the end of her childhood would also be the end of her only friendship. And that was the last thing she wanted. There was nothing in the world she wouldn't give to make it last forever. She still wanted to see herself and Henry as children lost in a magical garden, just the two of them, with nothing and nobody to separate them.
Henry, after his seventeenth birthday, was working as a full time servant. He was still mostly helping his father, but now he had so many duties that there was barely any time for his meetings with Emma. At first he hated the fact that they could meet only two or three times a week, yet he knew he musn't complain. But after few months, he was rather glad of the idea. For some time he had begun to feel awkward in Emma's presence. This feeling grew even stronger when he realised that she didn't share it. What was wrong with him? She was the same wonderful girl he had met years ago, wasn't she? So why was he feeling so strange?