I'm not sure why specifically but this part coming up with the garden was always my favorite. It's stuck in my memory more than any other part of the story -laughs-

As Alfred became the Snow King's traveling companion, Matthew was left behind to wonder at his fate. No one knew what had happened to poor Alfred, he had simply vanished in the night. A boy found his magnifying glass near the river. None could come up with a reason as to why Alfred would be out by the river in the middle of the night—probably a mere whim of youth—but most came to assume that he must have slipped into the icy river and drowned.

Many tears were shed for the loss of Alfred. His father fell into a deep depression. Now he was completely alone in the world. He simply could not understand why Alfred would have gone wandering around at night in the dead of winter and he cursed himself for not having heard him leave. If only he had somehow stopped him...

Matthew went to see Arthur often to comfort him even as he wept bitter tears at Alfred's loss for a long time himself. He was certain of Alfred's death, for surely he would have come back by now if he were alive. The winter seemed longer and drearier than any winter before it. But even it ended and spring came to replace it.

"Alfred is dead and gone," Matthew would say to himself.

But then the sun seemed to say, "I don't believe it."

"He is dead and gone," he would lament to the birds.

Their song seemed to say, "We do not believe it."

And now that spring was in full bloom Matthew himself came to doubt it more and more. No, there was no way his beloved Alfred would have wandered off and fallen into the river at night. He could be foolish but not so reckless! Especially not since last summer when he had become so cool and logical. No, surely Alfred had simply gone off somewhere without saying a word, stealing away in the night. The thought was painful, but not nearly so much as the thought of Alfred being dead and Matthew began to hope.

Matthew started to take walks by the river daily to think. By then he was fully convinced that Alfred was out in the world somewhere. And the more he thought about it the more determined he became to go out and look for him. He couldn't give up on Alfred just like that!

The day of Alfred's birthday came and passed, a deeply tragic occasion for Arthur. But privately Matthew could only believe that somewhere out there Alfred was brimming with life, now seventeen. He simply could not be dead.

And so, very early one morning when the sun had just begun to rise, Matthew slipped on a pair of sturdy leather boots he had received as a birthday gift last year and took off. He carried with him only a small bag of food, for he felt too guilty to take much for his own account from his household. Leaving a note for his parents he slipped through the streets of his town, determined never to return until he had found Alfred.

Matthew made his way to the river. It had been christened as the place of Alfred's death as his magnifying glass had been discovered there and so it was where he would begin his journey. As he gazed out upon the gently moving water it seemed to gurgle its innocence. "It is not me who has taken your Alfred from you."

Feeling less than confident but determined, Matthew slipped into a boat. Stealing was not something he would normally do and he felt terribly guilty, but it was mostly a boat used for leisure anyway. If ever he could compensate the owner in the future he would. And with that, Matthew began to glide down the river, allowing it to take him where it would.

The boat floated downstream without his assistance. The scenery was lovely; there were flowers blooming along the banks, old trees, wide fields, grazing cows and sheep, but not once did he see a single man or woman. And so the hours went by.

As the day became warmer and the water rocked him gently, Matthew was lulled asleep. Some unknown time later he was awoken by a gentle bump. His boat had come to a stop, no doubt caught in the reeds.

Sitting up and shaking the sleep from his eyes, Matthew looked around to see where he was at. Before him stood a grand cherry orchard and beside it was a cozy red house with odd windows that were colored red and blue. Outside it stood two wooden soldiers, presenting arms to him. Matthew stared and stared. What a peculiar sight!

"Um, hello? Hello! Is anyone there?" He called out in hopes someone would be home to either help him from the reeds or to help him get on steady land for a while.

It wasn't long before a handsome older man came from the house. He was tall and thin, with high cheek bones and a slight stubble on his chin. His long wavy blond hair, not that unlike Matthew's, was tied back and he wore a large sun hat with all kinds of pretty flowers painted on it.

"Oh, you poor boy," he cried out upon seeing Matthew. "How ever did you travel such a distance in this rickety boat on such a rapid stream?"

Without receiving an answer he walked into the water, taking hold of the boat and guiding it to the bank, giving Matthew a hand as he stepped out from the boat. He was glad to be on solid ground again.

"Thank you so very much sir, I do appreciate it."

"Not at all. Tell me, what are you doing way out here, and on your own?"

As the man had helped him, Matthew told him everything. He told him his name and of the town he had come from. About Alfred, their roses, and how he had become so cold and disappeared. How he did not believe that Alfred could possibly be dead and so was looking for him. The man listened ever so compassionately that Matthew felt very warm towards him. Then he asked if the man had seen Alfred. But he merely shook his head, telling Matthew that he was the only one he had seen in a long time. Longer than that past winter. Matthew was disheartened by the news but thanked him anyway for his time and assistance.

The man smiled warmly. "Please, you have surely come a long way. Let me give you lunch and you can repay me with your company."

Matthew would have protested the hospitality if the man had not added that last part. So instead he thanked him profusely and followed him into the house. He looked around in wonderment. There were so many incredible paintings on the walls and strange trinkets. The odd colored windows, red, blue, and yellow, let in the daylight which cast their colors beautifully upon the floor. It was a grand home and Matthew was well impressed by it.

The man poured Matthew a glass of wine and set out a plate filled with bread, cheeses, grapes, and ripe red cherries that begged to be eaten. Matthew felt strange taking the wine as he had only been allowed to have a little on special feast days but the man was very insistent and so he began to sip it. He also ate many of the cherries, which were the best he had ever had. In time he started to grow lethargic and a bit dizzy. Most likely tipsy from the wine, he thought.

The man touched his hair. "Do you mind if I comb it? It is simply so lovely I cannot help myself."

Matthew shook his head, not seeing the harm in it. And so the man took out a golden comb and lovingly smoothed the flaxen hair that perfectly framed his face, which looked as fresh and lovely as a rose in full bloom.

"I have been longing for a pretty boy like you," whispered the man, "and now you must stay here with me. We shall be so very happy together, you shall see."

And as the man combed Matthew's hair, he began to think less and less of Alfred until he could not recall him in the slightest. And the dizziness increased until he had a slight headache. He slumped forward, freshly brushed waves covering his face like a curtain. The man leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

"My name is Francis. I am your dear Papa and you have always lived here with me. You especially love the garden," the man said to him, for that was the new past he wanted Matthew to remember rather than his own.

Francis was a conjurer, you see. He was not evil, though some might argue the point of his morality. Mostly he was only a bit selfish as people tend to be. He only conjured a bit for his own amusement and in that moment because he wished to keep Matthew for his own.

Therefore, as Matthew remained in his daze, Francis went out to the garden and stretched out his hand towards all the rose bushes. They all sank into the earth as if they had never existed at all. Francis was afraid that if Matthew saw the roses it would remind him of home and of his Alfred. If that happened he would surely run away.

Satisfied after two sweeps that he had removed all of the roses, Francis returned to the house.

"Matthew, are you well?" he asked innocently.

Matthew in fact, was not well. "I feel funny Papa. A bit sick... like I've eaten something too sweet."

Francis helped him stand and rubbed his back soothingly. "My poor dear. Here, you should come outside into the garden. The fresh air will surely do you much good."

Matthew nodded and Francis took him out into the garden. It was so fragrant and beautiful he could hardly believe it! For a moment he was confused. Had he not grown up here? Why was it like seeing it for the first time? It must have just looked particularly beautiful that day, his mind eventually supplied, for that is what minds tend to do when an answer is needed and there is none readily known.

For the rest of the day until the sun set Matthew explored the garden. Every flower that one could think of was there and for every season of the year in full bloom together. And the air! It was like an ever changing perfume, never unpleasant or overwhelming despite the huge variety and combinations. And the cherry trees stood tall and lovely, overlooking everything.

After feeding Matthew a lavish dinner Francis put him to sleep in an elegant bed with red silk pillows and down blankets that he all but sank into. Francis watched over him until he had fallen asleep and then a while after. He was so pleased to have found this wandering boy. All of Matthew's dreams were the pleasantest of his entire life and faded away like morning dew with the coming sun.

And so Matthew stayed many days in that house with Francis. Francis taught him how to paint and cook. In particular he came to love a breakfast cake called a 'pancake' which tasted wonderful with honey or syrup. They read various books, tasted many wines, and had long conversations that Matthew became increasingly better at keeping up with. And Francis loved to dress up Matthew and comb his hair until each glossy strand shone. Francis was so very fond of his pretty new doll.

When not spending his time on the activities Francis shared with him, Matthew could usually be found among the flowers and in the warm sunshine. He came to know the names of all of the flowers in the garden, and yet it seemed always that one was missing... But he could never put his finger on which it could be.

One day, however, while he was alone he happened to catch sight of the hat Francis wore the first day they met. He stared and stared, for something was amiss. And then it struck him. A rose! Upon the hat was a rose. Francis had forgotten completely to remove it when he was banishing the rest of the roses. Quite unfortunate for him as even one little mistake can upset all our most carefully laid plans.

"Oh!" he cried aloud, "Is there not a single rose in this place?"

He ran out to the garden searching high and low, but not a single one was to be found. He sat down and for a reason he could not remember his heart ached for the memory of a rose. Before he knew it tears were rolling down his cheeks, hitting the ground where the rose bushes had once stood. The tears sank into the earth and the next thing he knew a rose bush popped up in full bloom.

Matthew wiped his tears and lovingly touched the petals of the roses. And as he looked at the lush blooms he began to remember that Francis was not actually his Papa, that he had roses at home with his real parents, and that his roses were connected to his neighbor's roses as a symbol of their love for one another. And thus he remembered Alfred.

Matthew gasped in horror as his memory was restored to him. "How this man has kept me for his own enjoyment and prevented me from continuing my search!"

Moaning softly he turned to the roses. "I have to find my Alfred. Do you know where he might be? He can't be dead, he simply can't be!"

The roses responded, "No dear one, he is not dead. We were banished to the ground where all the dead are laid to rest. Your Alfred is not among them."

"Thank you," Matthew practically sobbed. It filled his heart with hope and renewed confidence to hear that Alfred was not dead. Perhaps, he thought, as the roses had been so helpful the other flowers would be able to help him. And so he began to seek out the other flowers.

"Do you know where Alfred is?" he would ask them.

But every flower dreamed its own little fairy tale or history. They were much too preoccupied to know of Matthew's dearest Alfred. They all told him many strange stories as he asked them one by one if they knew anything.

The tiger-lily spoke of a funeral, but not of Alfred's. The morning glories spoke of a beautiful maiden waiting for someone, but not for Alfred. The snow-drop spoke of siblings playing together, but not one was Alfred. The hyacinths spoke of three dead maidens, but not the death of Alfred. The sun bright buttercups sang of a lonely man waiting for his child, but not of Arthur waiting for Alfred. However, this story in particular made Matthew quite melancholy for he knew at home both his parents and poor, sweet Arthur were waiting for his and Alfred's return.

"I must find him soon so they will not miss us," he sighed. "I mustn't waste my time talking to flowers anymore. They only know their own stories and songs. None of them know a thing about Alfred."

He began to run through the garden. It was important he escape before Francis discovered something was amiss and bewitched him again. The narcissus caught him by the leg, tripping him up. He turned to look at it, curious as to why it had stopped him. "Do you know something?"

The narcissus carried on in the most disgusting way about itself. How grand it was, how sweet its perfume. It really was the most shameful display Matthew had ever heard.

"And what do I care for all that," Matthew said angrily. "I couldn't care less. Now let me be so I may escape!"

Matthew ran to the other side of the garden. He had reached the gate when he heard Francis call out for him. "Matthew? Matthew where have you gone to? Please do not linger too much longer in the garden so that your Papa may feed you sweet cherries and cake."

Trembling, Matthew was uncertain if he should call out or be silent then determined Francis might be concerned if he said nothing. "A-alright Papa! I will be there soon. I am... having a conversation with an iris!"

"Do not talk to the flowers too much my dear, they are filled with nonsense."

Confident that Francis was satisfied and would not be suspicious of his absence for just a bit longer, Matthew turned back to the gate. The door was fastened tight but he pressed against the rusty latch and before long it gave way. The moment the door was open he sprinted through it into the world. He looked back continuously to make sure Francis was not pursuing him but he did not see him once, nor would he ever again.

Once he had run a very long distance and was too tired to go on any longer, he sat down to rest on a large, flat stone. Finally able to stop and really look at his surroundings Matthew was dismayed to observe that summer was over and it was very deep into autumn. In the garden the sun had always shone and the flowers grew year round.

"Have I wasted so much time?" he asked in despair. "I can't rest any longer, I must continue!"

But he was so very tired and his feet and lungs ached from running such a distance so quickly. Everything seemed cold and bleak. The world around him was dying, the earth preparing for its own coffin of winter. And in that moment how very dark and weary the world seemed!