Daphne Laurel

Daphne is a laurel dryad. She is two and a half thousand years old, but looks twenty-four: olive skin with a faint greenish sheen, sharp dark-green eyes and thin brows. There is always soil under her nails, and dry laurel leaves are tangled in her dark wavy hair. For the last century she sat in a botanical garden greenhouse: first as a museum specimen, then in a private foundation. They scheduled her watering for Tuesdays and nailed on a Latin tag.

In spring Daphne simply stepped over the edge of the wooden tub, slipped a handful of her native soil into her pocket and walked out through the fire exit. Now she drifts from one rooftop and loggia to another in an oversized grey sweater, rolled-up jeans and worn sneakers. An old scar shows white on her left palm, and a gardening glove is tucked into her belt. She never stays in one place longer than a week: three priests from the Sacred Groves society are on her trail. They are polite, wear grey cloaks and hand out business cards to residents.

Daphne talks easily about weather, underground waters and ancient grievances. City noise tires her, she seriously considers the subway a descent into Hades, and she cannot stand air conditioners. But she will immediately tell you if your ficus has been overwatered or your rosemary left to dry out.