There was a meadow where the asters returned with every autumn, though no living soul could recall who had first planted them. It was there that two hearts, believing themselves beyond the reach of time, gave one another every promise youth could imagine. Years passed. The house fell into neglect, the paths were claimed by wild grass, and those who had once spoken their names departed one by one. Yet the asters endured, appearing each season with the same unfaltering faith. Some said they had been planted in celebration, others in repentance, but the earth has never confessed the truth. It offers only its flowers, as though love, once entrusted to the ground, had found no reason to perish with those who first bestowed it there…

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Of Those Who Dwelt There

Here are set down the sons and daughters of the House of Aster, whose lives, though proceeding from one lineage, seldom followed the same course. Some were blessed with a cheerful disposition, whilst others carried their thoughts with such reserve that even those nearest to them could scarcely discern their true temper. They were reared beneath the same roof, walked the same gardens, and looked from the same windows upon the passing seasons; yet the years dealt with each according to its own peculiar humour. Some were granted contentment, others ambition; some learned the value of devotion, whilst others came to understand it only after it had departed from them. Such is the manner of every household of long standing. Though its name endures from one generation unto the next, the hearts that bear it are never fashioned alike. It is with these sons and daughters that our account begins, for every House, however ancient its walls, is remembered not by its stones, but by those who once gave them life.