I tell you, someone will remember us in another time,

"Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
A-top on the topmost twig—which the pluckers forgot, somehow—
Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now."

The afternoon sun bathes the garden in a golden glow, and the air hums with quiet contentment. Butterflies flit lazily among the blossoms, their delicate wings shimmering like tiny jewels. At the center of the garden, Émilie du Châtelet stands at an easel, painting what at first seems to be a simple landscape, though upon closer inspection, the hills and valleys morph subtly into graceful curves that resemble the elegant swoop of a calculus graph. She hums to herself, lost in both art and mathematics, where precision and creativity collide.

Ada Lovelace lounges nearby on a blanket, her shoes kicked off and her dress catching the breeze. She holds a book in one hand, but she isn’t reading it. Instead, she’s gazing dreamily at the sky, watching the clouds drift by. She giggles softly to herself. “Do you think,” she muses, not quite to anyone in particular, “that if clouds had algorithms, they’d be more reliable? Perhaps they’d know where they were drifting instead of just wandering about aimlessly.”

Sophie Germain, kneeling beside a bed of roses, looks up with a smile. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? Clouds are like ideas—they start one way but often surprise you by taking a completely different direction. You wouldn’t want to tether them down, would you?”

Ada laughs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “No, I suppose not. Besides, the fun is in the unpredictability, isn’t it?” She plucks a nearby daisy and begins absentmindedly pulling at the petals, clearly thinking about algorithms in ways no one else might.

At a nearby table, Mary Somerville is carefully arranging a tray of fresh fruit, her movements deliberate and serene. She looks over at Émilie’s painting and tilts her head, amused. “You’ve managed to fit mathematics into your landscapes again, haven’t you?”

Émilie grins but doesn’t look away from her canvas. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I? Beauty and order—they’re the same thing, aren’t they? Nature follows its own laws, just like a well-balanced equation.”

“Maybe so,” Mary replies, placing a perfectly ripe peach on the tray. “But sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones that break the rules a little.” She picks up the peach and takes a delicate bite, the juice running down her fingers. She laughs softly, wiping it away. “See? A little chaos isn’t so bad.”

Sophie joins them at the table, brushing the dirt from her hands. “I think we’ve all broken a few rules in our time. It’s how we ended up here, isn’t it? I doubt anyone expected us to be sipping tea and solving the world’s problems while surrounded by flowers.”

Ada sits up, grinning mischievously. “Well, no one expected me to be playing with machines instead of piano keys either, but here we are.”

The group laughs, the sound light and free, carried on the wind through the garden. There’s no pressure here, no need to prove anything. They’re simply enjoying each other’s company, their minds as sharp as ever but softened by the camaraderie that comes from shared experience.

Mary refills everyone’s teacup, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Do you think the men are still arguing in their dimly lit bar somewhere?” she asks with a wink. “Trying to prove who’s the smartest?”

Ada rolls her eyes playfully. “Oh, undoubtedly. Though I suspect they’ve gotten themselves stuck in another loop of logic by now.”

Émilie laughs, stepping away from her painting and joining the table. “Let them! We’ve found our own way, haven’t we?”

Sophie smiles, reaching for her tea. “Yes, we have. And I’d say our way is much more enjoyable.”

They clink their teacups together in a mock toast, a symbol of quiet rebellion against the old ways of thinking. Here, in this garden, they’ve created their own world—one filled with charm, wit, and a sense of playfulness that doesn’t diminish their brilliance but enhances it. They’re still solving the mysteries of the universe, but they’re doing it with a lightness that makes it all feel like a grand adventure.

As the afternoon drifts on, the women continue to talk, their conversation flowing as easily as the breeze. There’s no rush, no urgency—just the joy of discovery, made all the sweeter by the knowledge that they’re in this together.

The garden hums with life, a reflection of the brilliance that these women have nurtured within themselves and each other. It’s a place of charm, of quiet power, and of endless possibility—where ideas bloom as effortlessly as the flowers around them.

Sappho (c. 630–570 BCE) One of the earliest known female poets, Sappho’s lyric poetry has resonated across centuries for its emotional depth and vivid imagery. Though much of her work has been lost, what remains shows her mastery in capturing the subtleties of love, longing, and beauty. Her poetry is both deeply personal and universal, speaking to the emotions that little girls might connect with—yearning, tenderness, and the sweetness of romance.

One of her most famous fragments: “You came, and I was crazy for you,
and you cooled my mind that burned with longing.”

Sappho’s ability to evoke such profound emotions with simplicity and elegance is timeless, a kind of delicate magic that speaks directly to the heart.