The Night Gardener (24 page)

Molly shuddered. “Well, not
too
soundly.” Even as she said this, she could feel her parents floating up to the surface. She could hear them screaming over the storm. She could taste the salt water. Lately the only way she seemed to be able to keep the dream at bay was to read the letters—over and over again.

Kip cocked his head to one side. “You never told me what your nightmares was about.”

Molly gestured to the people around them. “This isn’t really the place for it …”

Kip took her arm and pulled her away from the stalls, into the mouth of a quiet alley. “Maybe it’s important,” he said. “Maybe the dreams are a clue of some kind.”

Molly clicked her tongue. “If you must know, my dreams are about mountains of dirty laundry and endless hallways to scrub and chamber pots as big as lakes.” She smiled. “Find a clue in that, if you’d like.”

Kip smiled back but in a hollow way that showed he didn’t believe her. Molly felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Why was she lying to him? Why couldn’t she just tell him the truth?

She set down her basket. “Kip,” she said softly, “I wish I knew the right thing to say. I wish I could tell you we were safe in the stables, safe at that house, but the truth is …
I don’t know
. I don’t know if we should stay and wait for Ma an’ Da or run fast as we can away from that place. I’m makin’ it up as I go, like a story. Only”—she swallowed—“I’m not sure how this one ends.”

For a moment, the village and market melted away and they were standing alone. Molly stared into Kip’s wide, bright eyes. She almost thought she could do it—tell him the truth about her nightmares, tell him about the letters and where they came from and what, in her deepest heart, she was afraid to admit that might mean.

“There’s somethin’ I ain’t told you yet,” Kip said. He adjusted the grocery sack on his shoulder. “The night man didn’t just let me go in the woods. He left somethin’ for me. A gift.” He reached into the bag and removed a small object made from twigs and leaves.

Molly stared at the gift. It was long and thin and had a small loop at one end. “It’s a key,” she said.

“Aye.” He ran his thumb over it. “But why? And where do you think it goes?”

Molly swallowed, hoping her face did not betray her fear. She recognized the size and shape of the key. It was an exact replica of the key in Mistress Windsor’s bedroom, the one that opened the little green door at the top of the stairs. “Kip, you must listen to me: even if you find a lock that fits it,
don’t ever use that key.”

He looked at her. “You know where it goes, don’t you?”

“All I know is that any gift from that man is no gift at all.” Molly could not say why, but the thought of her brother learning about the tree made her sick. “Give it here.” She held out her hand.

“You’re lying.” Kip inched back from her. “You know, and you’re not tellin’ me.”

Molly snatched the key from his hand and ran past him.

“Give it back!” he cried, struggling to follow.

Molly reached the edge of the road. She threw the key as far as she could into some bushes along a ravine.

“That wasn’t yours!” Kip shouted, hobbling closer. He was panting and his voice was choked with anger.

Molly felt a flush of shame—not for throwing away the key but for outrunning him. “Kip, you have to promise me: if that man tries to give you anythin’ else, you’ll get rid of it—bury it or burn it or throw it in the river.”

Kip stared at the bushes, his jaw set.

She bent down, taking hold of his shoulders.
“Promise me.”

A creaking voice sounded behind her. “To demand promises is to invite disappointment.”

Molly turned around to see Hester Kettle standing next to a bread stall. She was wearing the same patchwork cloak as before, and her bundle of junk seemed to have doubled in size since they first met. On her face was a look that put Molly in mind of a spider. “Hello, dearie.” She stuck out a knobby finger. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

olly stood in the market, half wanting to drop her basket and run. What was it about Hester that made her so uncomfortable? “I ain’t avoidin’ you,” she said, stepping in front of Kip. “I just been busy.”

“Busy avoiding me, you mean.” The woman gave a good-hearted chuckle and moved closer. Her hurdy-gurdy was slung over one shoulder, and it knocked against her side as she walked, releasing an ugly chord with each step. “How many times have you come to market? And not a once did you ask after old Hester Kettle. Why, it’s enough to hurt a girl’s feelings.”

Molly felt fairly certain that it would take more than that to hurt Hester Kettle’s feelings—she wasn’t even sure people that old
had
feelings. The woman peered into Molly’s basket as if it were her own. “Buying groceries, I see.” She grabbed a pea pod from the basket and ate it before Molly could stop her.

Molly pulled the basket away. “We’re
tryin’
to,” she said. “Only
folks ain’t makin’ it easy for us.” She snuck an irritated glance at the row of stalls behind them.

Kip chimed in. “Just ’cause our master’s rich don’t mean we are. Molls here’ll be in a good bit o’ trouble if she don’t come home with a full basket.”

The woman nodded, rubbing her earlobe. “Perhaps old Hester can help you there.”

Molly gave a smile that she hoped was polite. “Unless you’ve got a stack o’ banknotes in that pack of yours, I doubt it.”

“Leave the notes for the bankers,” the woman said. “There’s more currency in the world than pounds and pennies—especially for a storyteller. You watch and see.” She tapped her nose and stepped over to a baker who was selling loaves and rolls. Molly had already tried buying something from this man; even his day-olds had been too expensive. “Ho there, Tolliver,” Hester called in the casual tone of an old friend. She gestured to Molly and Kip. “How much are you charging these two pups for a loaf of your best rye?”

The man looked from Hester to Molly. “I told ’em fourpence,” he said.

“Fourpence!” She whistled. “That’s some fancy bread. There must be flecks of gold in the dough, or maybe it sings as you chew it?”

“It’s regular bread,” he said, looking a bit more uncomfortable. “And that’s the regular price.”

“Perhaps it is.” She leaned against the stall. “But what if I was to
tell you these two here were my kinsmen? What price would you tell them then?”

The man shifted his weight. “Well, then, Hester. I s’pose the price would be tuppence—”

“Tolliver,”
she said reproachfully.

“—for two!” he stammered. “You didn’t let me finish. Tuppence for two loaves—that’s what I was gonna say. Honest.”

Hester grinned broadly. “That’s what I thought.” She nodded to Molly, who paid for four loaves and quickly put them in her basket before the man changed his mind. The woman turned back to the baker and leaned close. “Now, Tollie, you run and tell every other farmer and good-for-naught here that these two get the Hester Kettle price and not a pip more … and if I hear of any more chiseling, I’ll be forced to tell a tale or two about how you spike your flour with ground-up cat bones.”

Molly was fairly certain that the business about cat bones was not true. But from the man’s face, it seemed that—true or not—the threat was credible. “No need for that, Hester. I’ll do as you say.” He smiled at Molly and Kip, and when he spoke, his voice had a note of forced kindness. “Any friend of Hester’s is a friend of the hollow. If you pair would be kind enough to watch my store, I might not notice if a few of those there biscuits went missing.” He hung his apron and started toward the butcher across the way.

Hester watched the man with a satisfied smile. “You heard the fellow,” she said, gesturing to the unguarded shelf of biscuits. “Eat
your fill.” Kip apparently did not need to be told twice; he hobbled past Molly and stuffed a biscuit into his mouth before she could stop him.

Molly hated the idea of owing this woman anything. “You lied to that man,” she said, not touching a biscuit. She had half a mind to return the loaves as well.

“And when did I do that?” Hester asked, stuffing a few biscuits into the birdcage strapped to her back. “I might’ve promised to tell a tale in the future … but that’s hardly the same thing as a lie.”

“You told him we was your kinsmen.”

“Why, that bit’s true!” She pointed an accusing biscuit at Molly. “I can tell a fellow storyteller when I see one—that makes us kin enough.”

“Molls is a storyteller, all right,” Kip said through crumbs. “A great one! Whatever folks pay you for stories—I bet they’d pay my sister double!”

Molly felt her cheeks burn. She didn’t like Kip talking about her like she was special. Even more, she didn’t like him comparing her to this old crone. “There’s nothin’ so great about me,” she said. “I’m just a servant. And you’re just a beggar.”

Hester shook her head. “Don’t confuse what you do with who you are, dearie. Besides, there’s no shame in humble work. Why, Aesop himself, the king of storytellers, was a slave his whole life. Never drew a free breath, yet he shaped the world with just three small words: ‘There once was.’ And where are his great masters now, hmm? Rotting
in tombs, if they’re lucky. But Aesop—he still lives to this day, dancing on the tip of every tongue that’s ever told a tale.” She winked at Molly. “Think on that, next time you’re scrubbing floors.”

Molly had of course heard of Aesop, but she hadn’t known anything about him being a slave. She doubted it was true, and even if it was, it didn’t change the ugly facts of her own life. “We’re grateful for your help with the bread, mum,” she said, taking Kip by the shoulder. “But we should get moving before sundown.”

“There’s plenty of blue left in the sky,” the woman said. “Besides, we have business, you and me. You may recall promising me a story about a certain house in the sourwoods?” The woman folded her arms together, perhaps indicating that she was willing to fight for the story, if need be.

Molly hesitated. She could feel Kip watching her, waiting to hear what she said. If it were up to him, he would probably tell the woman everything. Molly, however, did not trust Hester Kettle. Behind the smiles and winks and “dearies” there was an edge to the woman that made her uncomfortable—something dark and crafty that lurked just behind the eyes. What was it Hester
really
wanted?

“Afraid there’s not much to tell.” Molly shrugged. “It’s a big old house. Lots of dust and cobwebs. Lots of chores. Nothin’ too strange.”

“Nothing
too strange
?” The woman took a step closer. “Tell me: What’s the chore, exactly, that makes a young girl’s hair shrivel up and her face go pale?”

Molly shifted her weight. She had been careful to tuck her hair
under her cap, but apparently she had not been careful enough. She looked back to Kip, who nodded to her, urging her to tell the truth. “I’m just tired,” she said, standing tall. “A little sick with fever, maybe. Nothin’ more.”

The woman sniffed. “I know all about your
fevers
.” She glared at Molly, her eyes full of something mean. “It’s plain you know something, and it’s plainer you refuse to tell it. Very well, I’m not one to grovel. You can keep your story—seems we’re less kin than I suspected.” She bowed to Kip. “Watch out for
chores
, little man, lest you wind up like your sister.” She adjusted the weight of her pack and turned around.

Molly watched the woman move away from them, her collection of junk swinging back and forth with each step. Her relief was mingled with a feeling of regret. Why didn’t she want this woman to know about the house and the tree? Why didn’t she want to tell her about the night man?

“It ain’t fever!” Kip called out.

The woman stopped walking.

“Kip!” Molly hissed.

Kip glared at her. “You promised to tell her, Molls. If you won’t do it, I will.” He hobbled toward the woman, who was now watching him with keen interest. “There’s some kinda spirit who haunts the house at night,” he said. “He’s makin’ everyone sick and pale—just like my sister.”

Molly grabbed his arm. “That’s enough, Kip!” She wanted to drag
him away, to cover his mouth, to make him stop telling this woman things.

Kip pulled away. “And there’s a tree—a great big, horrible tree. Every night, the man feeds and cares for it.”