The Night Gardener (26 page)

“Or she’d be swallowed whole,” Kip said.

Hester rapped her knuckles against the table. “Sharp as ever, this one!” She cackled and peered out across the room. Orange light was bleeding in through the shutter cracks, and Molly realized that it must be nearly sundown. “I’d love to stay here and chat, but then you two would be going home in the dark. And we can’t have that.”

Kip volunteered to fetch the wagon and suggested that Molly stay behind to help Hester with her pack. Molly helped the old woman gather her things, and the two of them emerged from the tavern. She breathed deep, tasting the fresh air of the late afternoon.

“I’m sorry if my story wasn’t to your liking.” Hester adjusted her
pack, teetering slightly. “Perhaps you can make up an ending that suits your fancy.”

“Seems like cheatin’,” Molly said. She was staring at the button hanging from the woman’s neck.

Hester touched the button. “Funny things, wishes. You can’t hold ’em in your hand, and yet just one could unmake the world.” She looked up at Molly. “I can imagine that a person who knew where to get wishes might think it was smart to keep it a secret …” The woman had the same hungry look in her eyes as before.

Molly took a step back, wishing that Kip would be faster with the cart. “There’s no use talkin’ about it,” she said. “It’s all just made-up lies, anyway.”

Hester gave a light chuckle. “You asked me for a story; now you call it a lie.” She folded her arms. “So tell me, then: What marks the difference between the two?”

Agitated as she was, Molly couldn’t help but consider the question. It was something she had asked herself in one form or another many times in her life. Still, Molly could tell the difference between the two as easily as she could tell hot from cold—a lie put a sting in her throat that made the words catch. It had been some time, however, since she had felt that sting. “A lie hurts people,” she finally answered. “A story helps ’em.”

“True enough! But helps them
do what
?” She wagged a finger. “That’s the real question …” The old woman swung her hurdy-gurdy
off her shoulder. “I’ll leave you with that.” She gave a curtsy and started down the road, playing as she walked.

Molly thought the song sounded familiar, but she couldn’t tell where she had heard it before. She shivered, putting her hands into her pockets. Her fingers touched the letters from Ma and Da.

From Ma an’ Da
, she thought to herself,
or from the tree?

hen Kip reached his sister outside the tavern, she looked annoyed. “What took you so long?” she muttered, climbing onto the bench of the wagon.

“I got turned around,” he said, wiping mud from his knee. He couldn’t tell her the real reason it had taken him so long to return with the cart. Not yet.

The ride back to the sourwoods was quiet. Kip held the reins and watched the road. The whole way, he could feel Molly beside him, staring into the shadows. “Kip?” she said after a long silence. “What do you think about stories?”

Kip could tell from her tone that she wanted a serious answer. He shrugged. “I like your stories. A lot more than old Hester’s, that’s for sure.”

She caught his eye. “So you dinna believe those things she said … about the Night Gardener?”

“How can I?” Kip scratched the back of his neck. “The way I figure: if that tree at the Windsors’ was really the same one as in the
story, then it’d have magic fruit—and we ain’t had no wishes granted lately.” He grinned. “Unless you been holdin’ out?”

“Nay.” Molly looked away. “I haven’t.”

Kip had meant that as a joke, but his sister was not smiling. He eyed her in the fading light, his fist clenched tight at his side.

When they finally reached the house, it was dark. Molly, who was late for making supper, went straight in with the food from the market. Kip went to the stables to feed Galileo. He brushed the horse, biding his time, keeping one eye on the house. On the second floor, just beside the tree, was a small window he had never noticed before. He saw light as someone slipped into the room from what must have been the upstairs hall. He studied the person’s shadow, wondering who it might be. He was looking for red hair, but then he reminded himself: Molly’s hair wasn’t red anymore.

Kip waited a good hour before approaching the front door of the house. He wanted to be certain that Molly and the family wouldn’t see him. He reached the stoop and paused. He looked down at his hand, at the treasure he had been carrying ever since he’d left the market—

The night man’s key.

This was the real reason that he had taken so long in returning with the wagon. Kip closed his fingers around its earthy twines. Molly had forbidden him from using the key. He knew she would be furious to see he had it now. But after hearing Hester’s story about the Night Gardener and the tree, he had to know.

Kip took a breath and opened the front door.

The house was warm inside, much warmer than the stables. It smelled better, too. Kip crept into the foyer, trying not to make a sound. He wished he had thought to put the pillowcase around the end of his crutch to muffle his steps. He could hear the family somewhere in the back of the house, eating supper—the sharp rapping of forks against plates. Kip closed his eyes and tried to ignore the smell of meat pies. He carefully shut the door behind him and then hobbled upstairs.

The first time Kip had seen the little green door at the top of the stairs, he had asked his sister what it was. Molly had told him that it was a closet. Perhaps she was just repeating what the Windsors had told her. Either way, Kip knew better. He knew that people didn’t put locks on closet doors.

When Kip reached the top of the staircase, his heart was pounding. He gripped his crutch and hobbled to the green door. He held up the key, clutched tight in his sweating hand. When Molly had seen the key in the market, she had looked afraid. What possible terrors might be awaiting him behind this door? With a final glance over his shoulder, he slid the key into the lock—

It fit perfectly.

He turned the key and heard the sound of a bolt sliding away from the jamb. The strain was apparently too great for the root-made key; it came apart in his fingers, crumbling into dust. It didn’t matter. The gift had worked.

Kip pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

olly carefully pulled the tea cart into the yard. Cups and saucers rattled as it rolled over cobblestones and mud. “Your tea is ready, mum.”

Mistress Windsor was out behind the house, admiring her garden. The garden was hers because she owned the land that it sat upon. But really, it belonged to Kip. He was the one who had spent all spring weeding and tilling and planting and pruning. Where there had been decay and ruin, there was now abundant life. Flowers of all different colors ran along the winding stone footpath—stones that Molly had helped him carry from the bank of the river. Above the path were hanging baskets that Kip had made from wire, now overflowing with ivy and begonias. There were moss-covered stumps and even a small pond. It was not a proper English garden, perhaps, but it was something.

Molly cast an eye across the lawn. She could see her brother chopping firewood—something he did when he wanted to think. Ever
since their trip to the village two days before, Kip had been distant toward her. She pushed a flood of worries from her mind, not wanting to dwell on what thoughts might be troubling him.

Molly brought the cart alongside Mistress Windsor, who was seated in a wrought iron chaise longue. It was a hot morning, but the woman had two blankets wrapped around her shoulders nonetheless. “Tell your brother the pond needs skimming,” she said, adjusting the ring encircling her finger.

“Yes, mum.” Molly poured tea into a cup.

“And the ivy is beginning to choke the hedges.”

“Yes, mum.” Molly added two lumps of sugar and stirred until the white grains had dissolved into nothing. She offered the tea to her mistress, who took it in her pale hands. The teacup clattered violently against its saucer as Constance brought it to her lips. Molly tried not to stare, but she could not look away. The woman seemed almost translucent in the sunlight. Tiny blue veins shone just beneath the skin of her neck. Her once-shining hair was wispy and thin, like a mess of black cobwebs. Her mouth had turned as dark as her eyes. Molly had never seen a dead person before, but she knew she was looking at death.

Mistress Windsor must have marked the concern on Molly’s face, for she pulled herself upright and set aside her cup and saucer. “Is something the matter?”

“No, mum.” Molly turned her cart around. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

Constance caught Molly’s arm in her cold hand. “And what thoughts would those be?”

Molly could not tell if this was a plea or a challenge. She stared at the ring on the woman’s emaciated finger. “I was just thinkin’ of somethin’ you said when me and Kip first came here. You talked about a ‘reasonable fear of illness’—those were your very words.”

Constance let go of her arm. “You have a prodigious memory.”

Molly took a shaky breath. “If this house is makin’ you sick, then why do you stay?”

Constance creased her lips. “I could ask you the same thing … but I already know the answer.” Her dark gaze drifted to Molly’s side. “Those letters you keep in your pocket—”

Molly started. “You know about the letters?”

Constance waved off her alarm. “Not their precise contents, mind you. I’ve seen you poring over them when you think you’re alone. But, of course, no one’s ever alone in this house, not truly.” She glanced toward the branches towering over the roof. “I remain here for the same reason you do. I would no sooner leave this place than you would burn those letters.”

Molly put a protective hand over her apron pocket. “Never …”

Constance smiled. “Exactly. Without the tree, without its gifts, we would be completely unmoored.” She sat back in her chair. This time, when she took her teacup, she used both hands so it would not shake. “I should think that a touch of fever is a small price to pay for such a bounty.” She sipped. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, mum.”

The conversation was over. Molly curtsied and returned to the house. She closed the kitchen door behind her, feeling an icy knot of dread in her stomach. She slid her hand into her pocket and removed the stack of envelopes from the tree. Each one was stained with salt water and addressed in the same fragile hand. It was her mother’s handwriting. She knew it was. And yet … what if it wasn’t? What if the words inside these letters were not written by her parents but written by some magic of the tree—a tree that fed off people and needed to keep them close?