The Night Gardener (34 page)

efore Molly talked to Master Windsor, there was one thing she wanted to do. She crept downstairs to her old bedroom and closed the door behind her. It had been less than a week since she had last been inside this room, and yet it appeared to her a foreign place. She looked at the ugly black roots pushing through the ceiling and walls and shuddered, thinking of how she had once slept soundly in that bed.
Not too soundly
, she reminded herself.

She walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors. Below empty pegs sat the old sea chest she had brought with her from home. She raised the lid with her foot, as one might lift a rock with a snake underneath. The trunk was now empty, save the small bundle of letters from her parents. Just seeing them made her heart beat faster. She did not have an exact plan as to what to do with the letters, but she knew she couldn’t leave them at the house. The idea of some other person coming upon them and reading them was too much to bear.

She knelt and picked up the letters, and even now—even knowing that they were not real—she felt a longing to read them one last time.
She held the envelopes to her nose, savoring the saltwater air. Her parents may have been gone, but a part of them still lived inside the letters, their voices woven into each word. She stuffed the envelopes into her pocket and went upstairs to find Master Windsor.

Bertrand was, as she expected, sitting vigil at his wife’s bedside. Since the collapse, he had spent hours this way, clutching Constance’s hand, quietly reciting stories of their early marriage—courtship follies and wedding day jitters and the thrill of early parenthood. Molly noticed that when he told these stories—when he was dwelling on a happier past—he did not seem to stutter as much.

“Master Windsor?” Molly said softly.

If she startled him, he did not show it. “The prodigal maid returns.” He spoke without looking up. “I feared you’d run off with the doctor.” His voice had the drained quality of someone too exhausted to fight.

Molly shifted her weight. She wished she had more time to think about what to say. “The fact is, sir, my brother and me canna work here no more. I think you know why. I’ve come for our things, and then we’re movin’ on.”

His face twitched. “You’re … you’re
leaving us
?”

“This house is a bad place, sir. Havin’ grown up here, you know that better than anyone.” She gave him a meaningful look.

“Y-y-you can’t quit.” He stood, pushing his chair back from the bed. “My family needs you.”

“It’s already done, sir. And it’s for your family that I’m up here
talkin’ to you now.” She took a step closer, fixing her eyes on his. “You should come with us, all of you. Tonight.”

“Impossible!” He paced in front of her. “Connie is ill. M-m-my associates are coming tomorrow, and I still cannot pay them—”

“So leave before they get here.”

“You’re not listening!” he snapped. “I need to stay
here
, with the tree. If I can j-j-just get enough from it …” He held up the key to the green door, clutching it in his hand.

Molly could see that Master Windsor was deaf to mere arguments. He needed proof. She rushed forward and snatched the key from his grasp.

“G-g-give that back!”

Molly was already halfway down the hallway. “You’ll get it back, sir. But before you do, there’s somethin’ you need to see.” She marched downstairs, a protesting Master Windsor in tow.

Kip was waiting for them outside, rake in hand, standing next to a pile of leaves. He was balanced on his right leg, and Molly wondered why he wasn’t using his crutch. “Did you find him?” she said.

“Aye.” Kip hopped back, revealing the cleared grave. “But it ain’t pretty.”

Molly led Master Windsor to the edge of the hole, which was no longer empty. Doctor Crouch’s corpse lay crammed into the narrow trench. His face was bloodless, his eyes wide open in a look of abject terror. A mesh of thin roots covered his entire body, swallowing him.

“G-g-good heavens …” Bertrand looked like he might be sick.
Molly knew better than to prod him or speak in any way. She waited. After a long moment, he turned to her. “Did … did he suffer?”

“It was fast. He didn’t even have time to call out.”

“You should thank him,” Kip said. “That grave was meant for you.”

Molly shot her brother a look. This was no time for malice. She took a step closer to Master Windsor, meeting his eye. “The doctor was murdered, sir. In cold blood. And I think you know what it was that done it.”

Master Windsor did not answer, but she could see in his face that he did know. “This is bad,” he said. “This is very, very bad …” He stepped back from the grave, wringing his pale hands. “Doctor Crouch was an important man—a gentleman. He will be missed. There could be an inquiry, an investigation, even prison …”

“There’s more at stake than prison, sir.” She nodded to Kip. “Show him the rest.”

Kip proceeded to rake the leaves from the remaining holes. Bertrand watched but said nothing. Finally Kip reached the last of the graves, the smallest one. Bertrand stared at it, one hand over his mouth. “It’s Penny’s size …,” he whispered.

“There’s one for each of us, sir. The tree’s waitin’ until we’re too sick to move, too sick to fight back—and from the look of you and your family, that won’t be long.”

“No, no, no …” Master Windsor shook his head from side to side like a child in denial. “It doesn’t make s-s-sense.” He turned toward the tree. “It’s not the way it works. The doctor must have
done
something. He must have provoked it or threatened it or …” His voice fell silent as he saw the giant branch that had broken from the trunk. “Who did this?” he said, his voice colder.

“It was an accident.” Kip leaned on his rake. “The doctor was helpin’ us make a trap and—”

Bertrand spun around. “He
what
?” A new panic flushed his face. “If you hurt the tree—if you even
talk
of hurting it—”

“Then what?” Molly cut him off. “We end up like Crouch? Quick or slow, it’s the same end for every person who comes here.” She could feel her blood rising, her heart pounding in her ears. “I know you think your tree’s a miracle, sir, but that same tree puts bodies in the ground.” She gestured toward the hills covering the lawn.

Bertrand turned around, staring at the graves, his lips parted. Molly could not tell from his expression if he had known before that moment what lay beneath those hills. She watched his shining gaze dart from mound to mound, as if searching for something. She suddenly realized that not all of the bodies in the ground were strangers. Not to him at least. “Your ma an’ da,” she said. “They’re out there, aren’t they?”

“I never saw it.” He shook his head, at a loss. “On the night when … when it happened, I was in my room. I remember hearing my parents arguing in the hall. My father had changed his mind about the tree. He thought it was making us sick somehow. He wanted to cut it down or poison it—I don’t remember. What I do remember is the storm.” He set his jaw. “There was no rain or thunder. Only wind. It
shook the entire house, like it was inside the walls. I could hear my father shouting downstairs and this inhuman sound—like someone, or some
thing
, was down there with him. My mother came into my room. Her eyes … she was
so frightened
. She pulled me from bed and told me to run. Run and never come back. I was young, I didn’t know what to do …” His voice was shaking but not with fear. “She helped me climb through the window, and I fell to the ground. I called to her to jump, but she was gone.” He stared into the empty air, his dark eyes shining.

Molly at once recognized the horror on his face. It was the expression she had worn when her parents pushed her onto the lifeboat and disappeared. It was the shame of someone who had survived. She cleared her throat. “If you hadn’t a’ run, you’d be buried there with ’em,” she said. “Your ma, she wanted you to
live
. To eat and sleep and breathe and laugh. To meet your wife. To have your children. Runnin’s not a bad thing, sir, so long as you’re runnin’ toward somethin’ good.”

Bertrand’s face crumpled. He sank to the lawn, his head in his hands. “We can’t leave. This house is all I have left. There’s no money, no credit, nothing. And Connie—she’s too sick to travel …”

Molly stepped closer. “The creature that buried your folks is comin’ back, sir. Tonight. It’s time to choose.” She held out the old key. “You can take this, go back in the house, and wait for your miracle … or you can come with us and live.”

olly opened the door to Penny’s bedroom. “Are you finished, miss?”

“Finished? I’ve only just started!” Penny sat on the floor of her room, an open suitcase before her. It was overflowing with stuffed animals and toys and blocks. She held up two dolls, one in each hand. “I can’t decide which one to keep.” She looked between them and then threw them both to the floor, exasperated. “Why are we even leaving?”

“Your father thinks it’s best. And I’m inclined to agree.” Molly wandered through the room, collecting an assortment of clothes for the girl’s journey, which she placed over one arm. She passed over the most beautiful dresses—instead taking clothes that could stand the most wear. She did not know where Master Windsor and his family would end up living, but it would likely be no place for frills.

Molly knelt down next to Penny and began repacking the suitcase.

“But what if I don’t want to leave?” Penny asked.

Molly removed most of the toys, to make room for Penny’s clothes. “I thought you hated it here, miss.”

“I do hate it! Only … there’s some things I don’t want to leave behind.”

Molly removed a stuffed bear to find a stack of
Princess Penny
books. The gilded pages shone bright even in the shadows. “Things like these?”

The girl nodded. She touched the topmost book, picking at its corner. The cover was adorned with a bright picture of the princess battling an ogre who looked surprisingly like Alistair. Molly put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, looking her straight in the eye. “Miss Penny, there’s better stories in the world than these.”

The girl looked like she might cry. “Like your stories?”

Molly winked. “On a good day.” She gently removed the books from the suitcase and set them on the floor. “Besides, the dolls might want somethin’ to read.” She closed the case, latched it tight, and led Penny into the hall.

The rest of the house was in a state of complete disarray. Since deciding to leave, Master Windsor had become a man of pure action—perhaps fearing that if he didn’t leave quickly, he might lose his nerve. He had spent the last few hours rushing from room to room, collecting what essentials they might be able to fit on their carriage. A reluctant Alistair trailed behind him, helping when necessary.

Molly went outside to check on her brother, who had been given the job of preparing the wagon for their journey. She found him in the drive, hoisting a large metal canister onto the bed of the wagon. There were several other canisters, all of them different, some of which she recognized from the kitchen. “What’s all this?” she said.

Kip wiped his hands on his trousers. “Lamp oil, axle grease, turpentine, lard, even a bit o’ brandy.”

“You planning to cook somethin’?”