The Night Gardener (38 page)

Master Windsor set to preparing the tree while Molly led the wagon to safety. She had asked Penny to sit up on the bench with her so that the girl could see how driving worked. When she reached the road at the far end of the bridge, she stopped. “It’s your turn now, Miss Penny.” She handed the reins to the girl, who clutched the leather straps with white-knuckled intensity. “Now, if somethin’ happens—if the fire gets too big or the night man shows up—I want you to snap these reins as hard as you can.” She made a motion. “Just like that.”

Penny nodded.

“You keep snappin’ till your arms feel like they’re gonna fall off—and not a moment before. Can I trust you to do that?”

Penny placed a hand to her heart. “Mummy is my damsel. I will protect her with my very life.”

Molly made an impressed face. “Who’s the hero now?” She squeezed Penny’s hands—
Not good-bye
, she told herself—and climbed down from the bench.

“Thank you,” said a thin voice in her ear. “For what you’ve done.” It was Mistress Windsor. She was sitting up, a blanket wrapped tight around her frail shoulders.

Molly shook her head. “Don’t thank me, mum. It’s Kip and Alistair who done the brave thing.”

“Not that.” Constance smiled gently. “For what you’ve done to
him
.” She stared out across the bridge toward the house. In the distance, Molly could see Bertrand in front of the tree, emptying a large canister of oil over the black roots. His coat was off, and his sleeves were rolled up. “For the first time in a long time … I feel as though I have my husband back.” In the dim light, Molly could almost picture a different Bertrand Windsor—strong, determined, the man Constance had fallen in love with all those years before. A howl shuttered through the forest, and heavy clouds slid over the moon, leaving them in darkness.

“Let’s make sure he sticks around.” Molly took a box of matches from the wagon and ran back to the house. When she reached the tree, Bertrand was shaking the final drops from a canister. He threw the empty container onto the lawn.

“That’s the last one,” he said, wiping his hands.

“Then it’s time.” She handed him the box of matches and a stone from the drive.

Bertrand opened the box and removed a single match. “My hands are shaking,” he said.

Molly stared up at the tree, its black branches spreading out like a poison across the moonless sky. “They should be.”

Bertrand took a deep breath. He drew his match against the stone. It burst to life. He held the tiny flame over the roots—

And let the match fall.

ip and Alistair clung to each other, staggering through complete darkness. The two of them were lost beyond all hope. Kip couldn’t even tell where the house was anymore. The Gardener’s windy voice hissed in his ear. Now that the moon had vanished, they had no way to find safe ground. Every direction they ran, it seemed like the Night Gardener was waiting for them. Branches rattled around them, clawing at their clothes and face. “I dinna know where to go!” Kip said, panting.

They heard a hiss of wind and leapt backward, changing direction once more. “Why won’t he show himself?” Alistair said, his voice choked with fear.

“He’s havin’ fun with us,” Kip said. He craned his neck, searching for some clue of where to run next. His heart pounded in his ears. “That way!” he said, spotting some light between the trees. He and Alistair ran as fast as they could over rocks and bramble. They broke through into a clearing—

“Wait!” Alistair cried, pulling Kip back.

Kip looked down, realizing only now that he had very nearly run them off the edge of a cliff. He stared at the river rushing beneath him—black and cold.

Kip heard a twig snap. He turned around to see the Night Gardener standing behind them, a grim smile on his face. He had led them to the edge of the water. “We’re cornered,” he said. “It’s him or the river.”

The Gardener took another step closer. He was standing right over them now, a look of amusement in his bottomless eyes. Kip adjusted his footing, feeling the soil crumble away beneath his boots.

The Gardener had scarcely moved when a thundering roar shook the night. He snarled, staggering backward. He swatted at his clothes, collapsing to the ground. Kip could see tiny flames licking at the bottoms of his feet. The flames climbed up his cloak, slowly spreading. Wind howled around the Gardener—but the flames would not go out.

“What … what’s happening to him?” Alistair said. “Why is he burning?”

Kip looked past the Night Gardener toward the house. In the distance he could see a faint orange glow rising up to the sky. “It ain’t him that’s burnin’,” he said. “It’s the tree—they’re trying to kill it!”

The Night Gardener spun around, howling in the direction of the house.

Alistair grabbed Kip’s arm. “If he gets there before they’re done, he’ll bury them all. We have to stop him!”

Kip swallowed, barely able to stand. He needed to buy his sister more time. He searched the darkness for a weapon—something to swing or throw—anything that might stop the Night Gardener.

Over the roar of flames, Kip could hear the black river rushing behind him. He pushed past Alistair and grabbed hold of the man’s burning cloak. “We know you don’t like fire—let’s see what you think o’ water.” He charged for the edge of the cliff, sending himself—and the Night Gardener—into the river below.

he house crackled and roared like a giant’s funeral pyre. Molly shielded her face from the heat, watching with Master Windsor. Windows shattered and bricks crumbled as the flames engulfed the entire house, spewing black smoke into the air. But even as the fire roared, the tree remained unharmed. Icy wind whipped through its branches, beating back the flames as quickly as they could spread.

“It’s not working,” Master Windsor shouted above the din.

Molly flinched as something crashed down inside the house, sending sparks and flaming debris out the front door. “It’s no good,” she said. “That fire could burn for days and nothin’d happen to the tree.”

She glanced back at the forest, which was alive with thrashing wind. She wondered where Kip was and why he hadn’t yet returned. Bertrand rested a hand on her shoulder. “We have to run,” he said. “We tried, but there’s no more time.”

Molly glared at the tree. There
had
to be a weak spot somewhere—a soft underbelly, a chink in the armor—some way to hurt the tree. Her eyes fell on the tiny window on the second floor. “I think I know what
to do,” she said. She broke from Master Windsor and ran toward the flaming house, matchbox clutched in her hand.

Close up, the fire was even more awesome. It blinded her eyes and sucked the air from her lungs. She felt Bertrand grab her arm. “I’m not letting you go in there alone!” he shouted.

“I’m not asking permission. You got a family that needs a father.”

She was right, and Bertrand knew it. “If the Gardener comes back,” he said, “I’ll slow him down.”

Molly turned and sprinted through the front door. Flames covered the walls inside, creeping along the rafters and floorboards. A veil of black smoke blurred the air, stinging her eyes. She covered her mouth and picked her way over a fallen beam to the staircase. She sprinted up the steps, jumping over spots where the runner had caught fire.

Molly reached the top of the stairs and ran through the open doorway. The heat was less intense there, and she could breathe without coughing. Compared to the rest of the house, the room seemed almost calm. The floor was thick with the ashes of burned banknotes. Little embers swirled gently through the air like snowflakes. In one corner, Molly saw two shapes that might have been the late Misters Fig and Stubbs, now corpses. She turned away, fixing her eyes on the knothole. It waited for her like an open gullet.

Molly clutched the matchbox in her sweating hand. She opened it and removed a single match. “Open wide.” She struck the match and brought it to the open mouth—

Phoof!

A sharp breath of air knocked the match from her fingers. It fell to the floor, disappearing into the ashes.

Molly took a second match and struck it—

Phoof!

Another gust of wind, this one stronger.

She peered outside through the shattered window. The Night Gardener emerged from the edge of the woods, staggering, his tattered cloak hanging from his body like a wet skin. The light from the fire reflected off his dripping face, making him look red, angry.

The Gardener waved a hand, and a gust of wind shook the house. Molly grabbed the wall to keep from falling. She heard a crashing downstairs and a scream of pain. She rushed into the hall and saw Master Windsor sprawled on the foyer floor. He staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his face. “Whatever you’re doing up there,” he shouted over the roaring flames, “I suggest you do it quickly!” He grabbed the axe lying beside him and charged back outside.

Molly searched the hallway for something bigger than a match—something the tree couldn’t blow out. She grabbed hold of a banister rail that was burning on one end like a torch. She ripped it from the floor and ran back into the room—

PHOOF!

This time the air hit her like a wave, knocking her hard against the wall. She shrieked, throwing the extinguished torch at the trunk. It was useless—the tree would allow nothing to pass.

Smoke filled the room, stinging her eyes. Molly stared at the tree,
tears running down her cheeks. She had tried to kill a monster, and the monster had won. A black ember floated past her—the final remains of a banknote. She smiled bitterly, thinking how quickly dreams could be reduced to nothing. The little scrap spun and swooped and then disappeared into the knothole. Molly sat forward, blinking—

The banknote had gone
into
the knothole.

“Not a banknote,” she whispered. “A
gift.
” All at once she understood. The only things the tree would take in were
its own gifts
.

Flames swelled around Molly as wind coursed through the house. She heard a crashing sound from downstairs and a furious roar. The Night Gardener was coming.

Molly scrambled to her knees, searching through the rubble for another banknote. But as she raked her fingers through the char, she could find nothing. She shrieked again, throwing black ashes at the wall. The banknotes were gone—just like all the tree’s gifts.