The Night Gardener (39 page)

And that was when Molly remembered.

There was one thing remaining.

She slid a hand into her pocket. Her heartbeat quickened. Nestled safely between the folds of fabric, she could feel them waiting for her—

The letters.

moke billowed in from the hall, stinging Molly’s eyes. She pulled the stack of worn envelopes from her pocket and stared at the word written across the top envelope—

Molly

She held the letters close, tears spilling down her cheeks.

The walls around her were consumed with flames. Molly touched the letters to the fire, and they caught almost at once. The paper crackled and curled as the flames spread. She raised the burning envelopes in her trembling hands and walked toward the tree. “Good-bye,” she said and dropped them into the knothole. The letters disappeared into the black abyss—

Falling …

Falling …

Falling …

Molly heard a cracking noise as the fire took hold somewhere deep inside the tree. The sound grew louder. Orange light flickered in the hollow darkness, growing brighter and brighter until hot flames burst from the knothole, consuming the tree.

She heard a wheezing breath in her ear and turned to see the Night Gardener in the hall. His pale skin was charred and cracked. His hat was gone, and from his tattered clothes wafted a thin trail of black smoke. He hissed at Molly, his lips pulled back in a hateful rictus.

She was trapped inside the room, flames on every side. She inched back from the man. The Night Gardener lunged at her—

Snap!

He howled as his foot broke off from his leg. He clung to the doorway, still staring at her, his eyes two smoldering embers of rage. Smoke now billowed out from his clothes, his mouth, his every pore. He pulled himself upright and took another step—

Snap!

He fell as his other leg broke off at the knee, turning to ash. He hissed, dragging his body toward her. He reached out a trembling hand.

Snap!

His fingers crumbled into fine dust, peppering the floor. With a final wheezing sound, the Gardener collapsed into a pile of ash.

Molly clutched her hands to her racing heart, staring at the remains of the Night Gardener.

They had fought the monster.

And they had won.

It took Molly a moment to realize that the house was coming down around her. She leapt back as part of the ceiling fell through in a shower of sparks. She coughed, covering her face, and ran to the shattered window. She hoisted herself up on the frame and clambered onto the roof.

Outside, the flames were even wilder. They roared like an ocean in her ears. She looked out over the eaves—the ground below seemed to twist and waffle in the blistering heat. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear Bertrand shouting her name. And more distant still, she thought she could hear her parents.

Through the quivering heat, she saw Master Windsor dragging his wife’s mattress across the lawn, feathers trailing behind him. He brought it below the house. Just below Molly’s feet. She took aim and jumped—

Molly hit the mattress with a hard crash. She rolled onto the grass, clutching her ankle, which felt sprained. A faint voice sounded in her ear. She opened her eyes to see Bertrand kneeling over her. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her upright. Master Windsor dragged her across the lawn, shouting something that sounded like “The house! The house!”

Suddenly she heard a tremendous ripping sound. She looked back to see the tree and house collapsing in a giant explosion of flames. Molly stared at the mountain of fire, tears filling her eyes. “It’s over,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Master Windsor held her shoulders. “It’s over!”

They held each other, hugging with everything in them.

Already the flames had begun to die down, the roar replaced by a low, crackling murmur. It was above this sound that Molly heard a new voice.

“Papa! Molly! Hurry!” Molly looked toward the road.

Penny was running toward them, waving her arms.

Molly clung to Master Windsor, both rushing to meet the girl.

“What is it?” Bertrand said.

“It’s your brother!” Penny stepped to one side, and beyond her Molly saw a heavy figure moving toward them. Alistair, his face and clothes dripping wet, and clutched in his arms was Kip.

“Kip!” Molly let go of Master Windsor and stumbled toward them.

Alistair fell to his knees and lay Kip’s body on the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, gasping. “He jumped in the river … He saved us …”

Molly stared at her brother who was limp and unmoving. His mouth was open, but Molly could hear no breath. A cry crept up through her chest and came out as a whimper. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no, no … Not Kip. Not him.”

She took his dripping body, pulling him to her chest. “You canna do this,” she whispered, a desperate, tuneless keen. “You canna die … Not you … Not you …” Molly could sense people standing around her, but she could not see them. She did not care. All she cared about was Kip. She buried her face in his wet hair and closed her eyes. She
tried to find words, something she could say, something to bring him back. And in the darkness, the words came to her—

There
…
once
…
was
…

Molly swallowed, and she spoke the words aloud. “There once was … a little boy named Kip.” She swallowed again, forcing back tears. “He was a very special little boy, like none other. He had red hair like his father, and green eyes like his mother, and a fightin’ spirit like the devil himself. But most of all … he had a sister who loved him more than anythin’ in the whole world.” She pressed her lips together. “But one day, that sister made a mistake … And she didn’t care for him like he needed, like he deserved. And she didn’t tell him the truth.” She closed her eyes, unable to go on. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear and then released him. “I’m sorry.”

Kip lay motionless, his face lit bright against the flames. His body shuddered. He coughed, his head lurching forward, gulping for air. Water spewed from his mouth, spilling over his chin and neck.

Molly leapt back, startled. “Kip!” She hunched over him, afraid to touch him, afraid that what she was seeing might not be real.

Kip gasped, shivering, blinking into the firelight. He swallowed, catching his breath. “Wha …?” His eyes met Molly’s, and a faint smile crept across his lips. “What happened next?”

he flames died down just before dawn. Where the house and tree had once stood, there was now only a mountain of black ashes that smoldered gently in the dewy light of early morning. Already the life of the valley had begun to encroach upon the long-decaying island, and all around her, Molly could hear birds and insects chirping and buzzing.

The fire had been bright enough to attract attention from the village. And with the morning light came a few brave locals, who marveled at what they saw. Even without knowing the truth about the tree, it was plain to anyone who set foot in this place that the sourwoods were cursed no more. Word spread quickly within Cellar Hollow, and soon men and women were appearing on the long-neglected road—to see the burned remains, perhaps, but also to leave baskets of food and blankets and clothes for the Windsors.

The gifts were welcome, for the great fire had consumed every last piece of the Windsors’ former lives—everything, that is,
but
their lives. And for that, they were all of them grateful.

Molly walked along the dew-kissed lawn, enjoying the warm, charcoal air. The smell of new beginnings. She smiled, watching Penny and Alistair play among the hills.

“Look!” Alistair shouted, pointing at what might have been a grasshopper or butterfly. “The fairy’s getting away!”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Penny shrieked, hands swiping the air.

Molly knew that Alistair was too old to chase insects, let alone fairies. He was making believe for his sister’s benefit, and it was working: Penny leapt between hills with an almost manic glee—her cheeks flushed with color. Some might have thought it disrespectful for children to play among the dead, but Molly knew differently. She knew that among those hills lay Penny and Alistair’s own grandparents. Molly could almost picture them, resting underground—listening happily as the children of their child laughed and ran overhead.

Constance approached Molly’s side. The woman still looked thin from her sickness, but she was standing on her own. “Listen to them play,” she said, her voice touched with awe. “It’s like music.” She looked at Molly, her eyes creased as she smiled. “We have you to thank for that.”

Molly shifted her feet. “I’m just the help, mum.”

Constance laughed—the first real laugh Molly had heard from her in all their time together. She took a deep, hungry breath, surveying the world around her. “Things are going to be different this time. Better.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Molly said. “I suppose you’re movin’ back to town?”

The woman shook her head. “We’re staying here. Some people from the village have offered to let us stay with them until we can rebuild a home. Bertrand had a bit of insurance on the house. It won’t be much money, but it will be enough.” She turned to Molly. “We might even have room for a few more … not as servants, you understand. As family.” She took Molly’s hand, and Molly was surprised by the warmth coursing through the woman’s fingers.

Molly felt tears spring to her eyes. “Mum, I … I dinna know what to say.” A part of her wanted to say yes, to live forever in this new place. But she knew it wouldn’t be right. The Windsors needed time to rebuild themselves—time to be a family. And some things, Molly knew, had to be done alone. “It’s kind of you, mum, it is. But Kip and me belong somewhere else … and it’s my job to find that place.”

The woman smiled, and Molly could see that she understood.

“Look who I found!” called a voice from the trees. Molly turned to see Master Windsor emerge from the woods, Galileo in tow. The horse, who had run off in the fire, was covered in brambles and burrs and specks of mud.

Master Windsor caught up to them, a little out of breath but smiling all the same. “I found him in the woods by the riverbed. He was munching on these.” He drew a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and offered them to his wife. They were not magic glowing night flowers but plain spring wildflowers—and they were lovely.