The Night Gardener (4 page)

They pushed through the silence until they came upon a deep river that cut like a scar through the valley. They soon saw a large parcel of land right in the middle of the water. It was flat and covered with trees: an island of woods.

“That’s the place!” Molly said to him. “We made it.”

Kip forced a smile for his sister’s benefit. To him, the sourwoods looked no more inviting than the rest of the valley. “I suppose I do like the idea of livin’ on an island,” he offered by way of encouragement. “Reminds me of home.”

The only way across the river was an ancient bridge made from rope and wood that looked like it might collapse at the slightest provocation. Galileo took one look at it and stopped. He snorted and stomped, trying to back away from the water. After some coaxing and some more threats, Molly convinced the horse to venture onto the bridge. The structure groaned and sagged as their wagon rolled over the rotting slats, littering bits of debris into the river below. Kip held his breath the entire way.

The heart of the island had been cleared away to create an open field surrounded by dark trees. The lawn was not flat but covered in a series of miniature hills, each ranging between one and two feet in height. Wind swept across the grassy mounds to create an effect that reminded Kip of rolling ocean waves. At the far end of the lawn stood the Windsor mansion. The house had obviously been left vacant
for some years, and in that time it seemed to have become one with the landscape. Weeds swallowed the base. Ivy choked the walls and windows. The roof was sagging and covered in black moss.

But strangest of all was the tree.

The tree was enormous and looked very, very old. Most trees cast an air of quiet dignity over their surroundings. This one did not. Most trees invite you to climb up into their canopy. This one did not. Most trees make you want to carve your initials into the trunk. This one did not. To stand in the shadow of this tree was to feel a chill run through your whole body.

The tree was so close to the house that they almost seemed to have grown together—its gnarled trunk running up the wall like a great black chimney stack. Palsied branches crept out in all directions like a second roof—including a few that appeared to cut straight through the walls. “It’s almost a part of the house,” Kip said softly.

Why any person would build a home so close to such a terrible tree was beyond him. Had it been too difficult to cut down?

His sister smiled and pulled him closer with her arm and mussed his hair with her fingers. Kip hated that. “Maybe they’ll let us tie a swing to it. Or build a fort,” she said.

Kip did not think building a fort in this tree would be a very good idea. He shrugged his sister’s arm off and slid down from the bench, landing expertly on his good leg. His head was a bit light, probably from all that sitting still, and he had to steady himself with one hand on
the sideboard. He reached under the bench and retrieved his crutch. His father had carved the crutch from the branch of a fallen wych elm on the farm back home. It was strong and thick and had just enough spring to be comfortable when he walked. His father had named it “Courage,” saying that all good tools deserved a good title. Kip had always liked the idea that courage was a thing a person could hold on to and use. He fit the crutch under his left arm and tried to ignore how it was getting a bit short for him.

Kip hobbled around the back of the cart and lowered the gate. Inside was a battered wooden trunk with leather straps and no proper handle. It looked like something a pirate might use to store gold pieces, but instead of treasure, it held ratty clothes—everything they owned. “I still dinna see why we had to come all the way here,” he said, struggling to pull the trunk free. “We coulda just stayed in town.”

Molly hopped down and helped him. “You’d prefer the orphanage?”

He glared at her. “No, ’cause I’m no orphan.” The trunk dropped to the cold ground, nearly crushing his left foot—not that it would matter.

Something passed over his sister’s face that Kip couldn’t quite read. It was the same look she had been giving the old witch when they were talking in the road. It was a look that made his stomach clench up. Then Molly smiled at him, bending her knees so their faces met. “Of course you’re not an orphan,” she said, “but they’d have to put us somewhere until Ma an’ Da came round to fetch us.”

Kip swallowed his anger. He wished for the hundredth time that his parents were already with them; they would know better than to take a job in some ugly old house in the middle of some ugly old forest.

“Look here,” Molly went on. “I got a present for you.” She ripped the last remaining button from the flap of her coat. She cupped it in her hands like a treasure. “Do you know what this is?”

Kip tensed his jaw. He knew what his sister was doing, and he did not want to play along. “A button,” he said flatly.

Molly shook her head. “Not just any button—it’s a special
wishing
button. Watch close.” She lifted her hands to her mouth and whispered, “Dear Button: I wish that right now my brother would give me … a kiss on my cheek.”

Kip didn’t move. Nearly eleven, he was a bit old for kisses and make-believe.

Molly shook the button. “Did you get that, Button?” she said a little louder. “All I’m askin’ in the whole wide world is one teensy, wee, bitty, little—”

Kip knew from experience that she would carry on like this until he gave in. He leaned over and gave the smallest peck he could manage.

Molly gasped, staring at the button. “It worked!” She sprang to her feet, eyes aglow with awe. “Did you see that?! It really worked!”

“You shoulda picked a better wish,” Kip muttered.

“Aye, perhaps.” Molly took his hand and pressed the button into his palm. “I’m givin’ this button to you, but only if you promise to make
really
great wishes. And also, you must promise not to cry or grouse or
lose hope. I need you to be brave.” She shrugged. “I dinna care neither way—but it’s important for Galileo … He’s a bit of a scaredy.” Kip glanced up at the horse, who, for his part, snorted back at him. “You think you can do that for me?” she said.

Kip nodded, releasing a slow breath. He turned the button over in his hand. “But … maybe Gal’s got reason to be scared. Horses got good sense.”

“Not this horse,” Molly said. “He hardly knows his own name.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, and the two of them turned back to the Windsor house, which towered over them. A breeze moved past Kip, and the giant tree groaned against the siding.

Kip peered at something behind one of the branches. “Did you see that?” he said. Some movement behind one of the second-story windows had caught his eye. He stared at the heavy curtain behind the glass. It was swinging back and forth, gently—

As if someone had been hiding behind it.

As if someone had been watching.

hile her brother set out to find the stables for Galileo, Molly went to the house to speak with her new employers. She dragged her trunk to the front door and took a deep breath. All these days of travel—all the exhaustion and hunger and cold—had led her to this place: her only hope. Molly had resolved to keep a brave face for her brother, but now she allowed herself a moment of honesty. The house looked like something from a horrible fairy tale. It might as well have come with a drawbridge and boiling cauldron. “Be brave,” she said to herself.

Molly had not been hired directly by the Windsor family—she had been hired by a solicitor in the city. The solicitor, a nervous man who licked his lips entirely too much, had apparently had some difficulty filling a position in so remote a place. Molly had been prepared to lie about references, but the man had assured her none were required. She need only make the journey and the job was hers. It was more than she could have possibly wished for. And now, at last, she had arrived.

Molly smoothed her skirt, pinched her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ears. Standing as tall as she could, she knocked against the door—

Creak.

It opened slightly. Molly hesitated, unsure if she was meant to enter. She peered through the crack in the door but could see nothing. “Hullo?” she called into the shadows.

“You can come in, if you’d like,” said a small voice from somewhere inside. “We haven’t a butler, and I’m not allowed to answer the door. But if you come in by yourself, I can’t get in trouble.”

Molly pushed the door open and carried her trunk inside. She shut the door behind her, blinking to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. She was standing in what once must have been a stately foyer. The air smelled stale, like an attic. Dust and dry leaves crowded the corners. Cobwebs dangled lazily from lamps and furniture. But strangest and most alarming by far was the presence of the tree, which seemed to have insinuated itself into the very architecture: crooked limbs grew straight through the plaster walls, thick roots pushed through the floorboards, and a broad, twisted branch hovered just below the high ceiling like a black chandelier. She stepped over some muddy tracks, peering into the unlit hallway.

“Up here!” shouted a voice above her. On the far side of the room was a great curved staircase that led to an upper hallway. Crouched at the top of the stairs was a pale-faced little girl with dark hair and extremely thick spectacles. The girl peered through the banister rails
like a prisoner. “Who was that lame boy who kissed you outside?” she called down.

Molly raised an eyebrow. “The boy’s name is Kip,” she said.

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Is he your husband?”

Molly did her best not to smile. “He’s my brother, miss.”

The girl stood up. “Well, that’s a rotten trick. Papa said someone might be coming from town, only he didn’t say anything about one of them being a brother. I hate brothers—they’re pests.” She descended the staircase, hopping, feet together, down each step. Molly watched the girl, feeling a sense of relief. Surely a house with a child like this could not be too frightening. The girl took a giant leap from the bottom step and landed in front of Molly with an impressive
thump
. “Does your Kip have a tin cup?” she said, adjusting her glasses, which had slid down her nose.

“Pardon, miss?”

“A tin cup. I’ve seen boys like him back in the town where I used to live. They’d sit on the road looking cold and sad and hold out tin cups for people to put money in.”

The question was innocent, and Molly tried not to let it annoy her. “The only cup he’s got is for drinkin’ water, same as you.”

The girl nodded, as if filing this information away for future reference. “What is your name?” she demanded.

Molly bowed. It was clear enough that this little girl was a member of the Windsor family, and it would serve her well to win the child over. “Molly McConnachie. And yours, miss?”

“Penelope Eleanor Windsor, but you can call me just Penny because that’s what everyone does. Or you can call me ‘miss’ like you already did—that’s all right, too. I’m almost seven. How old are you?”

Molly demurred; she hadn’t been exactly honest with the broker about her age, and she wasn’t sure she wanted these people to know just how young she was. She put a hand to her chest. “Miss Penny,” she said with a touch of horror, “a lady never tells her age.”

The girl looked down, embarrassed. “I didn’t know that … I suppose I shouldn’t have told you my age, either. Can we pretend you guessed it all on your own?” She looked at the case at Molly’s feet and then back to Molly. “Is it true you’ve come to live with us?”

Molly nodded. “It seems that way, miss.”

“Well, I hope you do,” Penny said. “You have no idea how
tedious
this place is. That’s a word Alistair taught me that means no fun at all.” She plopped down in front of Molly’s trunk and started fiddling with the straps. “In our old home in town, we had all sorts of lovely things to play with—jewelry and silver teapots and china statues.” She glared up at the house. “Here, there’s nothing but cobwebs and spiders and nasty brothers.” She finished with the straps and lifted the lid to expose a mess of old clothes.

“May I ask what you’re doing, Miss Penny?” Molly said.

“Opening your valise. I want to see what’s inside.” The girl examined each item briefly before tossing it aside in search of something new. Her interest seemed to grow considerably when she discovered the unmentionables that were packed at the bottom,
and she soon had a petticoat around her head like an Indian war-bonnet.