The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier
“It was not on purpose!” Penny sat up. “It’s my sweet smell!”
“Leave her alone,” Kip called from behind the well. “Besides, your spot ain’t so great.”
“Says you!” Alistair shot back.
It was during this dispute that Molly noticed activity by the front door. Master Windsor had on his riding cloak and hat and was readying his carriage, which he had apparently fetched himself from the stables. He had a leather case under one arm that looked quite heavy. Mistress Windsor stood in the open doorway, arms folded tight across her body. Molly stood and watched them. She could not hear what they were saying, but it sounded like they were having yet another disagreement.
It had been four days since Fig and Stubbs had visited the house, and in that time, Molly had noted a distinct change in the interactions between her employers. Gone were Bertrand’s lighthearted jokes and good-natured smiles. Constance, for her part, simply pretended she had no husband. Every room they occupied was filled with a quiet tension, which put Molly in mind of a powder keg waiting to explode. She thought of how different this was from her own parents, who disagreed plenty, but always out in the open and with half smirks and teasing jabs—like a pair of actors in a play. Molly preferred the out-in-the-open way, for it meant that neither parent would ever say something they couldn’t bear for their children to hear. It meant there were no secrets.
Penny rolled over. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You haven’t even gobbled me up yet!”
It is a difficult thing to look away from a private conflict taking place in public—like trying to ignore an open button on someone’s clothes. Molly had the feeling that she should be distracting the children, but her eyes were fixed to the spot.
The other children soon joined her side, watching the unfolding scene with similar interest. “Are the master and mistress plannin’ a trip?” Kip said. “I coulda fetched the horse for ’em.” He did not especially like it when other people did his job for him.
“I dinna think they’re goin’ together,” Molly said.
Alistair spoke up. “That would be Father rushing off to town to meet some ‘business associates.’” He snorted. “The pawnshop is more like it. I saw him pilfering the dining room this afternoon—stuffing that bag full of candlesticks and flatware … He even took my silver pocketknife with the mother-of-pearl handle that I got for Christmas last year. It’s a lucky thing I hid my sweets, or he’d have gotten them, too.” So saying, he pulled a crumpled bag of caramels from his trouser pocket.
Molly didn’t understand why Master Windsor would need to pawn his possessions when he had a room full of money upstairs. “He’s sellin’ your things?” she said.
“What’s left of them, anyhow.” Alistair popped a caramel in his mouth, chewing loudly. “He did the same thing before we moved away from town—trying to pay off creditors. When we came here, he gave his word that those days were over and done with. Shows what his word is worth.”
Penny hit him on the arm. “Alistair, you shouldn’t say bad things about Papa.”
“Why not?” he shot back. “It’s the truth.”
Molly looked at the boy and felt a pang of sympathy: it could not be easy to see one’s father in such dire straits. Da had never been rich, but he had always been someone she could admire.
Alistair rocked back on his heels, pointing. “Oh, look! Now he’s promising it’s the very last time. Until next time, of course.”
Master Windsor still had the bag in his hands, and it was now open. He stepped close to his wife—at first, Molly thought it was to kiss her cheek—and unclasped the diamond chain from around her neck. He likewise removed her bracelet and earrings, dropping them all into the open bag. Finally he reached for the ring on her left hand. At this, Constance stepped back. She shook her head, clutching the ring to her breast. The ring, it seemed, was special. Molly had noticed the ring before. It had a dark band and a small, pale blue diamond. There was more arguing, and finally Mistress Windsor relented. She pulled the ring from her finger and threw it at her husband, who dropped down to retrieve it from the gravel.
Molly felt a tug at her apron. “Can we play now?” Penny said. “It’s my turn to be giant.”
“You can’t be giant,” Alistair said. “Last winner gets to be giant, and I was winning!”
“You were not,” said Kip.
“That’s right!” Penny said. “Kip was! He wasn’t even caught once!”
“Well, I was about to start winning!” Alistair shot back. “Besides, you can’t be giant because you’re not even a little bit frightening.”
“Well, I say we give Miss Penny a chance,” Molly declared. She knelt down in front of the girl. “You sure you’re up to the job?”
Penny roared and showed her claws. “I’ll pop out yer eyeballs and eat ’em like grapes!” she snarled.
Molly nodded, impressed. “All right, then, count o’ thirty.” Penny smiled and clasped both hands over her eyes and started counting aloud. Alistair and Kip disappeared behind two hills. Molly stood and glanced back toward the house. She noticed some movement behind a small window on the second floor, half-hidden by thick branches. She shielded her eyes from the sun, staring at the figure on the other side of the glass.
By the time Penny finished counting, Molly was already at the house. She closed the front door behind her, careful not to let it make any noise that might alert anyone to her presence. She climbed the stairs as quietly as her shoes would allow. Just as she reached the top step, the green door opened and Mistress Windsor emerged from within.
“Molly!” she cried, obviously alarmed to find someone lurking nearby. “I … I thought you were outside.” She pulled the door shut behind her.
Molly gave a contrite bow, keeping her eyes on the floor. “We was playin’ hide-and-go-seek, mum. I thought one of ’em might’ve snuck in the house and …” She looked up and her voice trailed off. On Mistress Windsor’s left hand was a small ring with a dark band and an icy blue stone.
“And …?” the woman said.
Molly stared at the jewel, unable to speak. “That … that’s a very pretty ring, mum,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” Constance examined the stone on her delicate finger, watching it sparkle in the dim light. “Bertie gave it to me long ago …”
Molly looked at the woman looking at the ring. The very same ring she had seen cast off on the driveway only moments before. She swallowed. “Forgive me, mum … but didn’t I see Master Windsor take a ring very much like that?”
The woman looked up, her face suddenly hard. “You are quite mistaken.” She took a key from her pocket and locked the green door, pulling on the handle to make sure it was secure. “I think I heard the children by the stables. Perhaps you should bring them inside.” She gave a humorless smile. “We wouldn’t want them falling prey to any rogue evangelists, would we?”
Molly looked down, cheeks burning. “Yes, mum.” She bowed and went back downstairs to join the others. When she stepped outside, the world had changed in some minute but indescribable way. The blue sky suddenly looked less blue. The cool air was less cool. Even the sun looked dim. And when it was her turn to be giant and Molly covered her eyes, she saw only one thing—
A ring, shining on a pale finger.
ellar Hollow burned in the red-orange light of the setting sun. Kip sat at his post atop one of the old stone pillars at the far end of the bridge. The pillar was too slick to climb, but he had found that the old ropes lashed around it made a serviceable ladder. The top of the rightmost pillar had a flat spot that was perfect for long sitting. Kip kept his eyes trained on the road, staring in the direction of the nearest village. He was watching for the same thing he had been watching for every night: a letter from Ma and Da.
When he and Molly had sent their letter off, she had warned him it might take weeks—maybe even months—for it to reach its destination. Kip knew it was foolish to expect a response so soon. Still, he didn’t want to run the risk
Kip shivered in the early evening. Even though the sky was ablaze, the air was cold. He stuffed both hands into his coat pockets, balling his fists up to make them warm. He could feel the wishing button in his right pocket where he always kept it. He knew the button wasn’t really magic, but it was nice to pretend. He closed his eyes and made a secret wish that he could see what his parents were doing right at this moment. For all he knew, they were on the bottom of the world where up was down and night shone bright as day.
Kip kept his eyes closed and listened to the river flowing under the bridge and along the road. He liked being near the road because it reminded him of the last time they had all been together as a family, the four of them leaving the farm to board a boat that would carry them across the sea to a new life. Kip had been too sick to remember much of the voyage. He hadn’t even been able to give Ma and Da a proper good-bye. He had awakened in an orphanage, where Molly had explained how their parents and the rest of the grown-up folks had been carried off by pirates. Kip suspected it wasn’t actually pirates—that was just the sort of detail Molly would make up—but he did know his parents would come back soon. They had to.
When Kip opened his eyes, he saw a figure approaching from the eastern road. It was not the postman but the old witch they had met their first day in the valley. He remembered her name was Hester Kettle, which had struck him as a little bit funny and a little bit frightening.
The woman was walking straight toward Kip. There were no other homes for miles, and so it was pretty clear she meant to call upon the Windsors. Kip considered running off before she reached him but then thought better of it—if she really was a witch, he didn’t want to provoke her.
He watched her shuffle nearer, her pack of junk clattering with each step. She wasn’t playing her instrument, but she was humming something to herself. It took Kip a moment to realize that she was singing in the same key as the water flowing alongside the road. “Why, look who it is!” she called when she was near enough to speak. “The little brother, come to bid me welcome.”
“I’m waitin’ for the postman,” Kip said.
“You’ll be waitin’ a long time, I wager. Post comes but once a month, and rarer still in this direction. You don’t mind if I rest my bones, do you?” She untied a three-legged stool from her pack and set it on the ground. She sat upon it with an unsteady plop that left the stool groaning. She grinned at Kip. “Not so grand as your throne, but it’ll do.”
His eyes drifted to a pair of long, rusted garden shears hanging from the side of her pack. “I thought you never came near these woods,” he said.
“You thought correctly,” she said, gracefully tucking the shears out of view. “But when I spied Master Windsor racin’ toward the city on that carriage of his, I figured it was worth the risk to check on my investment.” She smiled in a way that let Kip know she was talking about him. “You may recall promising me a story.”
“That was my sister who promised it, not me,” Kip said. “I dinna tell stories. Molly’s fixin’ supper in the house, if you care to call on her.”
The woman glanced toward the house but quickly looked away again. “Here’s close enough for me, luv.” Kip could tell she was nervous—for all her jokes and stories, she was just as scared of the sourwoods as everyone else. “No need to interrupt your work. I only come to put a niggle in your ear. And to make sure you two lambs weren’t”—she hummed, as if searching for the right word—“indisposed.”
Kip did not know that word, but he understood her meaning. “You thought we was dead,” he said.
The woman laughed, which was no kind of answer. “You got a keen eye for what’s what. It’s not like me to be so dramatic, but when two whelps disappear into a place such as this”—she gestured to the wooded isle—“you can’t help but fear the worst.”
Kip looked hard at the woman, trying to disentangle her teasing from her truth. What did she really know about this place? “Back when we was on the road, you said there was somethin’ tragic about these woods. You called it ‘the other thing.’”
The woman gave a cryptic smile. “I’m not sure your sister would appreciate me frightening you.”
“I ain’t afraid,” Kip said. “Well, I am afraid … but I’m not afraid of being afraid. If that makes sense. True is still true, even if it’s bad. That means I want to hear it.”
“That’s a rare thing, in a boy or a man,” she said. “Your sister raised you up right.” Kip wanted to tell her that Molly didn’t raise him—that he was raised by Ma and Da—but he held his tongue. The old woman drew a churchwarden pipe from her pack and stuffed it with tobacco from a pouch around her waist. She lit the bowl and began smoking like a man. The smell reminded Kip of autumn leaves. “You know by now that Master Windsor grew up in that house,” she said.
“He moved away when he was a boy,” Kip said. “They told my sister it was some kind of bad fever that took his whole family—left him an orphan.”
The woman nodded. “He is an orphan … though I’m not so sure about the rest of your story.” She drew a deep breath and released it. “I remember the night it happened—it’s the sort of night you don’t quickly forget. ’Twas a terrible storm, howlin’ winds, cold rain. Sometime in the wee hours, there’s a wailing sound come down the village road—the kind of scream that sets your every hair on end. Folks rush out of doors to find young Master Windsor—no older than you—in his nightclothes, soaked to the bone, not even shoes on his feet. He’s pale as a ghost and thin, too. We hardly recognize him. He’s frantic with fear and keeps saying something evil’s come for him—come for his parents.”
Kip suddenly wished very much that he were not having this conversation. He wanted to be at the stables, in the house—anywhere but on the bridge, talking to this old woman. Still, he had to know. “Did they find out what it was?” he said. “The evil thing that was after him?”
“We may be superstitious around these parts, but we aren’t heartless. A few of the men got together rifles and dogs and lanterns and rode out here. The house was wrecked twice over from the storm. Furniture tossed, doors ripped open, windows smashed … and nothing else.”
Kip swallowed. “What about his ma and da?”
“Gone.” She pointed the long stem of her pipe at him. “So tell me this: What kind of fever turns a house inside out and makes flesh-and-blood people vanish into thin air?”
Kip had no answer. He tried not to think of that screaming boy in the stormy road. He tried not to think of what evil might have taken the boy’s family. He looked at the woman and saw she was watching him carefully—probably waiting to see what effect her story had made upon him. “I dinna believe you,” he said sharply. “If any of that stuff had happened to Master Windsor when he was a boy, there’s not a thing in the whole world that would bring him back here.”
The woman nodded, puffing. “You’d be surprised. Windsors aren’t the first to try and lay claim to these here woods—I’ll wager they won’t be the last.” Her eyes lingered on the house, looming large in the dusky shadows. “There’s somethin’ about this land that draws folks in, even when every bone in their bodies is telling them to run far, far away …” Her voice trailed off, and she was silent for a long while.
Kip was beginning to wonder whether she had forgotten about him altogether when she turned to him with a wooden smile. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’d like to get clear of these parts before the moon’s out.” She stood up and tied her stool to her pack with a bit of loose rope. She jabbed a finger in Kip’s direction. “Maybe don’t tell that sister of yours what I said about Master Windsor. We wouldn’t want to frighten her.”
“I won’t,” he said. But he crossed his fingers as he said it.
The old woman curtsied and faced the road to the west—the opposite direction from
Kip watched her disappear around the darkening bend, his hand clenched tight around the button.
hen Molly arrived at her room that night, she found a gift on the bed. It was a long dark dress, carelessly folded. Atop the dress was a note:
Molly—
This is an old frock for which I no longer have any use. I thought you might want it to wear on your errands. It may want hemming.
It was written in Mistress Windsor’s hand. Molly wondered what might have prompted this sudden show of generosity. Constance did not strike her as the sort of person to give gifts with no strings attached. Was this a peace offering or was it a bribe? Molly thought back to their conversation at the top of the stairs. The woman had been so flustered, so unlike herself. She had not wanted Molly to see the ring. Was she buying her silence?
Whatever the motive, a new dress was a new dress, and Molly was only mortal. She set down the note and picked up the garment. It was well worn but well made—certainly finer than anything she had ever owned. She ran her fingers over the thick fabric, which she thought might be called “velvet.” The color was almost black but for the edges, which glowed green when caught by the light. Molly loved wearing green because of the way it made her red hair even redder.
She shed her food-spattered uniform and knickers. The night air was cold against her bare skin. She shivered, quickly pulling the dress over her body. The fabric was as soft as down. The dress was clearly intended for someone who had servants, and it took some struggle for Molly to lace up the back without help. She eventually managed, though, and stood straight like Mistress Windsor, wishing she owned a piece of jewelry to place at her neck. She turned her hips and felt the long skirt swish from side to side at her feet.
Molly walked to the mirror above her dresser and looked at herself. She had hoped that the dress might make her appear transformed, statuesque even, but it did not. The gown was loose around the bodice, and the skirt hung limp around her legs. She looked exactly as she was: a fourteen-year-old servant wearing a rich woman’s cast-off clothes.