A gardener walks by dragging a clipping sack, tipping his hat as I bag my hoard. I grunt a greeting in return, then stop and yell, “Wait!”
I swear I hear him groan.
He undoes the drawstring on his sack as I approach, baring the contents, stepping back and brushing off his jacket while I drop to my knees and sort through his stash of boxwood clippings.
“Gail, is it?”
The young man tips his hat again. “Yes, ma’am.”
I come across some loose holly berries rolling around the bottom and click my tongue. Folding them amongst a piece of cheesecloth, I push to my feet and tuck the parcel in my bag. “You haven’t snipped the heads off any bluebells have you?”
I don’t intend for the question to come out so accusatory, but I can tell I’ve toed that line by the way he pales. “N-n-no, ma’am. I wouldn’t dare! I’m just an apprentice hedge trimmer.”
“Well, what about the other gardeners who are always buzzing around”—I wave a hand at the perfectly curated garden—”snippingthings?”
If I had it my way, the entire place would be overgrown. Wild and unruly and sprinkled with flowers.
“I, ahh, I can’t speak for the others, but I think it’s fair to assume everyone knows better,” he says, pulling the drawstring tight.
He’s probably referring to these random bag checks I perform weekly to ensure nothing valuable has been beheaded. He’d do the same if he’d raised most of the garden from seeds.
He hitches the sack over his shoulder and slides back a step, tipping his hat for a third time. “If we’re all done here, I have lots of work to do in preparation for the ball ...”
I sigh.
That damnball.It’s haunting me. And my plants.
“Just ... don’t over prune.”
“Wouldn’t dare.” He scurries off while I massage my temples.
Scanning the grounds, I drag my feet toward the eastern castle wall that’s lined with nesting shrubs, hoping to find some bluebells that escaped the frost. The bulbs in Sprouts only yielded a single blooming bounty. The small amount of paint I derived from it has since been used, the stems dried and powdered and added to my confiscated stash of Exothryl.
Yes, it’s one of the many ingredients I now need to recollect. Just salt to the wound. But more importantly, without blue paint I can’t finish the stone I chipped from the wall in Whispers. The thought alone is enough to make my head hurt.
My foot hooks on a rogue rock poking out of the ground, and I fly forward, landing face first in the grass and uncomfortably close to a pile of horse manure.
Groaning, I move to push myself upright when my eye catches on something tucked behind the shrubbery, glinting in a ray of sunlight.
I crawl forward and part the branches to find a small, circular window close to the ground, the glass so filthy it’s impossible to see through. I spit on my sleeve, polish the surface, then press my nose against the pane and peer in.
Huh.
The interior, dimly lit by shafts of afternoon light, is packed full of large pieces of furniture covered in ghostly sheets.
I’ve never seen this space before, and that’s rare. I’ve explored most rooms in Castle Noir aside from Rhordyn’s den, that locked door at the base of Stony Stem, and whatever’s in The Keep. The entryway to this room must be very well disguised, and that makes it evenmoreintriguing.
My never-ending well of curiosity is frothing.
I reach back and pry the stone I just tripped on from the soil, biting my tongue as I prepare to toss it through the window pane—
“Laith.”
I squeal, almost leaping off the ground.
Spinning, I narrow my eyes on Baze and drop the stone like it’s made of fire, hand pressed to my bludgeoning heart. “What thehellare you doing here? You’re the last person I want to see right now!” My brows crunch together. “Did you see me trip?”
“Yes,” he says, arms crossed, wearing a cocky half smile. “And I was rooting for the pile of shit.”
