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Not like back then, when Da dragged my wee roots from the water, pulling until the whiskery white tubers binding me to the pool snapped, sending explosions of agony up my thighs. But there was also relief, hope so sharp and sweet it made me weep and bring up everything Mother had forced down my throat earlier that night.
Mother…
She’s a shadow memory, all cruel hands and cutting words and disappointment that squeezed my bones to splinters every time she visited my pool. I was too small to know what I’d done wrong, let alone how to fix it, but I could feel her revulsion and her oozing contempt left me too trembly to keep down my supper.
Most nights, I couldn’t even bring myself to try.
Opening my mouth, exposing my vulnerable insides to those pinching fingers and narrowed eyes felt like an act of self-destruction. And even though life was pain, life was life, and…I wanted to live.
I wanted it so badly that hope still flickered in my roots, deep down beneath the water where Mother could never touch, where I was one with the stars and the grandfather planets with their wise, whiskered chins and the universal song that binds every creature to the cosmic dance.
And I had Da, too, though I didn’t call him that, then. I didn’t know him as my father. He rarely spoke to me and never came closer than the edge of my pool, watching with sad eyes as Mother forced some new potion or gruel down my feeble throat. But I sensed that he was with me. That he was…mine in some way and that I might someday be his, if I could only grow strong enough.
Strong enough for what wasn’t clear. Not until that night that he pulled me from the soil. Not until he gathered me in his arms and ran for the gate while my heart galloped and invisible fingers tightened around my throat.
I had one last glimpse of the garden, dark and quiet with no moonlight to penetrate the shadows, and then everything went bright white.
I was blind for days. Blind and confused and hovering near death in a place where everything smelled and felt so strange and different that when I finally woke and Da was there, telling me how glad he was to have his son home safe after so many days lost in the woods, it seemed best to play along with the game.
At least until I could get some of that sweet-smelling brown stuff he held out for me—bread, I would later learn—into my aching belly.
The years passed and I grew from a tiny, toddling creature without words to a young boy who spoke less and less of the garden. By the time I was six or seven, I’d convinced myself that those old memories were something I’d imagined.
Not long after, I forgot them entirely.
I suspect Da’s magic might have had a hand in that, but I can’t be sure. And I doubt I’ll get the chance to ask him.
The witch is here.
I can sense her, swooping in on heavy wings. The rustle of feathers stirs my hair as she touches down behind me and the surface of the pond trembles as if sympathizing with my terror.
Dread electrifies my skin, but I force myself to square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’m not a tiny, faltering thing anymore. And I don’t care what this wicked woman thinks of me. She may have grown me in her garden, but she is no mother of mine and she never will be.
Gritting my teeth and praying I won’t disgrace myself with fear when I set eyes on her face, I turn.
My jaw drops and my heart plummets.
She’s so…beautiful. Beautiful and terrible and exactly what Foxglove would look like if she were older and had a heart as cold and empty as the void I tumbled through to get here.
Chapter Twenty
Clara
Outside Adrina’s bedroom window, the sun dips closer to the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in tragic hues of orange and yellow.
Soon, it will be gone. Night will fall and the moon will rise and, one way or another, force me away from Declan’s sick bed.
Most likely…forever.
If he doesn’t open his eyes soon, I may never see them again. I’ll never get to thank him for his kindness and bravery and everything he taught me about being human. Never get to kiss him or promise that I won’t forget him.
Not ever.
Even when I’m stardust raining down on the night garden, I will remember his name, his face, and how it felt to be held safe in his arms.
If only I could have kept him safe...
Or, at the very least, not helped his death along. Wig and Poke refused to answer my calls last night after we returned to the house, dragging Declan’s limp form on a borrowed cart behind us. Their continued absence today all but confirms their guilt.
