The inside of the manor was just as beautiful as it was on the outside. All the finishes were a deep oily brass stamped with Lilymoor’s seal, making every door and window and latch look rustic. The grand foyer itself was painted a soft pastel pink and hung with paintings in gleaming brassy frames.The Lilymoor Collection was extensive. Artists used to come stay in one of the half dozen rooms on the estate, and so a good majority of them also donated pieces.
Harriett pointed to a few pieces she recognized—she’d taken a handful of courses in art history. In another life she could have been a curator, but whenever I suggested it she’d make a small face and say, “My parents don’t want me to be awriter. Why would they want me to curate art? Besides, I’d rather come here to write a book. Stay a few weeks in the groundskeeper’s cottage. Tell a story that’ll last.”
Even in my dream, I knew she never would.
“You should start writing now,” I said.
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not good enough.”
“But …”You can’t wait forever, I wanted to say, but the words lodged in my throat. If I said it aloud, I was afraid the dream would end, and her arm felt so warm through mine. She felt solid. She felthere.
I wondered if this was going to be the entire dream, just wandering with her, until we were interrupted by a sharp argument echoing through the house.
“What were you doing back there?” asked a frosty voice.
Another man, clearly annoyed, replied, “What, I can’t enjoy my own aunt’s garden?”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Yet you never say what youdomean.” There was a charged pause. Then he added, “Fine. I’ll leave.”
“Sure. Like you always do.”
Out on the veranda, two men faced each other like in some sort of standoff, one on the top steps, the other at the bottom. The man at the bottom had already turned and was stalkingoff into the garden. In the dream he was hazy, even when I squinted after him. Had I caught his face in real life? I couldn’t remember, though it seemed important.
The other—the one still on the veranda, tall and blond and very handsome—glanced over his shoulder when he heard our footsteps. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his caramel eyes. “Sorry about that. Please enjoy the gardens,” he added to us as he left to go into the house.
“I wonder whatthatwas about?” I murmured, watching him go.
Harrie made an aggravated noise in her throat. “I dunno, but I wish we’d eavesdropped a little longer. That soundedjuicy.”
Rolling my eyes, I shoved my shoulder against hers. “Shush!You’re awful.”
“You love me,” she teased, and walked up to the railing of the veranda, where the fabled garden spread out before us like an unfurling treasure map. Oh, if only she knew.
If only I could tell her—but no matter how hard I tried in my dreams, I couldn’t. My mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
So I never did.
Instead, I closed my eyes and listened to the wind through the hedges and the wildflowers and the rose bushes, through the willow trees and the lilies and the stone walls, whispering secrets.
I stopped believing in magic when I figured out Santa Claus was fake, but this place could almost convince me that I was wrong. Maybe not about Santa, but about magic. Maybe there were kinds of magic in the world you couldn’t see.
Maybe.
Harrie looped her arm through mine and tugged me down the steps. “C’mon! We’re wasting time!”
So she pulled me through the Central Garden toward the Hedges, and we got lost. Harrie loved to get lost. She rarely took maps from the kiosks at theme parks, and she refused to use apps in cities. She liked the thrill offindingplaces. Of being a part of them.
Because of that, I always let her lead, and I surely followed, knowing that wherever Harrie was to go, at least she’d haveLord of the Ringstrivia in her backpack if finding our way back took a long while.
The dream blurred. I didn’t know whether I spent a minute lost in the garden or a hundred years, but it was never long enough.
I woke up with tears wetting my pillow, the place where Harrie used to be aching and hollow in my chest. I rolled onto my side to alleviate the ache, pulling my pillow against my chest, and buried my face in its musty softness, and cried.
8
waldeinsamkeit
