Silver Hollow (12 page)
Amie frowned at the odd thought, then gestured. “Aren’t you going to use the spade?”
“No indeed!” Henry scoffed and added, “They’re only here in case we find a
flobbergidit
.”
“Where are the seeds?” she asked after searching every which way.
Henry was watching her, she realized as soon as she looked up at him. “You won’t need them.” His smile grew uncanny, gray slate eyes glowing in the dusky light, and then
he
abruptly added, “Well
,
go on then! Dig!”
Amie shrugged, and sank her fingers into the cool earth. A minute later and they had already dug six sizeable holes. Henry broke the brief silence with his smooth, pleasant voice. He was always telling her stories and she was always asking him more questions. Oddly enough she never tired of listening and, unlike her poor memory recall back in school, here she could quote him verbatim.
“You should know, as you are indeed a Wenderdowne, gardening is also a part of our blood. Sometimes it manifests here with the earth, other times it inspires loyalty or even greatness. Our people have always known how to make things grow and change. And that
is
a sort of gardening
,
is it not?”
“If it were up to me things would never change. They’d stay where they should be…not leave everyone else behind.” She packed the last dirt patch a bit harder than necessary.
“Yet if nothing ever changed,” he countered, “then everything would slowly die. It must remain in motion, can’t you see?” He gestured to the blooming garden and the burning sun. “Even the flowers wither and fade and the sun waltzes with the moon, yet things must change to begin anew. Only the Creator has no need for change.”
Amie found herself staring at her fingers half buried in the earth. She tucked her uncle’s words into a place she would think on later. For now she only wanted to get rid of the sudden ache her own thoughts invoked. Her life had been marked by too much too soon. She’d avoided change for years after her father and mother died and wondered if Henry’s letter would bring the same sort.
…
Henry, meanwhile, had been covertly watching her while they worked. He wondered if he was being too hasty or too foolish in testing her. It was hardly fair when she didn’t even know his reasons for bringing her to the gardens.
Telling her
the truth of their heritage had only pushed her away. He knew she was thinking of Drustan, of her place here. Even if he felt as if she had always remained with them, belonging as solidly as he, none of them could force her to choose to stay.
Feeling slightly ashamed, he attempted to bridge the wedge between them. “Have you read any of the books I leant you, my dear?” Henry tried to keep the desperation from his voice, but every day he prayed something would break through, that she might truly
see
again.
Jessamiene scoffed, yet seemed glad for the change of subject
.
“You mean the ones written in Old English and whatever that other language is? You do know I’m American, right? We’re not exactly the most brilliant kids on the world block.”
Chuckling, he offered, “Have you at least tried to read them? What about
The True and Complete Works of Willem Shakespeare?
Are your school houses so uneducated?” The thought of not reading these common titles was preposterous to him. Here outside the Vale, in the
land
they called Silver Hollow, such books were necessary for their class.
“Um…Uncle Henry
,
I’m pretty sure your books are out of print. I’ve never seen or heard of any of them.”
He paused, forlornly
.
“Not even
History of the First Kingdoms?”
Standing
on
the flower mound
,
he took in the glorious sunset.
“Not even
What Not to Say to a Gnome
,” she ended with a dramatic sigh. Leaning over to examine a nearby rose petal, she glanced up at him with a sly smile.
“Now I know you’re making fun!” Clasping his hands behind his back
,
he grimaced and pretended to walk away from her towards the hedgerow. As predicted, he heard the sound of her boots pounding against the earth behind him.
“Wait! Uncle Henry, I didn’t mean to—hey!” She stared, amazed by the clod of dirt just thrown in her face.
When he twisted round to face her he feigned confusion. “Well
,
those
poshumicked flobbergidits
! I
didn’t even see them throw
soil in your—” His words were cut off by her mud pie squashed down into the crevices of his faintest wrinkles. From
this
point the war was on, until both were coated in a fine shade of brown.
Exhausted
,
they lay together near the flower mound, watching the stars slowly wink into existence. As the moon rose and held sway, Amie dug her fingers in the earth they had planted and glanced over at her uncle. He was watching the stars, determined he would not do anything that would incite her gifts.
Only two could rule together, he reminded himself. Having guarded this gate for years alone, Henry could scarce dare hope his other half had come home. If she hadn’t inherited any of their family’s legacy he was prepared to love her as best he could anyway.
But if she
has
…
Their eyes locked and he watched her mother’s smile take shape on her face, saw the emerald eyes crinkle at their corners. He couldn’t help but return her grin, because he felt the same. Jessamiene was the only blood family he had left. Once he had despised his kin, though he was loyal to a fault to their cause. So often it
was
on
ly after losing everything
that
what truly matter
ed
came
to light. By the time he
had
realized how much he loved his parents and brother, they were already gone.
“I’m glad I’m here
,
Uncle Henry,” she said.
Henry watched as unbeknownst to her, a crackle of silver energy escaped her fingertips and all around them the flowers grew.
Amie woke from a dreamless sleep, the first she’d had in days as a matter of fact. She realized, while racing through the gardens with her uncle, she was really having fun. For the first time in as long as she could remember she was something akin to happy. Memory of the night she had almost lost her life was fading in this new welcome reality. So instead of waking up because of the pain emanating from her scar, or clutching her father’s ring tight enough to imprint its symbol in her palm, she lay back with a sigh and tried to ignore her maid.
Rachel Elisedd Underhill was one of those venerable institutions of Wenderdowne. Young as she appeared, her old soul shone through her henpecking ways and motherly affections. She seemed to flit from her duties with single
-
minded determination, yet was afflicted with a terrible case of absentmindedness. One of her favorite pastimes, besides forcing Amie into her costume for the day, was chattering on about things her charge never quite understood. This pleased
Underhill
immensely
, this weaving of riddles.
Probably because I’m American
,
Amie often thought to herself.
Today
Underhill
was humming an offbeat tune while picking out a different wardrobe. She had had loads to say last night when Amie and Uncle Henry came in looking like they had dug trenches in the gardens, huffing and puffing about “stains that shall nay ever come out!” and likewise.
Rather than feeling annoyed by her indomitable joy,
Amie
was compelled to ask, “Rachel, how long have you worked for my family?”
The maid paused, mid-dust
,
to lift her owlish eyes and stare. For a split second it seemed as if Amie had struck a nerve at last,
her
favorite pastime of the day. But then the feather duster in her hands began to quiver and soon the strange woman laughed until several snorts escaped her pointed nose. “Oh! Gooseberries! What funny questions you ask us!”
Amie crossed her arms over her chest and glared back. “I only asked Reggie if he liked being a butler. It’s not my fault he ran down the hall screaming your name.”
“But don’t ye see, milady? The other house servants are nay used to your bamboozling phrases as I am. Poor ole Reggie thought ye were cursing him, he did!”
After a roll of her eyes, Amie tried again. “Okay
,
so honestly now, I just want to know how long you’ve been working here.”
“Longer than you’ve been alive, milady
,
and I’ve served at Wenderdowne most of me life.” The clock then chimed and the feather duster flew out of Underhill’s hands and across the room, smack into the bear
-
faced rug Amie called Tiger.
Casting a crooked glance at the strange time
-
teller, Amie watched the five hands align at the nine o’clock hour. At least, she thought it was nine o’clock. Each hand sported a different being engraved on its end. The longest was a lion
-
bodied, eagle
-
faced gryphon. Next was the horse
-
bodied centaur, then came people and below dwarf
-
sized people. Last of all were the tiny winged figures Amie couldn’t begin to imagine. At the moment, it was the human’s hour.
Underhill was rushing to find the rest of Amie’s wardrobe. When she appeared from the wardrobe with a ridiculous miniature top hat, Amie backed away into her breakfast tray.
“Oh no, I’m not wearing
this
.”
Underhill
gasped, clutching the hat to her chest
,
and pursed her lips. “But it’s tradition, milady!”
“Sorry
,
but you couldn’t pay me to wear
it
,” Amie replied.
“At least let me braid
your
gryphon’s mane,”
Underhill
huffed and her charge appeased her whim.
Amie knew better than to disagree and watched as the housemaid got to work on her black curls, twisting and turning it into something manageable. After a while of watching her deft hands, her mind wandered to other things.
Like the flowers that grew out of nothing…
She had ignored the look in Henry’s eye when the violet blossoms appeared from beneath their h
an
ds the night before. They had watched the stars burn across the night sky and Amie
had
felt it the moment her happiness bubbled over and flooded her nerves. After a good night’s rest she decided she hadn’t felt the sharp sting of an electric current escape her fingertips, or smelt the strange blend of rain and something burning after.
Henry hadn’t stopped smiling after, even as his brow creased with something like worry. Before they parted ways at her door he had pressed her palm between both of his and said,
“
You’re beginning to see now, dear one. Don’t open your eyes just yet…
”
“What troubles yer thoughts, Lady Wenderdowne?”
Underhill
’s soft voice eased her out of her thoughts.
Blinking numbly back at her reflection, Amie watched her brow furrow and cursed the fact she couldn’t help but wear her emotions on her sleeve. “Nothing…So am I meeting Uncle in the
Looking Room
today?” Amie referred to Henry’s favorite morning retreat, a white room of mirrors and illusions. He never invited her to breakfast with him there, however. O
nce again she couldn’t help the
niggling curiosity that wanted to know why.
“Master shan’t be sparing any time for lessons today, I fear. He’s got much
dishwakling
to do. Of course!” she exclaimed while tying Amie’s silver ribbon in a sharp bow, then said, “
’T
is
what happens when a Master forgets his duties. He has too much to oversee and too much Rumplekin mischief afoot!”
“
Rumplekin
?” Amie repeated.
Underhill’s nose twitched and with a passing glance she motioned for
her
to turn around. Putting on shoes had been no big deal back home. Amie still didn’t know what the house servants had done with her Converse or her other clothes. The first couple of days she nearly went on strike, refusing to come out wearing anything but her modern wardrobe. Now the slow art of Underhill shoving the high boots over her ankles and
then
lacing them up seemed natural.
Though the
Lady
of the house had forgotten her previous question, the
h
ead of the
h
ousehold staff had not. So she startled Amie when she burst forth
with
a wealth of information.
