Silver Hollow (18 page)
…
“Goosey! Elisedd! Bout time you sampled my twist on Turkish delight!” Cook called to them from ahead.
Amie frowned at him. “But we’re eating dinner, not breakfast.”
Cook was setting the table with a mouthwatering flourish. “Aye and wouldn’t our days begin much sweeter with dessert in our bellies?” To
Underhill
he turned and jabbed a thick finger, saying, “Elisedd, wipe that frown away before you step foot in me kitchen! I’ll have no sour
pussywillows
on my watch!”
“Hmph…nothing shall please me until Master comes home. Here is where he belongs, not gallivanting off to please
her
,
”
s
he grumbled when Cook reached over to swat her backside with his spoon.
“Oh
hogswallup
,
Rachel!” His harsh reprimand was rewarded by one of her rare icy stares.
Amie was still in shock over the change in her maid. Underhill finally broke her foul mood after Alastair drew her frustrations easily to him.
“You’re a
foshimminey
cad, Alastair Dearborne!”
His chuckle filled the room, surprising both women and the other staff partaking in the afternoon meal.
While eating a hearty lunch of Turkish delight and gooseyjuice, Amie wondered what could keep Uncle Henry away from the home he adored. She wasn’t so sure a few weeks being hounded by Underhill was good for her sanity. Mostly she wanted to know who this Hogswillow lady was and why the maid hated her.
Even Cook seemed privy to something beyond Amie’s know
ledge
and tr
od
carefully through their conversation. After a wild tale of tracking gryphons on a dark and stormy night Cook finally had
Underhill
laughing again. The part about the sea trolls dancing in the moonlit puddles seemed to do the trick. Something Amie would be eternally grateful for was Alastair’s gift of
the
gab. The other servants weren’t so amused and left soon as he began with identical expressions of disgust on their faces.
Seriously? What about trolls could be offensive?
Almost immediately after
,
Underhill
stood and checked Amie’s expression nervously before smoothing over her apron and saying, “If I may take my leave, milady
,
I have a few chores to attend before I bring up your tea tray. Must be certain our
guest
is made to feel at home.”
Amie’s eyes widened. “What guest?”
“Be seeing ye shortly
,
Alastair!” Underhill called in parting.
“Fair be the fillies!” Cook saluted her with his favorite wooden spoon. Rounding on him
,
Amie stared until the burly man grew nervous. Shifting in his seat
,
he bumbled ahead. “What’s on your mind
,
gooseberry
?”
Meeting his eyes, Amie couldn’t help but blurt it out. “Who is Morcant Hogswillow and why does Underhill hate her so much?”
Alastair, ever gregarious and charming as a champion pro-wrestler, paled and sat back in his seat. He waited, perhaps
in the hopes
milady would forget her question and remove his duty to answer. When it was clear she had no intention of letting the matter rest, he told her what she had already suspected and a few things she wished she didn’t know.
“A wicked sort
,
she is. Perhaps she weren’t always wicked. Bad blood isn’t always passed down. Her family was scant poor, though notorious for breeding particularly powerful and meddlesome children. The old Master took pity on her and invited her to live here those first years. She was plum pink with love over your dad.” His smirk made Amie cringe.
“I’m guessing he didn’t think so much of her?”
Cook laughed. “Oh
,
he thought of her a good deal
,
I suspect. A wicked villainess Morcant may be, yet she was
the fairest maiden in the land.
As to
Underhill
’s trouble with the wench, it be her story
to
tell. Let’s just say Underhill isn’t in the habit of forgetting another’s wrong. Being a servant means you’re the eyes and ears of a house, and sometimes, we see things
we wish we never had.” He watched the Lady as she turned his words over in her head, then added, “Enough gossip, love. Have another biscuit and go visit the garden for a bit, aye? I expect they’re waiting for ye.”
“Who?” Amie lifted her head and crossed her brow. Waving her away with his spoon he began the process of cleaning up, yet his eyes twitched to hers as if he were waiting on something.
“You won’t know until ye go see now, will ye?”
Cool air swirled around her the instant she closed the kitchen door behind her and entered the path, carrying early evening scents with it. Flowers she had yet to learn the names of bent to kiss her hair and arms as she passed. Not even three steps in
and
Amie was immensely glad Cook had convinced her to come. She
had been
half wishing to anyway. Dinner had made her miss eating with Uncle Henry in his cozy study, and she recalled her promise to look after the garden while he was away.
She looked for the gnome statue as she came to the beginning of the hedge and frowned to find the spot bare. A creeping feeling lifted the hairs at the back of her neck, as though she were being watched. But when she turned around only the chilled wind stirring the green underbrush met her sight.
“Come on
,
girl, it’s all in your head. And if everyone else in this family is crazy, one of us has got to stay sane.” Smiling to herself, Amie followed the maze until she reached the circular garden and rested upon the flower
-
studded hilltop. The purple blooms she and Henry had miraculously planted were twice the size they had been the other night.
“Wow
,
” she said as she ran her fingers over the thick petals. Not even her dad’s roses had smelled this sweet. She had the sudden urge to bury herself in the plants, to let them cover her up and fade away. So she did. She watched the clouds pass and relished the kiss of rain on her brow. Eventually she managed to stop missing Uncle Henry and looked down at her damp dress. Her hair would frizz into a wild mess soon if she didn’t dry it, yet she was less inclined to care.
“Not like they don’t have plenty of these costumes anyway.” Shoving the irritating sleeves back to her elbows, she turned her head and watched a vaguely familiar blue cap dart through the hedge and skip over the babbling brook.
“What the heck?” Amie whispered and sat slowly upright. The cap turned again, retreating at the other end of the circle garden. She listened to the fine clipping of shears and moved to follow it. When the blue
-
capped figure did not return, Amie stood up from her plot and tried to find a path not littered by flowers. What she discovered was a trail darker and wilder than any of the others, where the roses grew thicker and less controlled with larger, sharper thorns.
As the sun fell, light within the shade was less clear. But after a week of being mainly cooped up inside the great house she was used to seeing through shadows.
What she found made no logical sense at all, and all her hopes for sanity flew out the window. A squat little man worked about this wild garden, a faded blue cap over his white head and beard. He was shorter than a dwarf or any small person she had ever heard of, three feet tall at the most from where she was standing. When he turned she grabbed her chest and thought she might literally faint. “
The
statue was real?” Hearing her words, the gruff little man met her eye and tilted his head slightly to the right before spreading his opposing hand, in a proper gnome greeting. Amie’s eyes widened and he turned to continue his work, yet she stared dumbly after.
Suddenly she remembered Henry’s formal greeting to the statue and found herself repeating it. Inclining her head to the left and sweeping her right palm to the side
,
she said, “Pleasure and a pinch of nutmeg, ye kin.” The little man looked at her again, only his
deep-set eyes
and pointed nose visible amid his wispy white beard.
There’s no such things as gnomes
,
Amie repeated to herself. Still she refrained from speaking aloud in case the guy suddenly fell down dead. She was surprised when his name came to mind as well. “Periwinkle
,
” she whispered. When he shoved his clippers into his pocket and dug a large satchel from the bushes, he moved beside a wall of tall yellow blossoms and inclined his head for her to follow.
Pushing her way after him through a forest of overhanging vines and flowers above, she saw rows of silvery
-
barked trees had been planted in thick clumps and their roots rose and twisted deeply. Amie was careful not to trip or fall into a patch of thorns barring the path ahead. Yet she somehow found this untamed beauty more appealing than the cultured greenery she and Henry tended. It felt less than safe, something she had grown used to every day in a creepy old mansion-castle-
thing
.
Periwinkle’s garden was older, its flowers sturdier and different from anything else she had seen. Petals hung thicker and glowed with richly violet, indigo, gold, deep red and dusky pink tones. The leaves curled and turned sharper on their stems and everywhere she stepped on a thick carpet of clovers.
Beneath the branches of the trees sat something very like elaborate bird houses. Indeed there were tiny platforms and holes fixed in the gray trunks with thin bridges between them.
Amie’s eyes widened. “Okay, this is
a whole different kind of hobby.
”
Periwinkle appeared inches from her waist when she stepped forward
,
with a hand raised towards her
,
and so Amie froze, waiting
.
Slowly
, his eyes never leaving hers, the grizzled old gardener moved his palm to cover his own mouth and turned his head aside.
Amie was still reeling from the fact the tips in
Henry’s
strange
old book,
What Not to Say to a Gnome,
were actually coming in handy now. Never mind the fact they had referred
to
the customs of gnomes. Amie knew they didn’t exist. Yet as she followed Periwinkle’s gaze she couldn’t help but wonder.
The garden bordered another wall of natural rock with a tiny waterfall
spilling
from its edges into a steady stream, source of the mysterious brook
marking
their path. Set into and among the rocks was the most elaborate dollhouse she had ever seen. Amie watched, transfixed
,
as Periwinkle stepped up a small stool to meet its many rooms and pulled out berries and tiny steaming tea pots from his sack. Carefully the old man set them onto each little table and repeated the process for the next dollhouse.
She had to admit it was an interesting hobby, far less harmful than Underhill’s thing with experimental medicines or Cook’s exploding gooseberry porridge, yet no less eccentric. Every part of the elaborate village was crafted with painstaking detail. Everything was made with pieces of nature, most likely from the little hedged wood around them. It was the sort of thing she would have loved to make when she was a little girl. And it looked very much like something from her father’s stories about Wenderdowne.
Tired of standing so rigidly for so long, Amie sat in the center of the garden and leaned against the silvery trunk of a nearby tree. She watched Periwinkle carry his stool from hous
e to house and wondered how the
little sack managed to hold so many miniature teapots. She wondered if Uncle Henry knew about his garde
ner’s strange hobbies and if i
t was why he kept him on staff, out of pity. Surely no other land owners would tolerate their gardeners being more concerned with faery villages than plants? The more she thought about it, the more she thought it ridiculous her family could be in the horticultural industry. The gardens were too chaotic and strange to cater to a larger market. She wondered most how the poor old man wound up with a name like
Periwinkle
and sincerely hoped for his sake it
was
a nickname.
It was during that time
,
with her mind distrac
ted by such mundane musings,
the most amazing thing happened. Periwinkle turned back to her with one last curious twist of his wide
mouth before unexpectedly disappearing into the brushwood. And not simply moving from one part of the garden to another. He
melded
into the earth and plants he so fastidiously tended.
