by Eliza Tilton
“The queen sent word that she expects an update before the next moon.”
“Then I’ll pray the Lord grants you insight into the key.” I didn’t want to ask more about the tome, so I changed the topic. “Father, have you seen a rose garden on the property?”
“Hmm. I believe there’s one before the windmill. It’s a bit set off the path.”
“Do we have time to stop?”
“Sure.”
I smiled and tapped my thighs. My mind whirled with different images of this garden. “Why would there be a garden near the mill and not the house?”
“I’m not sure, sweetie. Mr. Garrison owned a lot of land, about ninety-six acres. I know the land by the house isn’t good soil for planting. That’s why the mill is down the road.”
Father pulled the reins right, and the horses trotted onto a dirt road. It curved into the hills, and in the distance, the top of the giant wheel on the mill spun into the water. Far from the grime of London, and filled with fresh air, Port Tablo was a town I could grow old in. The mountain views alone were enough to make my heart swoon.
The horses slowed, and a man outside with a rake tipped his hat at us.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning, Mr. Kerup.” Father stepped out and around to my side to help me down. “Do you know where the gardens are? My daughter would like to see them.”
“Sure. Right past the main house. I’ll show you.”
My father and the man walked in front of me, talking about the land and the Garrisons. A robin flew by and perched on the wooden fence surrounding the mill. The green scenery and clear, rushing water promised a relaxing afternoon. My chest tightened the closer we came to the high stone wall.
“Mrs. Garrison wanted a place near the river where she could paint and plant. She came here every day, pruned the roses herself.”
A black wrought iron gate led into the garden. Father stepped aside to let me walk in first. Behind the massive gray brick walls lay a secluded paradise, ripe with pink azaleas, begonias, and dahlias representing all the morning colors of the sun. A white greenhouse sat at the far end of the enclosure, surrounded by wild beauty.
“The missus came here almost every day,” the caretaker said as we walked past rows of geraniums. “We tended all the flowers and trimmed the bushes, but only she tended the greenhouse.”
“Why?” I asked.
He paused, and I wondered if he held back a nugget of truth about the garden. His eyes shined as if recalling a fond memory of her. “She loved them roses. She truly believed that roses strengthened the heart . . . and they were just special to her. It’ll be nice to see someone else enjoy them.”
“Why don’t you go ahead?” Father put a hand on my shoulder. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Kerup about the mill.”
With eager hands, I pulled open the door to the greenhouse, admiring the cotton-white framing holding the glass structure together like a massive tent. Sunlight glinted off the panes, creating a rainbow of colors inside.
A black-and-orange tabby walked over and rubbed against my ankle.
I squatted and ran my fingers across his silky coat. “Hello. Are you protecting these precious flowers?”
The cat meowed, begging to be scratched more. Gently, I scooped the tabby into my arms where he settled into my grasp and purred.
“Well, aren’t you a sweetie?” I scratched his head and walked deeper inside.
Pink damask roses lined the beds to the right, offset with sunny-yellow Provence roses. Sweet aroma bloomed in the air, igniting the atmosphere with the beauty of summer. The greenhouse couldn’t compare to the one in Kew Gardens where I’d spent many days learning of perennials and annuals and all the magnificent flowers and plants that made up our world.
The last time I’d gone to Kew Gardens was the day the cultists kidnapped me. A twinge of fear pained my chest, and I hugged the tabby. To this day, I still didn’t know why they took me. What made me so special that they believed carving me like a Sunday meal and serving me on a platter to their god would empower them? Father said it could’ve been any girl. I just happened to be alone.
But I didn’t believe him.
I refused to ruin this moment, not when there was so much I wanted to learn about this place and Mrs. Garrison.
Following the mosaic stone, I made my way around the beds of roses, glancing at a lovely hawthorn tree and its cherry-red bulbs. The path imbedded into the ground took me to the north end of the greenhouse where there existed a circular extension. The tabby jumped out of my arms and pounced onto the wicker swing in the corner. Black Magic roses in terracotta pots adorned the ornate iron desk opposite the swing.
This may be where she spent her time.
A black chair with a red, plump cushion was in front of the desk. I sat on the chair, imagining Mrs. Garrison in this quiet place, admiring her den of flowers. Out of all the roses in the Rosa genus, Black Magic were my favorite. I reached out to the blossom arching toward me and cupped the petals, bringing it closer to my nose.
Inhaling the sweet aroma, I grazed two of my fingers on the velvety petals. When I moved my hand, a thorn jabbed me.
“Ouch!” I recoiled from the stem and brought my thumb to my mouth.
I’d been pricked before, but nothing that made me bleed and hurt this much. With my thumb throbbing, I hummed the last song Mother and I had practiced together. With each note, the pain ebbed away. The joy of the song and this place filled my heart with content.
Sunlight shone into this space and reflected rainbows off a dangling crystal chime hanging in the corner. I stood to inspect the beautiful crystals, but my height didn’t help me reach them. I wiggled my way between the swing and another pot of roses, making sure to not be caught in their piercing grasp. With a hand held high, I reached, but missed the bottoms of the chimes, so I used a tiny upside down terracotta pot to extend myself upward. As soon as my feet left the ground, the pot cracked and sent me crashing to the floor.
The tabby scampered off the swing in a rush.
“Sorry!” I said as he dashed away into the main area of the greenhouse. “Ugh. What a mess.” I pushed the lace of my dress aside and picked up the broken terracotta.
Underneath one of the pieces hid a square object wrapped in a black velvet cloth. I took the enveloped item, my heart doing a strange pitter patter.
What is this?
I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone else was nearby. No one but the tabby. He meowed, returned to the alcove, and pounced onto the cushioned swing. Convinced I was alone, I placed the mysterious item in my lap. Gazing over at the tabby, I wondered if the cat knew anything about this object. The tabby yawned, giving me no indication he knew anything other than how soft that cushion was.
I unwrapped the velvet, revealing a leather-bound book tied with a black string. I unwound the string and opened the book.
August 17th, 1863
I’ve found the perfect spot for the roses Harold brought back from London. Now that the greenhouse is complete, I can spend my days here instead of the house. Harold doesn’t understand. It isn’t that I don’t love the house he built, but something stirs in that home. Something I can’t explain. I think
“Arabella!” My father’s deep voice made me jump and drop the diary in my lap.
“Back here, Father!” I shoved the diary under the swing cushion. I’d come back another day to take the journal home. I had nothing to keep it in while going into town.
I stood and dusted the dirt off my clothes.
“Ahh, there you there.” Father whistled. “Well, isn’t this something.”
His blue eyes twinkled in the light.
“Is it time to go already? I like it here.” I ran under the arm he had outstretched.
He turned and we strolled away from the alcove, glancing around at all the flower beds with a smile. “It does have a
special aura. Your mother would like it.”
“Yes, we should come again tomorrow.”
The caretaker met us outside the greenhouse and tipped his hat in our direction.
“I’m sorry, sir.” I bowed my head a bit. “I broke a pot near the swing.”
“No worries, miss. I’m just glad to see someone else enjoying the flowers.”
Father asked other questions about the greenhouse and the people who tended it, the whole while my thoughts lingering on the hidden leather-bound book and the secrets within.
Chapter 7
Leo
Summer nights by the hills had always reminded me of the fancy lemonade Momma made and chasing fireflies. Now that my sister, Francesca, was of age, those nights were spent gallivanting around with potential suitors who would whisk her away and give us some good fortune. Francesca was a sweet girl, and she’d marry well, if my parents didn’t cart her off to the sleazy mine owner, Mr. Owens.
Someone would offer her what I couldn’t offer anybody, especially Arabella.
One of the goats bleated, and I ducked behind the tree, not wanting the farmer to see me. Goat blood. What’s Shifty need that for anyway?
My gut twisted something awful, and I held in the urge to be sick on this tree. Panicking would do me no good. I reminded myself that with Shifty free-roaming in Arabella’s home, I had no choice but to listen to him.
Another goat bleated and I crouched, hiding behind the trunk as Mr. Cricket patted one of the animals on the head before shuffling inside his home. I wiped my hands on my pants and then slipped the dagger and glass jar out of my satchel.
I’d stolen a piece of rye bread with a little butter on it to keep the goat busy while I politely sliced open his side. When the single light in Mr. Cricket’s blew out, I pulled out the treat.
“Hello, friend.” A piece of the rye crumbled off and fell to the grass. The goat nudged me aside and licked that bit right up.
With my left arm, I slinked under his neck and showed him the rye while keeping a good grip against his body. He leaned into me, reaching for the bread.
I’d never hurt an animal in my entire life. I didn’t even mind the big lanky spiders that crawled around the mines.
You know what Shifty is capable of. You can’t let him hurt or torment Arabella.
I held the goat tight with one arm and sliced his side with the other. He bleated and kicked his back legs. I quickly held the jar to the wound and collected a few drops of blood. The goat screeched, and the nearby goats joined him.
They were making too much noise. I had to hurry.
Another drop of blood slipped into the jar.
The light went on inside Mr. Cricket’s. Any minute, he’d come out to check on his herd.
Two more drops. Is it enough? I don’t know.
My heart pounded with fear.
“Who’s there?” Mr. Cricket yelled, cocking his rifle.
The goat bucked, and I rolled to the side before its hooves slammed into me. My face landed in the mud, and then I scrambled to my feet. Something kicked from behind, pushing me back into the dirt. My vision swayed and the jar fell from my hand. I crawled forward to grab the jar and my fingers grazed the smooth glass.
A gunshot blasted into the sky, and I covered my head, panicking the next would be a direct hit.
I glanced back to check if Mr. Cricket had seen me, and a goat kicked my face. My vision blinked, and wetness dripped from my nose. I pulled myself up and sprinted into the forest, leaving the jar behind.
Another gunshot. I was lucky Mr. Cricket couldn’t see more than twenty feet away, otherwise I’d still be lying in the dirt.
I ran down the hill and toward the pond near my home. My face throbbed, and my stomach rumbled with queasiness. Each breath hurt, and sweat dripped into my eyes and on my face, mixing with the blood from my cut lip. I turned on the path to my house and headed straight to the water.
I dove in, scaring away the bullfrogs and fish. As I breached the surface, I exhaled and washed my face. I touched my nose, still intact, but my upper lip had swollen. Once the water cooled me off, I waded over to the side to pull myself onto the grass.
“That went well,” I said to myself.
Lying on my back, I stared at the sky, wondering what to do. The jar was somewhere in that field, probably stomped to pieces, and there weren’t any other goats close enough to get the blood.
My muscles ached and I was tired, soaked.
Knowing nothing would happen tonight, I stood to head home.
It’ll be all right. Shifty needs me. One day more won’t hurt. I’ll tell him what happened.
I opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. Momma pounded dough on the table. Wisps of black hair fell around her face and out of her bun. Her biceps flexed as she kneaded the dough, twisting it. She glanced up.
“And what trouble have you gotten yourself into at this hour?” Her lip curved into a smirk.
“Knocked myself on a rock when I dove into the pond.”
She shook her head. “Clean yourself up. I’ll warm some milk, and you can go to sleep. You have a few hours before you need to go to town.”
I shuffled to the bathroom, thinking of my good ole job at the post. Everyone in town thought me some sort of savant because I learned to read on my own—though, no one knew Shifty had taught me. Momma and Pa were so darn proud. Momma talked about the good Lord and how I would be the first Azzara to get proper schooling.
To bring in money, I worked at the post as a transcriber. People came in wanting to send letters out. They’d tell me what they wanted to say, and I’d write their request and mail it. The job wasn’t interesting work, but every Friday I got four dollars and eighty cents, and Momma always took one dollar and put it in a savings for me. She needed that money more than me, but she always insisted that one day I would need to leave the port and make my own way.
I took the pitcher from the floor and poured some water into the basin to wash the sticky pond scum off my face. I examined myself in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. We couldn’t afford one of them nice oval mirrors with the fancy borders. One day we would. If I could learn anything from Shifty, it would be how to make enough money to get my pa out of the mines.
Besides a bit of a fat lip and a bruise by my mouth, nothing else had broken.
I went back to the kitchen where Pa stood behind Momma, arms wrapped around her waist, whispering in her ear. He smiled at me.
“Your momma said you need some swimming lessons.”
I smiled and scratched my head. “I don’t know about all that. I think I’ll stick to going toes first in the pond.”
He laughed, and his deep voice filled the kitchen. Momma patted his hand, and he kissed her cheek. She giggled, and I wrinkled my nose at their overly affectionate interaction.
“What’s with you two?”
“Should we tell him?” Pa tilted his head in my direction. His brown eyes sparkled, his smile brighter than I’d seen in a long time.
“What’s going on?” I sat at the table and took the mug Momma filled with milk. The warm liquid soothed my throat, and every muscle in my back relaxed.
“We’re adding to the family,” Momma said with a smile.
“You’re pregnant?”
Momma’s giggle and the goofy smile on Pa said it all.
I ran over to them, and they hugged me. Momma lost the last baby a few years back, and she’d never seemed to be the same. Having a baby was both terrifying and exciting, but it’s what she wanted. She always talked about having a house full of rowdy children.
Momma sniffled, and I knew they were happy tears.
“We are a blessed family, and I couldn’t be happier.” Pa squeezed me in his big arms, and I wanted to believe we were. I wanted to believe that we were going to rise out of this place and find somewh
ere safer.
I’d thought about telling Pa about Shifty, but even if Pa did believe me, everyone would think we were both crazy with talk of demons. We needed the money, and if he lost his job, we would suffer. Nothing mattered more than my family. With a new baby on the way, I had to get him out. Each day the miners worked, they ran the risk of another explosion or cave in. Mr. Owens forced them to dig deeper and deeper in search of gemstones, but there were none. Everyone knew coal mines didn’t have gemstones, but after Mr. Garrison found one, all of the port had high hopes there’d be more. There had already been five explosions in the last three years. Every time one happened, we all feared the worst. Shifty promised he’d keep Pa safe for me.
So I would do what Shifty wanted, for now.
Chapter 8
Leo
Even though the sun was out, shining all bright, my stomach knotted something vicious. Shifty needed me, Lord only knew why, but ticking him off never ended well. I’d failed whatever errand he had me running. Surely, he’d be angry. An angry demon never did nobody any good, especially me.
Standing behind the desk, I waited for my boss, Mr. Juniper, to hand me the deliveries. Normally, I wrote letters for the customers, but I didn’t think I’d be able to sit still today.
“Here’s the delivery.” Mr. Juniper dumped a satchel on the table. “These are for the folks in town.”
“Yes, sir.” I sifted through the bag, only to find a few letters and one brown package. I heaved the satchel over my shoulder and headed out the door.
A carriage passed by me on the crowded street. With summer in full bloom, the port was busy as ever, bringing fresh supplies from the mainland. Women with fancy parasols, and too many men in bowler hats shopped the stores and strolled the main street.
I took out the package and read the address label.
Mr. George Barnum.
Apothecary.
I shoved the package back in the satchel and headed across town to Mr. Barnum’s shop. Out of all the stores in the port, the old apothecary had the most interesting items. I tended to stay away due to the funny smell from all those tinctures and soaps, but there were some real weird tonics, like the distilled viper venom and the extra strength aspirin that came in this giant glass carafe. Everything for every ailment.
