“Which one is your apartment?”
My throat hurts too much, and I start to cough. It feels like I’ve swallowed wood chippings.
“Wait, I’ll find Osian. He’ll know.”
No, not him!
On the other hand, I’m not in a position to do anything other than stand and wait in the hot sun.
Ten minutes later, I see him emerge from the terrace doors carrying a gardening bag – not mine. He shades his eyes with a hand and scans left to right, but I’m among big bushes, he probably can’t see me.
“Evie?” he bellows. “Where are you? Wave!”
I lift an arm and rise up on my toes, causing one of the thorny branches to scratch me very badly.
His head snaps in my direction and he waves back before sprinting down the stairs.
It takes him a while to work his way through the worst of the wilderness. Something wet starts to trickle down my foot. I look down and yep, it’s blood because I seem to be wearing a bramble like an ankle bracelet. My eyes land on a dark narrow edge, like a line in the ground. A thin dark edge, like slates standing up on their side – they stick out of the ground in a straight line running away from me.
As if someone has buried a house sideways and the edge of the roof is all that sticks out.
This is so out of place. I can’t understand why it would be here. Unless…
Unless the garden wanted me to see this. I’d been too tired and anxious to get home and would have never seen this. And once inside, I’d have just called the tractor.
Did I say this garden has a will of its own? It’s never going to tamely surrender to any Tom, Dick or Harry with a shovel. It demands respect.
“You fight dirty, don’t you?” I can’t help saying out loud.
“Who are you talking to?” Osian asks from a few feet away. He cuts through to me at last and stops, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his forehead.
He has large cutters in his hand. One quick look at me and he holds up a hand. “Stay still.”
“Really?” I rasp through a dry throat. “Because I was about to go to travelling. What do think? Glasgow? York? I hear Grimsby’s lovely this time of year.”
His eyes flick to me, his expression amused, then he notices the scratch on my face. “Shit, this is bad,” he says, tugging at the branch that’s caught in my hair. Then he looks down at my clothes caught on thorns, and at my feet in a tangle of briars holding me prisoner.
He works quickly and effectively. In no time at all, he’s trimmed back everything within a circle around me.
“These must be yours.” He hands me my lost cutters. “Don’t touch your hair – there’s a nasty vine stuck in it. I’ll need to get you inside and work with smaller secateurs. And you’re bleeding.” He places a hand in the small of my back and guides me carefully back to the path he seems to have cut to reach me.
“Just a sec.” I take a couple of steps sideways and bend to check the slate. Now that Osian’s made a bit of room, I can squat all the way down for a better look.
“Careful,” he says. “You don’t want to get your wounds dirty.”
Bending my head down, I peer under the growth. It’s just as I suspected: the line of slates runs a long way; the end isn’t even visible from here.
“Did you lose something?”
“I’ve found something.” I can’t help grinning.
“Your credit cards?”
“Tell you when my throat feels better.”
Without a word, Osian helps me all the way back to the house.
Chapter Fifteen
