“What if your father saw us?” said Sylvie.
“His rooms are on the other side of the castle.”
“Who’s behind those windows?” said Sylvie, gesturing.
“Paying guests,” said Simon.
“We can say we were reenacting the moment Anne Boleyn finally slept with King Henry VIII.”
“But in modern-day dress.”
“A contemporary interpretation.”
“Open your gift!”
“Didn’t I already?”
Simon shook his head, blushing and grinning. Sylvie loved embarrassing him. Simon grabbed the present and used the Land Rover key to slice open the packaging. He handed Sylvie a white cardboard box.
In the box, Sylvie found a glassine slipcase holding a tinybook, which was stitch-bound with silk cord. “A Happy Pair,” she said. “Simon, it can’t be.” The cover was illustrated with two rabbits—one in a suit with a blue bow tie, and one wearing a crimson cape and a white dress, holding a picnic basket. The rabbits were nestled together under an umbrella. “Illustrated by H.B.P.,” whispered Sylvie. “Beatrix Potter.”
“It’s her first published book,” said Simon.
“There’s only one edition.”
“Yes,” said Simon. Sylvie looked at him in amazement. “Don’t they remind you of us?” said Simon. Sylvie nodded, speechless. This tiny book was the most precious thing she’d ever held in her hands. Sylvie, by training, knew how to protect and preserve rare books. But she’d never had one of her own.
“I might get a case,” said Sylvie. “I could bring it to school and show the kids!”
“Whatever you want,” said Simon.
“A happy pair,” said Sylvie.
3
Cleo
Cleo and Danny walked through a long passageway lined on either side by ten-foot-tall shrubs of rhododendrons, their flowers bursting into blooms ranging in color from pale pink and apricot to vibrant fuchsia and blue-lavender. Cleo moved quickly, eager to lie down and take some Advil, but instead of reaching a doorway to the building’s interior, she found herself surrounded by higher and higher hedges, until she had completely lost her bearings. She stopped, reaching a dead end. Cleo looked around. She was trapped inside a box of yew trees with daffodils and crocuses planted at her feet.
“Where the hell are we?” she said.
“I see a sign,” called Danny, who was behind her somewhere.
“What does it say?” yelled Cleo.
“You want me to read the sign?”
“Yes, Danny,” said Cleo, squeezing her eyes shut with exhaustion and irritation.
“ ‘Welcome to the Wilderness,’ ” read Danny. “ ‘Mumberton Castle’s wilderness is an English version of a French “bosquet.” Hardly uncultivated, this wilderness spans a quarter-acre and isplanted with over one million bulbs. Hornbeam hedges, yew, and elm create interstices.’ In-ter-stic-es…I wonder what that even means?”
“Is that all?” said Cleo. “Does the sign say how to get out?”
“Sorry, let me finish: ‘These winding paths, secluded benches, and pleasure gardens make the Wilderness a place where members of the court could find privacy, especially gentlemen seeking a place to entertain ladies in private.’ ”
“Yes…?”
“That’s all,” said Danny. He soon appeared beside Cleo and wrapped his arms around her from behind, kissing her neck.
