“Something that I can talk to,” I said, staring down at her bruised hands instead, “so I can tell you how much of an idiot you are.”
“I’mneveran idiot. I’m always right,” she said smartly. “I’ll think of something. And you’ll have to promise me you’ll take me everywhere you go.”
“Harrie.”
“Promise?”
No, I wanted to reply,because you’re not going anywhere. But we both knew, deep down, that she was. She was going somewhere I couldn’t reach. “Fine,” I forced out, the word tasting like the air smelled—disinfected and sterile. “I promise.”
She’d giggled, the bitch, and I should’ve known then she was plotting one final grand scheme. For a romantic, she definitely saddled me with something utterly ridiculous in the end. No locket, no earrings, no beautiful vial of gray dust—
No.
Best friends were never so poetic.
Behind me, something rattled.
Startled, I looked over my shoulder. There was only the outside of the Hedges.
Another gust of wind cut through the wildflowers, plucking up petals and spinning them up into the sky—along with my sun hat. I gasped, trying to catch it, but my hat flew up into the sky and disappeared behind the far stone wall of the garden.
A wall that had a door tucked into it.
A blue door.
Like winter frost across a windowpane, a chill crept down my spine. There it was, exactly where it shouldn’t have been. For a second I thought that maybe I was mistaken, but it was the same rusted door handle. The same soft blue paint. The same door. The one that was supposed to be in the Hedges.
It shouldn’t be, I told myself, even as I crossed the flowers to it and settled my hand on the door handle.
It couldn’t be, I revised as the door slid open.
It can’t be, I thought as I pushed it wide.
9
erklärungsnot
Over the last month, I’d built a map in my head. I knew Lilymoor as well as anyone else who worked here. I knew where gardens met, and the hidden spaces behind them, and on the other side of this wall should be the Rose Court, a circular garden filled with all different kinds and colors of roses.
And yet on the other side of the door stood the abandoned garden.
It looked exactly as it had yesterday: unchanging and half formed, like an idea written on a Post-it note and forgotten behind a desk. The old willow still sat on the far end, its boughs drooping low like dramatic curtains on a stage. The gazebo was still half built, the seed packets scattered from the woven basket.
Impossible.
My gaze settled on a familiar man sitting on a stone bench against the wall, his head in his hands. He looked like a forlorn Grecian statue, coppery hair with an effortless curl obscuring his face. He still wore the same button-down charcoal shirt and black trousers, his suit jacket now folded neatly on the bench beside him.
“You again?” I mumbled, more to myself than to him.
Startled at my voice, he picked his head up out of his hands. His confused gaze found me, and he jerked to his feet. “You,” he echoed, almost as surprised as I was. His voice was broken and hoarse, as if he’d either been using it a lot or hadn’t at all. “Thank god, it’syou.”
Well, that was certainly different from yesterday. “Um, hi—”
“I’ve been shouting for atleasthalf an hour!” he cried, waving his arms about. “Couldn’t you hear me?”
I blinked, startled at the sudden accusation. “No?”
Annoyance pinched his face, making the cobalt of his eyes go the color of a storm off the coast. He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “You’re not funny.”
