The next morning, the innkeeper found the flower waiting for him.
It stood in its little glass bottle on the windowsill of the garden room. Its white petals had opened further during the night, but it was not the flower's appearance that made him stop.
It was facing the wrong way.
The stem had not turned. The bottle had not moved. Yet the flower's open face was directed towards the wall, where the morning light could not reach it.
He drew the curtains aside.
The wall was ordinary enough: pale plaster, a narrow shelf, and a small framed picture of the garden outside the inn. He had hung the picture himself many years ago. It showed the herb beds, the old pear tree, and the low stone wall at the far end.
He was about to leave when he noticed that the picture had changed.
The pear tree was still there, but beyond the wall stood a small wooden gate. He did not remember a gate in the garden.
He took the picture down.
On its back, in handwriting he recognised but could not place, were the words:
When the flower turns, follow the garden.
He carried the picture downstairs.
The cook was kneading dough.
“Have you put a gate in the garden?” he asked.
“No.”
“Have you moved the picture in the garden room?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen a gate at the far end of the garden?”
The cook stopped kneading.
“Which garden?”
He looked at her.
“The one behind the inn.”
“Oh. That garden.”
She returned to her dough.
“I wouldn't go through the gate before breakfast.”
“Why not?”
“Because the garden is different before breakfast.”
He waited.
“Is it different after breakfast?”
“Usually.”
This seemed to be all she intended to say.
At breakfast, Rowan was already at the table, repairing the handle of a basket. Mrs Bell had brought a jar of honey, and Nell was drawing a picture of a house with an unusually large number of windows.
The innkeeper showed them the picture.
Rowan examined it.
“That's not our garden.”
“It appears to be.”
“Then somebody has been doing work without telling me.”
Mrs Bell leaned closer.
“Ah,” she said.
“You know the gate?”
“I know a gate.”
“Is it the same one?”
“That depends on whether it is the one you mean.”
Rowan sighed.
“I'm beginning to think this valley has too many gates.”
Nell looked up from her drawing.
“Not enough doors,” she said.
Nobody asked her to explain.
After breakfast, we went into the garden.
The herb beds were wet with dew. The pear tree stood beside the wall, its branches casting long shadows across the grass. There was no gate.
The innkeeper looked at the picture again.
“Perhaps it only appears from the room.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs Bell.
She walked towards the pear tree and stopped beside the wall.
“Here.”
At first I saw nothing unusual. Then the shadow of one of the branches moved, although there was no wind. A narrow vertical line appeared in the stonework, followed by the faint outline of a wooden frame.
The gate emerged slowly, as though it had been waiting for us to notice it.
It was small, made of weathered oak, with a simple iron latch. Beyond it lay a path between trees.
Rowan inspected the hinges.
“Not very well made.”
“Do you think you could improve them?” I asked.
“Certainly.”
“Would you?”
He considered the question.
“Not until I know where it goes.”
The innkeeper reached for the latch, then stopped.
The little white flower, still in its bottle upstairs, had been facing the wall. We could not see it from here, but somehow I thought of it turning towards the gate.
Mrs Bell touched the wood.
“This wasn't here when I last visited.”
“When was that?” asked the innkeeper.
She smiled.
“Before you left.”
He looked at her, but she had already stepped back.
Nell slipped through the opening.
“Wait,” Rowan called.
But she was already on the other side.
We followed.
The path led into a small garden enclosed by trees. It was not the inn's garden, although the pear tree stood there too, much older and with a hollow in its trunk. There were beds of herbs, a stone basin, and a low wooden bench beneath a hazel tree.
At the far end stood a second gate.
Beyond it, we could see the roof of a house.
Not Mara's house. Not the red-door house. This one had a pale roof and green shutters, and smoke rose from a chimney.
The innkeeper stared at it.
“I know that house,” he said.
Mrs Bell turned towards him.
“Do you?”
“I think I used to.”
Nell had reached the second gate. She was looking through the bars.
“Someone's coming,” she said.
A figure appeared in the garden beyond. A woman carrying a basket, wearing a dark blue coat.
She stopped when she saw us.
Then she lifted one hand in greeting.
The innkeeper took a step forward.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said. “But I remember waiting for her.”
The woman put down her basket and began to open the gate.
Behind us, the little wooden gate in the inn's wall stood open.
And somewhere in the garden room, a flower turned towards the light.
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