We followed the passage to the door at its far end. The shelves continued almost to the threshold, growing older and dustier as we went. Some of the boxes bore names; others carried little carved signs. One had a painted picture of a yellow bird. Another showed a house with three chimneys. A third was marked simply with a question mark.
Merrick carried the small box he had found.
At the door, Jonas stopped.
“Before we go in,” he said, “there is something you should understand.”
Rowan sighed.
“I was afraid of that.”
Jonas smiled.
“The house isn't underground in quite the way you might imagine. The hill is above it, certainly, but the house has its own ground. Its own weather, sometimes.”
“Does it rain indoors?” Rowan asked.
“Only when it needs to.”
“That seems an unnecessary complication.”
Jonas opened the door.
Beyond lay a broad stone stairway descending between walls covered in moss. A cool, earthy smell rose from below, mixed with the scent of woodsmoke. At the bottom, a pale light illuminated an arched entrance.
We descended.
The house was larger than it had any right to be. Its walls were built of pale stone, with heavy timber beams supporting a high ceiling. There were windows, though no obvious outside could be seen through them. One looked onto a green hillside; another showed a stand of birch trees beneath a grey sky. A third revealed a garden in full summer, with roses climbing a wall.
In the middle of the entrance hall stood a broad wooden table. On it lay a bowl of pears, a jug of water, and a little vase containing three white flowers.
A fire burned in the hearth.
Rowan looked around approvingly.
“Now this is more like it.”
A woman came from a doorway carrying a tray. She was tall, with dark hair streaked with grey, and wore a long blue dress.
“Jonas,” she said. “You've brought visitors.”
“I have.”
“And Merrick.”
She looked at him with a quiet smile.
“I wondered when you would come back.”
Merrick seemed to recognise her, though he could not quite place her.
“Have we met?”
“Many times. But not always here.”
She set down the tray.
“My name is Isobel. I look after the house.”
She offered us tea, then led us into a sitting room with deep chairs and a wide window. The view beyond it was of a valley we did not recognise. A narrow river wound between fields, and a line of dark hills stood in the distance.
“Where are we?” Nell asked.
“In the house,” Isobel replied.
Nell considered this and nodded.
Merrick had placed his little box on the table. Isobel glanced at it.
“Ah. You've found the things you left.”
“Some of them.”
“There are others.”
“Where?”
“Here and there.”
She said it so matter-of-factly that I suspected she regarded this as a perfectly reasonable arrangement.
Jonas sat beside the fire.
“The house has been waiting for you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because there is something you need to see.”
Isobel rose and crossed the room to a tall cabinet. She opened its doors and removed a large book, bound in dark green leather. Its cover was unmarked, but the edges were worn.
She placed it before Merrick.
“This belonged to the first gardener.”
Merrick opened it.
The pages were filled with drawings of plants, trees, roots, streams and gardens. Some were recognisable; others seemed to show things that could not possibly grow. There were trees whose branches bore little houses, flowers with roots reaching into the sky, and a plant whose leaves resembled folded maps.
Near the middle of the book was a drawing of the underground garden.
Beneath it, in a hand we recognised as Rose's, were the words:
The garden beneath the hill is not where things are kept. It is where they learn what they may become.
Merrick turned the page.
There was a drawing of a young boy standing beneath a tree, holding a wooden bird.
He looked very much like Merrick.
But beside him stood a second figure, a woman with silver hair and a pale yellow coat.
Liora leaned forward.
“That isn't me,” she said.
“No,” Merrick replied.
He looked at the drawing again.
“I think I know her.”
Isobel closed the book gently.
“Then perhaps we should visit the room where she used to work.”
She led us through a narrow corridor and down three shallow steps. At the end stood a small door painted white. On it was a carved pattern of three leaves around a circle.
Merrick took the wooden key from his pocket.
He held it against the door, but did not insert it.
“Is this the door?” he asked.
Isobel nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked at the key, then at the door.
“What is behind it?”
Isobel smiled.
“Something that has been growing for a very long time.”
She left us there.
For a while, nobody spoke.
Then Rowan said, very quietly, “Well, I suppose we'd better see.”
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