57. The Room Where Things Began

Merrick stood before the white door, turning the little wooden key between his fingers.

The carved leaves around the circle were almost identical to those on the key's handle. He looked at the others, then slipped the key into the lock.

It turned with a soft click.

The door opened inwards.

We found ourselves in a long, low room with a sloping ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves, but these held no books or boxes. Instead, there were hundreds of little clay pots, arranged in careful rows. Some contained soil, others small stones, and a few held nothing at all.

At the far end stood a broad wooden workbench beneath a window. Sunlight fell across it, though the view beyond showed a night sky filled with stars.

Merrick went straight to the bench.

There were gardening tools, a small watering can, a pair of worn gloves and a shallow wooden tray. Beside them lay a notebook, its pages covered in delicate handwriting.

He opened it.

The first page contained a list:

Things that grow where they are planted.

Things that grow where they are needed.

Things that grow because they have been remembered.

Beneath the list was a drawing of a young tree with its roots spreading upwards into the air.

Merrick turned the page.

There were more drawings. A tree growing through the roof of a house. A flower opening beneath the surface of a pond. A little garden enclosed within the hollow of an old tree.

Then, on the next page, a drawing of the underground garden, with the three upside-down trees.

And beside them stood the woman in the pale yellow coat.

Merrick touched the page.

“It's her.”

Liora came closer.

“Do you remember her now?”

“Not quite.”

He studied the drawing.

“She was here when I was small. I think she showed me how to plant something.”

He turned another page.

A small pressed flower had been placed between the leaves. It was pale blue, with a tiny golden centre. Beneath it was a sentence:

The first garden was not planted. It was found.

“Who wrote this?” Nell asked.

Merrick examined the handwriting.

“I don't know.”

At the bottom of the page was a name, written very faintly.

Aveline.

Isobel had returned and was standing quietly in the doorway.

“Do you know her?” Merrick asked.

“Yes.”

“Who was she?”

Isobel came into the room and looked at the notebook.

“She was the first gardener here. Or at least, the first person we know of who called herself that.”

“Where is she now?”

Isobel looked towards the window.

“Somewhere the garden has not yet reached.”

Rowan examined the shelves.

“And all these pots?”

“Things that haven't been planted yet.”

He peered into one.

“That's an empty pot.”

“Yes.”

“What is it waiting for?”

Isobel smiled.

“Something to put in it.”

Rowan looked unconvinced.

“Most pots manage that without assistance.”

“Perhaps.”

Merrick had found something else beneath the notebook: a small wooden drawer, built into the workbench. Inside lay three packets of seeds, each labelled in the same hand.

The first said For the garden that remembers.

The second said For the garden that has not yet been found.

The third bore no label at all.

He picked up the unmarked packet.

It was warm.

“May I open it?” he asked.

Isobel nodded.

He untied the little string and tipped the contents into his palm.

There was only one seed, round and pale, with a tiny dark mark along its side.

Merrick held it up to the light.

For a moment, the seed seemed to contain a reflection of the room, but not as it was now. The workbench was new, the shelves were empty, and a young woman with silver hair stood at the window, looking out towards a garden we had never seen.

Then the reflection changed.

The woman turned towards us.

She smiled.

And behind her, in the garden, a little boy was planting a wooden bird beneath a tree.

Merrick closed his hand.

“I remember,” he whispered.

Isobel said nothing.

He looked at the notebook again.

“Where did Aveline go?”

“Through the garden,” said Isobel.

“Which garden?”

“The first one.”

Merrick looked towards the door.

“Can we find it?”

Isobel smiled.

“I think it has been waiting for you to ask.”

She took the seed from his hand and placed it carefully in the empty pot on the workbench.

Then she poured a little water into it.

Nothing happened.

We waited.

The sunlight shifted across the table. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck once.

And from the empty pot came the faintest sound of running water.