The rain began during breakfast.
It came softly at first, touching the roof above the kitchen and gathering on the leaves outside. Eira looked through the window, then rose to put another log on the fire.
“It will rain for most of the morning,” she said. “The garden likes it.”
“Does it?” Nell asked.
“Some gardens do. Others prefer sunshine. This one has never been particularly fond of being told what to prefer.”
Rowan buttered another slice of bread. “I know a few people like that.”
Eira laughed and brought a small jar from the cupboard. Inside were dark red preserves, almost the colour of autumn leaves.
“These came from the garden I lived in before this one.”
Merrick looked up. “The garden beyond the water?”
“Yes. The one with the stone house and the old tree.”
She set the jar on the table.
“I haven't made these for years. The tree gave fruit only when it rained, and then not every time. You had to be there when it was ready. If you came the following day, there was nothing left but the smell.”
“What kind of fruit?” Nell asked.
Eira thought about it.
“Something between a plum and a pear, perhaps. Though I never found a name for it. The skin was dark, and the flesh was pale. It tasted different depending on who ate it.”
Rowan stopped with his knife halfway to the bread.
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It was,” Eira agreed. “But rather good.”
After breakfast she took us to the far end of her garden, beyond the little stone building. The rain had thickened, and the stream was running faster. She led us through a narrow gate in the wall and down a path bordered by tall grasses.
At its end stood a small wooden shelter. Inside were a bench, a stack of dry kindling and an old walking stick.
Eira picked up the stick.
“I left this here,” she said. “I used it when I went to the other garden.”
“Can we go there?” Nell asked.
“Not today.”
Nell looked disappointed.
“But I can show you where I used to cross the water.”
We followed her along the stream until it widened into a quiet pool. A line of flat stones crossed the water, though several were submerged. On the far bank stood a tree with a low, spreading crown. It was not the tree Eira had described, but it had the same old, patient appearance.
She rested the walking stick against it.
“There used to be a bridge here,” she said. “A little wooden one. I crossed it every morning.”
“What happened to it?” Rowan asked.
“It went away.”
“Did it fall down?”
“No. It went away.”
Rowan considered this, then nodded as if he had encountered a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Eira pointed across the pool. Through the rain, the far bank seemed to extend into a meadow. Beyond it, a line of trees stood against the dark hills.
“The house was somewhere beyond those trees. It had a stone chimney, green shutters and a blue door. There was a pear tree beside the kitchen window. And the old tree stood behind the house, so large that its branches covered most of the garden.”
“Why did you leave?” Merrick asked.
Eira was quiet for a while.
“The garden began to change. Not suddenly. The paths became longer, and the rooms in the house seemed to belong to different seasons. One morning I went out to pick fruit and found the old tree flowering. It was winter. The next morning, the flowers had become small green leaves. Then the house began to feel as though it were waiting for someone.”
“Someone in particular?” Nell asked.
“I thought so. But I never discovered who.”
She looked across the water.
“I had lived there a long time. I thought I knew every part of it. Then one morning I found a door in the garden wall. I had never seen it before. It opened onto a path that led away from the house, and I knew that if I followed it, I would not return in quite the same way.”
“Did you follow it?” Merrick asked.
“Yes.”
“And did you find this garden?”
Eira smiled.
“Not immediately. I spent some time in a place with a great many steps and very little rain. Then I came here.”
We stood listening to the water.
“Do you miss it?” Nell asked.
“Sometimes. I miss the kitchen window in the afternoon, and the sound of rain on the stone roof. I miss the old tree. But I don't think the garden has lost me, and I haven't lost it.”
She picked up her walking stick.
“Perhaps, one day, we shall visit again.”
On the way back, Merrick stopped beside the pool. Something pale was visible beneath the water, caught between two stones.
He crouched and reached down. It was a small, smooth stone, marked with a silver line that curved into the shape of a leaf.
Eira looked at it.
“I don't remember that.”
Merrick turned it over. On the other side was a tiny carving of a door.
“Perhaps it belongs to the garden you left,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Eira replied.
She took the stone and slipped it into her pocket.
By the time we reached the house, the rain had stopped. The little feathered creature was waiting on the windowsill, and the brass bell in the stone building gave a faint sound as we passed.
Eira glanced back.
“No,” she said gently. “Not yet.”
Then she opened the kitchen door, and the smell of warm bread came out to meet us.
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