66. The Man Who Had Mislaid the Key

Maelin moved quickly between the shelves, though she carried the lantern as steadily as if she were walking through her own kitchen.

The passage beyond the boxes was narrower than the chamber we had left. Wooden shelves lined its walls, holding jars, folded cloths, small tools and objects whose purposes were not immediately apparent. There were bundles of dried herbs, a pair of children's shoes, a cracked porcelain cup and, rather incongruously, a brass candlestick shaped like a fish.

At the end of the passage, a man was standing beside a small wooden door.

He was short and broad, with a round face, a fringe of white hair and a brown coat that looked as though it had once belonged to someone taller. He was searching his pockets.

“Maelin,” he said, with considerable relief. “Have you seen my key?”

“No, Tovin.”

“Are you sure?”

“I've looked.”

“You might have looked in the wrong place.”

Maelin sighed.

“This is Tovin,” she said to us. “He lives in the house at the foot of the eastern hill.”

“Sometimes,” Tovin added.

“And he has been looking for his key.”

“For a long time,” he said. “Though not continuously. I have other things to do.”

Rowan looked at the little wooden door.

“Is that what it opens?”

Tovin turned.

“That is what I should like to find out.”

He tried the handle. The door did not move.

“Have you tried pushing?” Nell asked.

“Of course.”

“Pulling?”

“Obviously.”

“Perhaps it opens the other way.”

Tovin looked at her.

“Children are always suggesting things like that.”

Nevertheless, he tried. The door opened towards him.

Beyond it was a small room containing a table, two chairs and a window overlooking a landscape of green fields. A kettle stood on the table, and a blue teapot rested beside it.

Tovin stared.

“That wasn't there yesterday.”

“Was it yesterday that you last opened it?” Maelin asked.

“No. That was some time ago.”

He stepped into the room, then turned back.

“Would anyone care for tea?”

We followed him in.

The room was unexpectedly comfortable. A fire burned in a little grate, and a cat slept on a cushion beneath the window. The cat opened one eye as we entered, considered us, and went back to sleep.

Tovin took the chair nearest the fire.

“I used to come here quite often,” he said. “Before I lost the key.”

“Where did you get it?” Merrick asked.

“From a man who made keys. Alden, I think he was called.”

We exchanged glances.

“Alden?” I asked.

Tovin nodded.

“He made a great many things. Keys, locks, hinges, gates. He once made a little wooden box for me, too. Very fine workmanship. I still have it.”

“Do you remember what the key looked like?” Merrick asked.

“Brass. Rather small. Three leaves around a circle.”

Merrick reached into his pocket and brought out the stone he had found beside the ancient tree.

Tovin leaned forward.

“That's the mark.”

He examined it closely, then looked at Merrick.

“Where did you find that?”

“Beneath a tree.”

Tovin nodded as though this were a perfectly reasonable answer.

“Of course.”

He poured the tea.

“I was given the key because I was supposed to look after something. I can't remember what. Alden told me not to use it until I knew what I was keeping.”

“What were you keeping?” Nell asked.

Tovin looked towards the window.

“That's the trouble. I don't remember.”

For a while we drank tea and listened to the fire. The cat stretched, jumped down from its cushion and disappeared through a narrow opening beside the hearth.

Tovin watched it go.

“There's another way out,” he said.

“Where does it lead?” Rowan asked.

“Somewhere the cat likes.”

Rowan decided not to pursue the matter.

Merrick took the folded drawing from his coat and showed Tovin the great tree, the house beneath it and the two figures standing among the roots.

Tovin studied it.

“Ah,” he said.

“You know it?” Merrick asked.

“I've been there.”

“Did you go with me?”

Tovin looked at the little figure carrying the wooden bird.

“Perhaps. I remember a boy who wanted to see what was beneath the tree. He was carrying something he had made.”

Merrick nodded.

“Was there someone else with him?”

Tovin's expression grew thoughtful.

“A woman with a red scarf, I think. And another woman who had a pale yellow coat.”

“Aveline,” said Merrick.

“Possibly. But I remember a third person.”

“Who?”

Tovin looked at the empty teacup in his hands.

“I can't quite see her face. She was carrying a basket. I remember that because she had put something in it that was still moving.”

Nell's eyes widened.

“What was moving?”

“Something small. It made a noise like a bird, but it wasn't a bird.”

Tovin stood and went to a cupboard.

“I may have something that will help.”

He returned with a little wooden box, dark with age. On its lid was the familiar carving of three leaves around a circle.

Inside lay a small brass key.

Tovin stared at it.

“Well,” he said. “There you are.”

Maelin came to stand beside him.

“Where did you find it?”

“In the box.”

“Which box?”

“The one I told you about.”

Maelin looked at him for a moment.

“You have been carrying it all this time?”

Tovin appeared mildly offended.

“I didn't know it was there.”

He handed the key to Merrick.

“Perhaps you should keep it for a while. I think it has been waiting for you.”

Merrick turned it over in his hand. It was warm, and on its narrow handle were three tiny leaves.

“Where does it belong?” he asked.

Tovin looked towards the little door.

“I don't know. But I think you'll recognise the place when you find it.”

Outside the window, the light had begun to change. The fields were taking on the soft silver colour we had seen beneath the dark hills.

Maelin rose.

“We should go back. The house will be expecting us.”

Tovin looked surprised.

“Isn't this the house?”

“One of them,” Maelin said.

He nodded, apparently satisfied.

As we left, he called after Merrick.

“One more thing. If you find out what the key opens, do let me know.”

“I will.”

“And if it opens something important, don't forget to close it afterwards.”

Rowan gave a quiet laugh.

We returned through the passage, past the shelves and the wooden boxes, until we reached the great chamber beneath the roots.

The pool was still there, and the stone path still crossed its surface. But the reflection had changed. Instead of the valley, it showed a small house beside a stream, with a woman standing at the door.

She was carrying a basket.

Merrick stopped.

“I think that's her.”

The woman turned, as though she had heard him.

Then the water became still again.

Maelin raised the lantern.

“Come,” she said. “There is supper to be made.”

And we followed her back towards the roots of the great tree, carrying a key whose door we had not yet found.

65. The Place Beneath the Roots

The following morning, the clock had moved.

Not by much. Its hands now stood at twenty past eleven, and Maelin seemed pleased by this small development.

“It's getting on,” she said, setting breakfast on the table.

“Getting on towards what?” Rowan asked.

“That's what we shall discover.”

Merrick had kept the drawing beside his bed. He brought it downstairs and laid it on the table. The two figures beneath the tree were still there, the little bird in one hand, the red scarf around the other's neck. But the pencil line showing the roots had become darker, and a small opening had appeared beneath the trunk.

Maelin looked at it.

“Ah. The tree has remembered the way.”

After breakfast, she took a lantern from a hook beside the door. It was an old brass lantern, with a handle worn smooth by many hands.

“You'll need this,” she said.

We went outside.

The great tree stood in its usual silence, but the opening beneath the roots was wider than it had been the previous day. A faint warmth came from within, carrying the smell of damp earth, moss and something faintly sweet, like fallen apples.

Merrick entered first, followed by Nell. Rowan went next, muttering that he preferred doors which opened at a sensible height. I followed Maelin, bringing up the rear.

The passage sloped downwards. Roots crossed overhead, some thick as beams, others fine as threads. The lantern light caught droplets of water hanging from them. Every so often we passed a small hollow in the earth containing a stone, a fallen leaf or a little wooden object.

Merrick stopped beside one.

It was a small boat, no longer than his hand, carved from pale wood. Its prow bore the mark of three leaves around a circle.

“I made this,” he said.

Maelin nodded.

“You made many things here.”

The passage widened.

We emerged into a chamber so large that the lantern could not show us its far walls. Above us, the roots of the tree formed an immense vaulted ceiling. Some descended into the ground; others spread horizontally, disappearing into darkness. Between them, little pale flowers grew from the earth.

At the centre of the chamber lay a pool.

Its water was perfectly still. A narrow stone path crossed it, leading to a small circular platform. On the platform stood a wooden chair, and beside it a low table bearing a bowl of smooth white stones.

Nell stepped towards the water.

“There's something underneath.”

We looked.

The pool reflected not the chamber above it, but a landscape beneath the water: a green valley, a river, a little house with a red door, and beyond them a line of hills.

Merrick knelt.

“I know this place.”

“Which place?” Rowan asked.

“The valley. But it isn't ours.”

The reflection shifted. A young boy appeared on the far bank, carrying a wooden bird. Beside him walked a woman in a red scarf.

Orla.

The boy stopped beside a tree. He seemed to be listening to someone just beyond the edge of the reflection.

Then another figure appeared.

A woman with silver hair and a pale yellow coat.

Aveline.

But the scene changed before we could see what happened next.

Merrick sat back on his heels.

“I remember now. Not all of it. I came here with Orla, but Aveline was waiting on the other side.”

Maelin placed the lantern on the stone platform.

“You came here because the tree had something to show you. But you were not ready to see it all.”

“What was it?” asked Nell.

Maelin looked at the pool.

“Something that had not yet happened.”

The words seemed to settle over the chamber.

I walked towards the circular platform. On its far side, a narrow opening led into another passage. Unlike the one through which we had entered, this passage was lined with smooth stones, and a little stream ran down its centre.

Merrick picked up one of the white stones from the bowl.

It had a small mark on it: three leaves around a circle.

He turned it over.

On the other side, someone had written a name.

Not Merrick.

Orla.

He looked at Maelin.

“Why is her name here?”

Maelin took the stone and placed it back in the bowl.

“Because she left something here too.”

“What?”

“A promise.”

Nell looked towards the passage.

“Can we find it?”

Maelin smiled.

“Not today, I think. There is something else you should see first.”

She pointed towards the pool.

The water had begun to move. A little ripple travelled from the centre to the edge, and then another. The reflection of the valley disappeared, replaced by a view of the chamber itself.

But in the reflection, there was an additional doorway behind the wooden chair.

We turned.

There was no doorway there.

Merrick stood and approached the place where it appeared in the water. He reached towards the roots, and one of them moved aside, slowly and quietly, revealing a narrow stone arch.

Beyond it was a room filled with shelves.

On the shelves stood hundreds of small wooden boxes, each bearing a name or a simple mark. Some were old and dusty; others looked newly made.

Merrick recognised one immediately.

It bore the carving of a little bird.

He lifted it from the shelf and opened the lid.

Inside lay a single white feather, a blue thread, and a small piece of folded paper.

The paper contained only one sentence:

For the one who came back, but has not yet remembered why.

Merrick read it twice.

Then he folded it and put it in his pocket.

From somewhere beyond the shelves came the sound of a door closing.

Maelin raised the lantern.

“Someone else is here,” she said.

We waited.

A moment later, a voice called from the darkness.

“Maelin? Have you seen my key?”

Maelin closed her eyes briefly.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I thought he had gone home.”

Rowan looked at her.

“Who?”

Maelin lifted the lantern and started towards the voice.

“Someone who has been looking for that key for a very long time.”

And with that, she disappeared between the shelves.

We followed.

64. The Visitor Beneath the Tree

Morning did not arrive at the house.

At least, not in the ordinary way. The fire had burned low, the kettle had cooled, and the clock on the mantelpiece still showed a little after eleven. Yet the light outside had changed. It was softer now, and the hollow beneath the dark hills seemed washed in a pale silver glow.

Maelin was already in the kitchen when we came downstairs. She had made porridge, set out bread and honey, and placed a bowl of small red apples on the table.

“Did anyone come?” Nell asked.

“Not through the door,” Maelin replied.

She handed Merrick a cup of tea.

“But someone has been beneath the tree.”

We looked through the window. The great tree stood in the same place, its branches spreading over the roof. Beneath it, where the grass had been undisturbed the previous evening, there was now a narrow track of flattened leaves.

Maelin noticed us looking.

“You may go out after breakfast. Don't take the path behind the tree unless someone invites you.”

“Who might invite us?” Rowan asked.

Maelin buttered a slice of bread.

“The tree, perhaps.”

Rowan gave her a look that suggested he was beginning to regret accepting the invitation.

After breakfast, we went outside.

The air was cool, though not cold. The tree was larger than it had appeared from the window. Its trunk rose from a low mound of stone and earth, and its roots spread across the ground like great sleeping animals. Some disappeared beneath the hillside; others emerged several yards away, forming little arches beneath which the grass grew pale and soft.

Merrick walked slowly around the trunk.

“There are marks here,” he said.

On the western side, just above the roots, someone had carved three leaves around a circle. The carving was old, but its edges were clean.

Nell found another mark on the opposite side: a small bird with its wings folded.

Merrick took his wooden bird from his pocket and held it beside the carving. The shapes were not identical, but the bird's head was turned in the same direction.

“Someone knew about this place,” he said.

“Someone who knew you,” I suggested.

He nodded.

We followed the flattened leaves around the tree until we came to a narrow opening between two roots. Beyond it was a little hollow, sheltered from the wind. A stone bench stood there, and beside it lay a child's wooden box.

Merrick stopped.

“I know that box.”

He knelt and lifted the lid. Inside were three things: a smooth grey stone, a blue glass bead, and a small wooden whistle.

He picked up the whistle.

“I made this too.”

“Did you play it?” Nell asked.

“I don't remember.”

He put it to his lips and blew.

No sound came out.

Then, from somewhere above us, came a clear note, like a bird calling from the highest branch.

We looked up.

A woman was standing among the roots on the far side of the tree.

She was tall, with dark hair threaded with grey, and wore a long brown coat. A red scarf was tied loosely around her neck. She looked neither young nor old, and her face had the familiar quality of someone remembered from a dream.

Merrick stood.

“Do I know you?”

The woman smiled.

“You used to.”

She came closer and looked at the wooden whistle in his hand.

“You made that because you wanted to call the birds down from the branches. They didn't come, of course.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Orla.”

She looked at the tree.

“I walked with you here when you were a boy. You were carrying a wooden bird, though it wasn't the one you have now.”

Merrick frowned.

“Why did we come?”

“You wanted to see whether the tree had a door.”

“And did it?”

Orla smiled again.

“You found one.”

She led us around the trunk to the northern side, where a great root curved away from the earth, leaving a dark opening beneath it. We had not noticed it before.

The opening was just large enough for a person to enter.

“Where does it go?” Nell asked.

Orla looked at Merrick.

“Where you went.”

He crouched and peered inside. The passage descended gently, its walls lined with roots. A faint golden light came from somewhere below.

“I remember being afraid,” he said.

“You were,” said Orla. “But you went in anyway.”

“Did you come with me?”

“No. I waited here.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to.”

Merrick looked at the opening for a long time.

Then he turned to Orla.

“Did I come back?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

Orla's expression changed, just slightly.

“No.”

She glanced towards the tree, where the pale leaves stirred despite the stillness of the air.

“Someone came back with you. But you had forgotten them by then.”

A silence followed.

Nell moved closer to the opening.

“Can we go down?”

“Not today,” Orla said. “The tree has only just opened the passage again.”

“Why now?” Rowan asked.

Orla looked at Merrick's wooden bird.

“Because he has brought back something he once left here.”

Merrick examined the bird. He turned it over, as though expecting to find a new mark.

Orla reached into her coat and took out a small folded paper.

“You gave me this when we parted.”

Merrick unfolded it.

It was another drawing, in the same uncertain pencil as the picture Rose had kept. This one showed the great tree, the house beneath it, and two small figures standing beside the roots. One figure carried a bird. The other wore a red scarf.

On the back, in a child's handwriting, were the words:

We will come back when the tree has finished growing.

Merrick looked from the drawing to Orla.

“Did I write that?”

“Yes.”

“Has it finished growing?”

Orla looked up into the branches.

“No,” she said. “But I don't think that was what you meant.”

From the house, Maelin called that the kettle was boiling again.

Orla handed the drawing back to Merrick.

“Keep it safe. There are other things you left here, but they can wait.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

She smiled, and for a moment the red scarf seemed brighter than the leaves around her.

“I am here now.”

Then she walked around the far side of the tree.

We followed, but when we reached the place where she had disappeared, there was no one there. Only a narrow path leading away through the trees, towards the dark hills.

Rowan looked at it.

“I'm beginning to think that a straightforward journey is too much to ask.”

Nell laughed and ran back towards the house.

Merrick remained beside the tree, holding the drawing.

For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing in the opening beneath the roots. A small figure, perhaps, with a wooden bird in his hand.

Then the light shifted, and the opening was empty.

We returned to Maelin's house for tea.

The clock still showed a little after eleven.

63. The House That Kept the Evening

The pale shape remained visible between the trees, though it seemed no nearer as we walked.

The ground had become uneven, with patches of dark heather and exposed stone. Here and there, small pools of water lay among the roots, reflecting a sky that appeared considerably brighter than the one above us.

Nell stopped beside one of them.

“Look.”

In the water we could see the pale roof of a house, a chimney, and a little window glowing with lamplight. But when we looked up, there was only the dark hillside.

“It's the house,” Merrick said.

“Which house?” Rowan asked.

Merrick took out the drawing. “The one beneath the tree.”

We continued until the trees thinned and the path opened onto a broad shelf of ground overlooking a hollow. There, at last, stood the building.

It was not quite a house and not quite a cottage. Its walls were made of pale grey stone, with a steep roof of weathered slate. One end stood against the hillside; the other looked out across the hollow. A chimney rose from the roof, but no smoke came from it. The windows were small and deep-set, and a wooden door, darkened by age, faced the path.

An enormous tree stood behind it.

Its trunk divided into several great limbs, each growing in a different direction. The branches spread over the roof without quite touching it. Moss covered the lower trunk, and a few pale leaves remained on the highest branches, though the surrounding trees had already lost theirs.

The whole place was quiet.

Not empty, exactly. Just quiet in the way a room becomes quiet when someone has stepped out and is expected back.

Rowan examined the door.

“Someone has repaired the hinges recently.”

A small pile of split firewood stood beside the wall. A pair of boots rested beneath the window, and a basket of apples had been left on a low stone ledge.

Nell knocked.

For a moment there was no answer. Then we heard footsteps, slow and unhurried, and the door opened.

An elderly woman stood there. She wore a long grey dress and a dark green shawl, and her white hair was gathered loosely at the back of her head. She looked first at Nell, then at Merrick.

“Oh,” she said. “You've brought the little bird.”

Merrick looked down at his hand.

The woman stepped aside.

“Come in. The evening is getting on.”

We entered a low room with a large fireplace, a wooden table, several chairs and shelves crowded with books. A kettle stood on the hearth. Beside it, a small lamp burned with a steady yellow flame.

Through the window, the hollow lay beneath a deepening grey sky. Yet when I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, its hands showed a little after eleven.

“Is it evening here?” I asked.

The woman followed my gaze.

“Usually.”

“Even though it's morning?”

“Outside, perhaps.”

She took our coats and hung them on wooden pegs.

“My name is Maelin,” she said. “I look after the house.”

“Does the house belong to you?” Rowan asked.

Maelin considered the question.

“It lets me stay.”

Rowan seemed to regard this as a rather unsatisfactory arrangement, but he accepted a cup of tea.

Merrick had been looking at the shelves. Among the books and small household objects stood a wooden bird, rather larger than his own. Its wings were spread, and a narrow blue thread was tied around its neck.

He picked it up.

“I made this.”

Maelin smiled.

“Yes. You were very small.”

Merrick turned the bird over. Beneath one wing was the same little carving of three leaves around a circle.

“Why did I leave it here?”

“You were going away.”

“Where?”

Maelin looked towards the window.

“You had not decided.”

Nell had found a chair beside the fire. “Who lives here with you?”

“No one at present.”

“But you said the house was expecting us.”

“I said you were expected. That's not quite the same thing.”

She brought a plate of thick slices of bread and a little dish of honey to the table. We ate while the fire settled and the kettle began to sing.

After a while I asked her about the evening.

Maelin looked towards the window again.

“The hills keep it,” she said. “They have done so for a very long time. The light comes here when it has nowhere else to go.”

“Does it ever become morning?” Nell asked.

“Oh, certainly. But not often when people are watching.”

“And who decided that?”

Maelin smiled.

“I don't think anyone did.”

She rose and opened a narrow door at the back of the room. Beyond it was a small passage leading to another chamber. We could see a bed, a writing desk, and a window looking out towards the great tree.

“There is a room for each of you,” she said. “You may stay tonight, if you wish. The path will still be there tomorrow.”

Merrick hesitated.

“Have I stayed here before?”

Maelin looked at him for a long moment.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“You were a child. You came with someone who knew the tree.”

“Was it Aveline?”

Maelin did not answer immediately.

Then she said, “She has been here. But she was not the one who brought you.”

Merrick looked at the wooden bird in his hand.

“Who was?”

Maelin glanced towards the fire.

“That,” she said, “is something I think you may remember when you have had a little sleep.”

Outside, the dark hills remained as they were. The evening did not deepen, nor did it lift. A pale leaf drifted down from the great tree and came to rest on the windowsill.

Maelin picked it up.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Someone is coming.”

We looked towards the door.

But there was no knock, no sound of footsteps on the path.

Only the faintest rustle from the branches overhead.

Maelin placed the leaf on the mantelpiece, beside the clock.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “we shall see who it is.”

And for the first time since entering the house, I had the feeling that we had arrived somewhere not merely because we had followed a path, but because someone had been keeping a place for us.

62. The Road Beneath the Dark Hills

We left Rose's garden the following morning.

She had given Merrick the old drawing to carry, folded carefully between two sheets of paper. He put it inside his coat, alongside the wooden bird. Rose herself did not come with us. She said there were things in the garden that needed tending, and that she would know when we had arrived.

“Will you know where we are?” Nell asked.

Rose smiled.

“I shall know that you have gone.”

That seemed to be enough.

We returned through the underground garden, crossed the little bridge and climbed the root-lined steps into the orchard. The morning was cool, with a thin mist lying among the trees. Above us, the ordinary valley was beginning its day. We could hear a cart on the road, and somewhere beyond the orchard a man calling to his dog.

Rowan stopped to examine a broken branch.

“There's work to be done here,” he observed.

“There is always work to be done,” said Elian, who was standing beside the old stone basin.

She had a small bundle of white flowers tucked into her coat.

“Are you coming with us?” Merrick asked.

“For a little way.”

She looked at the folded drawing in his hand.

“Rose has shown you, then.”

Merrick nodded.

Elian glanced towards the mountains. “We should take the upper path. The lower one goes to the old resting place, and I don't think that's where you are going.”

We followed her through the orchard, past the three old trees. The little bell still hung from the branch of the third, but it did not ring as we passed. Its presence seemed quite ordinary now, as though it had always belonged there.

Beyond the orchard, the path climbed through a stand of hazel trees. It was a narrow track, partly covered by fallen leaves, and after a while it became difficult to distinguish from the hillside itself.

The higher we climbed, the more the valley opened behind us. We could see the river winding through the meadows, the roofs of the village, and the distant white walls of the mill. The White Heron was hidden by trees, though a thread of smoke rose from its chimney.

Then the path turned, and the valley disappeared.

Ahead lay a broad stretch of open country, broken by low ridges and scattered stones. The mountains stood beyond it, but they looked different from this side. Their familiar green slopes had given way to darker faces, steep and heavily wooded. Farther away, a line of hills rose against the sky, almost black beneath the clouds.

“Those are the dark hills,” said Elian.

“They look rather forbidding,” Rowan remarked.

“They aren't particularly friendly,” she replied. “But they are not unfriendly either.”

“That's reassuring.”

Elian laughed.

We came to a stream running over a bed of pale stones. There was a narrow bridge, made from two great slabs of rock, and beyond it a track leading between two low hills. Elian stopped at the bridge.

“This is as far as I go today.”

“Why?” asked Nell.

“Because the path beyond belongs to someone else.”

She placed the white flowers on a flat stone beside the stream.

“Someone will find those,” she said.

Then she turned back towards the orchard.

We crossed the bridge.

The track wound between the hills, where the grass grew long and the air smelled of wet earth. On the far side we found an old stone marker, half buried in moss. It bore a carving of a tree, but unlike the trees we had seen elsewhere, its branches were drawn beneath its roots.

Merrick crouched to examine it.

“I've seen this before.”

“Where?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

Nell touched the carving with one finger.

“It's pointing that way.”

Beyond the marker, a narrow path descended into a shallow valley. At its centre stood a little wooden shelter, open on three sides, with a stone bench beneath its roof. A walking stick rested against one of the posts. Beside it was a clay cup, still holding a little water.

No one was there.

Rowan examined the shelter.

“Someone has been here recently.”

“Perhaps they're still nearby,” said Nell.

We waited for a moment, but nothing moved among the grasses.

Merrick picked up the walking stick, looked at it, then put it back exactly where he had found it.

Beyond the shelter, the path divided. One branch continued towards the mountains; the other followed the stream towards the dark hills.

The folded drawing in Merrick's hand had begun to feel warm.

He opened it.

The child's drawing had not changed, but the path beneath the tree now seemed to continue beyond the edge of the paper. A faint pencil line ran from the little building towards the right-hand side, where the page had previously been blank.

Rowan peered over his shoulder.

“I don't suppose the artist left us any directions?”

Merrick turned the paper over.

On the back, in the same uncertain handwriting, was a sentence we had not noticed before:

Go where the hills keep the evening.

We looked towards the dark hills. Although it was still morning, their upper slopes seemed to hold a faint grey shadow, as though the evening had settled there and chosen not to move on.

Nell was already walking towards the stream.

“I think it's this way.”

And so we followed her, leaving the mountains behind us and entering the country beneath the dark hills.

For a long while the path was easy. Then the stream disappeared beneath the ground, the grass gave way to low heather, and the first trees appeared: tall, narrow, and so dark that their trunks seemed almost black.

Between them, far ahead, something pale caught the light.

It might have been the roof of a house.

Or the stone building from the drawing.

We could not yet tell.

We walked on.

61. The Garden That Remembered the Meadow

The passage beneath the ancient tree seemed shorter on our return. Perhaps it was because we now knew where it led, or perhaps the garden had simply decided not to keep us waiting.

Aveline came with us as far as the stone steps. She paused beside the hollow in the tree, where the little green shoot had opened its third leaf.

“Don't worry about it,” she said, seeing Merrick looking back.

“I wasn't worried.”

“No,” said Aveline. “You were wondering whether it would still be here when we returned.”

Merrick considered this.

“That's rather different.”

“Is it?”

She smiled and turned back towards the tree.

We found Rose in the garden outside her house. She was kneeling beside a bed of small white flowers, removing the occasional dead leaf. When she heard us approaching, she looked up.

“You've been somewhere,” she said.

Merrick nodded. “We found a room beneath the tree.”

Rose put down her little pair of shears.

“Ah.”

It was not quite the response I had expected.

Merrick showed her the stone he had found beneath the tree, with its three leaves carved around a circle. Rose took it in both hands and turned it slowly, examining the marks.

“Where did you find this?”

“Beside the roots. There were others, though not quite like it.”

“Did you take any of those?”

“No.”

“Good. Some things are better left where they are.”

She handed the stone back to him.

Then we told her about the chamber, the basin, and the images that had appeared in its water. We described the gardens, the paths, the houses, and finally the meadow surrounded by dark hills. We told her about the enormous tree and the little stone building beneath it.

When Merrick described the boy carrying the wooden bird, Rose became very still.

“Did you recognise him?” she asked.

Merrick looked down at the bird in his hand.

“I thought I did. I was younger, of course. I don't remember the journey, only the feeling that I was going somewhere.”

Rose looked towards the trees.

“And the building?”

“Do you know it?” I asked.

“I know of it.”

She rose, brushing the earth from her hands, and invited us inside.

The house was warm, with a little fire burning in the grate. Rose put water on for tea, then brought out a plate of small cakes, which she placed on the table without ceremony. There was something reassuring about this: even in a house beneath a garden that had grown before anyone could remember, visitors were expected to have something to eat.

Rose sat opposite Merrick.

“There is an old meadow beyond the hills,” she said. “It has been there longer than the paths leading to it. People have sometimes found it by travelling through the mountains, but others have arrived there without crossing them.”

“Is that possible?” Rowan asked.

Rose gave him a thoughtful look.

“You've been here long enough to know that it is.”

Rowan accepted this with a small nod and helped himself to another cake.

“The tree,” Merrick said. “How old is it?”

“I don't know. It was already old when I first heard of it.”

“And the building?”

“That was there too. A small stone house, though I have never been inside. There are stories about it, but stories are not always reliable guides to places.”

“Who lives there?” Nell asked.

Rose smiled.

“Sometimes someone does.”

Nell seemed satisfied with this, although Rowan looked as though he would have preferred a more definite answer.

Rose turned again to Merrick.

“When you were a boy, you used to ask about places you had not yet visited. You were particularly interested in what lay beyond the hills. I remember you drawing a tree, very large, with a little house beneath it.”

Merrick frowned.

“I don't remember that.”

“You gave the drawing to me. I kept it for a long time.”

“Do you still have it?”

Rose glanced towards the small cupboard beside the fireplace.

“I might.”

She opened the cupboard and moved aside several folded cloths, a wooden bowl and a bundle of old papers. At the bottom lay a thin book with a faded green cover. She opened it carefully and turned a few pages.

There it was.

A child's drawing, in uneven pencil: a meadow, a tree much larger than the others, and a little building with a dark doorway. A narrow path ran towards it from the edge of the page.

Beneath the drawing, in a child's uncertain handwriting, were the words:

The place where the tree is waiting.

Merrick stared at it.

“I wrote that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Rose closed the book gently.

“I don't think you knew.”

For a while nobody spoke. Outside, a breeze moved through the leaves, and somewhere in the garden water trickled over stone.

At last Rose said, “There is no need to hurry there. The meadow will still be there when you are ready.”

Merrick looked at the drawing once more.

“Perhaps I was ready once.”

“Perhaps,” Rose said. “But you had other gardens to discover.”

She returned the book to the cupboard, then stood and looked through the window towards the underground garden.

“Besides, something has begun growing in the ancient tree. I would like to see what it becomes.”

Nell went to the door.

“Will we visit the meadow?”

Rose joined her.

“Yes, my dear. I think we will.”

And then, as though this had settled the matter, she asked whether anyone wanted more tea.

We all did.

60. The Tree That Had Not Finished

The green shoot inside the hollow was very small. Two leaves had unfolded at its tip, and a third was beginning to emerge. Its stem was pale, almost white, and it seemed to be growing out of the wood itself.

Merrick knelt to examine it.

“Have you seen this before?” he asked Aveline.

“No.”

“Not even when you first came here?”

“Not even then.”

She crouched beside him.

“I have tended this tree for a very long time. I've seen it flower, lose its leaves, and stand bare through winters that seemed to last for years. I've seen birds nest in its branches and small animals shelter in its hollow. But I've never seen anything grow inside it.”

Merrick touched the bark, carefully avoiding the shoot.

“Perhaps it isn't growing inside the tree.”

Aveline looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps the tree is growing around it.”

She considered this, then smiled.

“I think you may be right.”

Nell had found something at the foot of the trunk. It was a small, round stone, half buried in the earthless ground. She picked it up and brushed away the dust.

There was a little carving on its surface: three leaves surrounding a circle.

“That's the mark from the wooden key,” she said.

Merrick took the stone.

“I've seen this before. In the old potting house. There was a whole box of them.”

Aveline nodded.

“Those were made here. Long ago, people brought stones from the places where they had planted something. They left them beneath this tree.”

“Why?”

“So the tree would remember.”

Merrick looked at the little shoot.

“And what does it remember?”

Aveline stood and walked around the trunk.

“Not always what happened. Sometimes what might have happened. Sometimes what is still waiting.”

She stopped beside a low branch and lifted it gently. Beneath it, hidden among the roots, was a narrow opening.

It was not a doorway, exactly. More like a passage between two great stones. A cool breeze came from within, carrying the smell of rain and distant woodsmoke.

Aveline looked at Merrick.

“I haven't been through there.”

“Do you know where it goes?”

“No.”

He smiled.

“Then perhaps we should find out.”

Rowan examined the opening.

“Of course we should. I was beginning to worry that we'd spend the whole morning looking at a tree.”

We ducked beneath the branch and entered the passage.

It sloped downwards at first, then levelled out. The walls were smooth stone, threaded here and there with fine roots. Small white flowers grew in the cracks. After a little while, the passage widened into a chamber.

In its centre stood a stone basin.

Water flowed into it from a narrow channel in the wall, but the basin never filled. The water disappeared through a small opening at the bottom, and we could hear it continuing somewhere beneath us.

On the opposite wall was a carving.

It showed the ancient tree, but with something growing from its branches: not leaves or flowers, but a series of small doorways. Each had a different shape.

Beneath the carving were three words:

The garden continues elsewhere.

Aveline read them quietly.

“I've never seen this.”

Merrick approached the basin. The water was perfectly clear. Looking down, I could see the reflection of the chamber, but the image seemed to extend far beyond the stone walls. There were trees, a meadow, and a low house with a thatched roof.

Nell leaned over.

“That's the cottage near the mill.”

She was right. The little house where we had first met the old woman waiting for the mill was visible in the water. But now there was a second building beside it, a long timber house with a green door.

A figure stood outside, holding a basket.

The image shifted.

For an instant, we saw the White Heron Inn, with its garden gate standing open. Then the red-door house across the river. Then the underground garden, where Rose was bending over a flower bed.

Merrick straightened.

“It's showing all the gardens.”

“Not all of them,” Aveline said.

She pointed towards the bottom of the basin.

A new image was forming there. It showed a place we had never visited: a broad meadow enclosed by dark hills, with a single enormous tree at its centre. Beneath the tree stood a low stone building, its roof covered in moss.

A narrow path led towards it.

And on the path, walking towards the building, was a little boy carrying a wooden bird.

Merrick stared.

“I know that place.”

Aveline looked at him.

“Do you remember it?”

“No. But I think I was going there.”

The water trembled.

The image disappeared, leaving only the reflection of the chamber.

For a while we stood in silence.

Then Aveline placed her hand on Merrick's shoulder.

“Perhaps it's time to visit the meadow.”

She looked towards the passage.

“But first, I think we should tell Rose what we've found.”

Merrick nodded.

He put the little stone in his pocket.

As we turned to leave, the water in the basin made a soft, circular ripple.

And somewhere far above us, in the hollow of the ancient tree, the small green shoot opened its third leaf.

59. The Garden Beyond the Window

We returned to the little window after breakfast.

Rowan had been particularly pleased to discover that Isobel's kitchen was well supplied with bread, cheese, honey and a rather excellent apple preserve. He had also made enquiries about the possibility of taking some away with us.

“It's a long walk,” he had explained.

“We don't know where we're going,” I said.

“Even more reason to take provisions.”

Isobel had laughed and filled a small basket.

The window stood open when we reached it. Beyond lay the garden of pale flowers, and the stone path leading towards the distant archway.

Aveline was no longer beneath it.

We climbed through the window one by one. The garden smelled of rain and fresh grass, although the sky above us was clear. The flowers grew in loose clusters, some no taller than our ankles, others reaching almost to our shoulders. Their colours were subdued: white, pale blue, soft yellow and a curious green that seemed to change as we passed.

The path wound gently downhill.

Merrick walked ahead, carrying the little wooden bird. Every so often he stopped to examine a plant growing beside the stones. He seemed to recognise some of them, though he could not remember where he had seen them before.

“This one,” he said, pointing to a low plant with rounded leaves, “grew in Rose's garden.”

“And this?” Nell asked.

He shook his head.

“I don't know. But I think I've planted it.”

Rowan looked at the plant.

“Have you considered that you may have planted a great many things without remembering?”

“It's possible.”

“Then we may have to visit every garden in the valley.”

Merrick laughed.

The archway grew larger as we approached. It was made of pale stone, with a carving of three leaves above the opening. Beyond it lay another garden, much older in appearance. Trees grew close together, their trunks twisted and weathered. A narrow stream ran between them, disappearing beneath a low stone bridge.

Aveline was waiting beside the bridge.

She wore the pale yellow coat and carried a small basket filled with leaves and cuttings. Her silver hair was tied back with a green ribbon.

“Merrick,” she said.

He stopped before her.

“I remember you.”

Aveline smiled.

“I'm glad.”

“I remember the little garden. The wooden bird. The seed.”

“And the stone you thought was an egg?”

Merrick laughed.

“I remember that too.”

She looked at the others.

“You've brought friends.”

“We seem to have acquired a few,” Rowan said.

Aveline welcomed us across the bridge. On the far side stood a small wooden table beneath a spreading tree. There were cups, a teapot and a plate of little cakes, still warm.

“Sit,” she said. “There is no hurry.”

She poured tea and placed a cup before Merrick.

For a while they talked about ordinary things. The weather, the gardens, the orchard, and the strange early flowering of the trees. Aveline asked after Rose, and Merrick told her that she was still tending the underground garden.

“Then she has kept it well,” Aveline said.

“She gave me three seeds.”

“Ah.”

Merrick looked at her.

“You know about them?”

“I gave them to Rose.”

He glanced at the basket beside her.

“Why?”

Aveline looked towards the stream.

“Because there was a time when I thought the garden had finished growing. Rose knew better.”

“What were the seeds for?”

“One was for a place that needed remembering. One was for a place that had not yet been found. The third was for something that had not yet decided whether it wanted to grow.”

Merrick looked down at his cup.

“I left the third one with you.”

Aveline nodded.

“You did.”

“Why?”

“Because you weren't ready to plant it.”

She reached into her basket and took out a small packet wrapped in green cloth.

“I think you may be ready now.”

Merrick accepted it, but did not open it.

“What will it become?”

Aveline smiled.

“I don't know.”

For a moment the only sound was the stream beneath the bridge.

Then Aveline stood and led us towards the trees.

“There is something I'd like you to see,” she said. “It has been growing here since before I first came to the garden.”

We followed her along a narrow path. The trees grew closer together, and the light beneath their branches became softer. At the end of the path stood a tree unlike any we had seen before.

Its trunk was broad and pale, with a hollow at its base. Its branches spread low across the ground, and its leaves were small and silver.

There was no soil around it. Its roots disappeared into the stone.

Aveline placed her hand against the trunk.

“This is where the first garden began,” she said.

Merrick approached slowly.

Inside the hollow, something moved.

A small green shoot was pushing through the wood.

58. The Water Beneath the Seed

The sound continued.

It was very faint, like a little stream running beneath a floor, but it seemed to come directly from the empty pot. Merrick bent towards it, listening.

“There's water in there,” he said.

Isobel shook her head.

“Not yet.”

Rowan looked into the pot.

“Then it's making a very good imitation.”

Merrick smiled, but his attention remained fixed on the little vessel. The seed lay at the bottom, quite still.

Then a tiny bead of water appeared beside it.

Another followed.

Within moments, a thin thread of water was winding around the seed, though the pot remained dry to the touch. The sound grew clearer, and we began to hear something else: birdsong, the rustling of leaves, and the distant murmur of voices.

Isobel drew a chair towards the workbench.

“Perhaps we should sit.”

We gathered around.

The water rose slowly, but it did not overflow. Instead, its surface became smooth and reflective. The little pot seemed much deeper than it could possibly be.

At first we saw only the seed.

Then the reflection widened.

There was a garden.

It was unlike the underground garden, or Sella's enclosed garden, or the orchard above the valley. This one lay beneath a pale sky, and the ground was covered with soft green grass. Trees grew at wide intervals, each with a different shape. Some were tall and slender, others broad and low, and a few seemed to have grown in circles around empty spaces.

A narrow stream crossed the garden.

At its edge stood a young woman with silver hair.

Aveline.

She was kneeling beside a small patch of earth, planting something. Beside her stood a little boy, holding a wooden bird.

Merrick leaned closer.

“That's me.”

The boy turned towards Aveline.

“What happens if it doesn't grow?” he asked.

Aveline smiled.

“Then we'll find somewhere else for it.”

“And if it doesn't grow there?”

“Then perhaps it isn't a plant.”

The boy considered this.

“What else could it be?”

Aveline looked towards the stream.

“Something we haven't learned how to recognise.”

The reflection shifted.

The garden was empty now. The stream ran through it, and the trees had grown taller. At the far end stood a small stone house with a blue door.

Then we saw Rose.

She was younger, with dark hair, and she stood beside a tree whose roots reached upwards into the air. Aveline was with her. They seemed to be talking, though we could not hear their words.

A little girl ran across the grass.

She carried a basket of flowers.

Merrick looked at Isobel.

“Who is that?”

Isobel watched the reflection carefully.

“I don't know.”

The girl stopped beside Rose and held up a white flower. Rose took it, then pointed towards the stream.

The girl ran on.

The reflection darkened, and the water in the pot became still.

For a while nobody spoke.

Then Merrick said, “I think I know where the first garden is.”

“Where?” asked Nell.

He looked at the drawing in the notebook.

“Somewhere beneath the hill. But not this hill.”

Isobel nodded.

“There are many hills.”

“Can we go there?”

“Yes.”

She closed the notebook and placed it back on the workbench.

“But not by following the water.”

Rowan looked at the pot.

“Then what exactly have we been listening to?”

Isobel smiled.

“A memory of the way.”

She led us out of the room and along a corridor we had not noticed before. It ended at a small window, set low in the wall. Beyond it lay a garden filled with pale flowers.

A narrow stone path ran between them, leading towards a distant archway.

“That's the way,” Isobel said.

Merrick looked through the window.

At the far end of the path, beneath the archway, stood Aveline.

She was older now, wearing the same pale yellow coat we had seen in the drawing.

She raised her hand.

Merrick raised his in return.

And then, very quietly, the little wooden bird in his pocket gave a single, clear note.

Not a bird's song.

A bell.

Isobel looked at him.

“Well,” she said. “It seems she has heard you.”

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.

56. The House Beneath the Hill

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.”