The Garden of Darkness

“Oh, no,” said the Master. “I lived and worked in the city, but after Pest I needed a place where I could offer help to the survivors I found.”


“That’s very good of you,” said Jem. Clare recognized his tone; Jem did not like the Master.

“But we’re not really survivors in the long run,” said Ramah. “Pest’ll eventually get us. True?”

“True,” said the Master. “The rash indicates the presence of Pest. You may notice it in other ways as well. Perhaps, without even realizing it, you’re becoming more lethargic. Maybe you don’t really feel all that well. The symptoms depend on the child.”

Clare certainly wasn’t feeling very well at all. But she suddenly found herself remembering Mirri saying, “I feel terrific.”

“And you have the cure,” said Jem.

“I do,” said the Master.

“And you’re going to cure us all,” said Jem.

“I am. But you have to wait here until you’re on the very cusp of Pest. I can’t cure you before that. And my price for the cure is fair—you need to help me rebuild the world.”

“We heard about that,” said Jem sharply.

“Careful,” said Ramah quietly.

“We heard you want to pair us up as if we were sheep or cattle.”

“Sheep and cattle don’t pair off,” murmured Ramah.

“I don’t think you understand,” said the Master. “Let’s go upstairs. We can talk more there. Nobody has to be part of the new world if they don’t want to be, and I allow personal preferences. I could match up you two, for example.” He nodded at Clare and Jem. “If you want.”

Jem looked away.

“That’s just wrong,” said Clare. “Personal preferences or not.”

The Master’s eye lingered on Clare for a long moment.

“Come with me,” he said. “I’m upsetting you, and I don’t mean to.” Holding a hurricane lamp, he ushered them out of the room. Then he held up the light and gazed into Clare’s eyes.

“Really remarkable,” he said.

On their way to the stairs, they passed the doll room again. Clare felt cool air brush her cheeks, and she shivered.

The Master walked in front of them with the lantern, and his long shadow covered them all as they went up the stairs. He turned down a hallway and then went up another flight to reach the airy regions of the central house. Behind her, Clare could hear Dante whispering apologies to Ramah. And Jem—Jem was at her elbow, as if he knew how tired she was and was ready to steady her if she stumbled.

They passed a window, and Clare thought she detected the first light of dawn on the horizon. Finally the Master stopped in front of a door they had not seen before.

“Dante,” said the Master. “You go to bed. When it’s time for breakfast, tell them all I’m back.”

Dante turned and left.

The Master used a heavy key to unlock the door.

This room was the mirror opposite of the room in the basement. Big windows let in the weak light of dawn; the furniture was spare. There were two Madonnas on the wall and what looked like several portraits, although it was still too dark to tell. But there was nothing like the riot of color and form they had seen below.

“This is my special collection,” said the Master.

“I want to go home,” Clare said. Her voice was weak. She swayed on her feet, and Jem put his arm around her waist to steady her.

“You want to go back to Thyme House,” said the Master. “Yes, I know. You want the cure, and you want to desert us, too. But we can bring your friends at Thyme House here. We can make them part of this larger family, and they’ll be safe. I’ll care for you all until you’re older.”

“We could go back and forth between here and Thyme House,” said Jem. “We could come and visit when the time for the cure comes.”

“Maybe,” said the Master. “But maybe you think so because you’re so very young. Maybe what you want isn’t what you need.”

Clare did not want to move to Haven. Yet she heard something in the voice of the Master that made her believe that maybe what he said was true—maybe what she wanted wasn’t what she needed. She glanced at Jem.

“We’re doing pretty well,” said Jem. “We just need a cure.”

“It isn’t that easy,” said the Master.

Of course not, thought Clare. Nothing had been easy, not since Pest. She missed the before time—the hours gossiping on the phone with Robin; the number of back flips she could do; Reading King Lear in the middle of the night. Or reading The Hunger Games as Chupi pecked at the margins. Or Jane Eyre for the millionth time. And talking with Michael. It seemed as if she hadn’t thought of Michael in a long while.