Sorrel hesitated. She’d avoided the maze itself when she talked with Gabe; she never did like enclosed spaces or being told which way to go, so this wasn’t her idea of fun, but she followed Andrew in because, well, it was Andrew.
The high boxwood was fresh and fragrant with new, electric green growth on every branch, but the maze itself held the metallic hint of winter. Perhaps it was the shadows that never lifted as the path wound tight and tighter toward the center. Sorrel had kept her right hand on the hedges; somewhere she’d heard that if you just kept turning right you’d never get lost, but Andrew made what felt like entirely random turns, chatting all the while about how the weekend Stella married he’d had to go in to rescue a couple who drunkenly wandered off at the rehearsal dinner.
Sorrel had stopped listening. The constant turning was making her feel sick. The enveloping, unrelenting green had become cloying, and Sorrel wiped sweat off her upper lip.
“I hope we’re almost there,” she said and swallowed the saliva that filled her mouth.
“We are indeed,” Andrew said and paused to open the macarons. “Reward,” he said and held one out to Sorrel.
She turned her head and waved it away.
“Suit yourself,” Andrew said as he popped it whole into his mouth.
AND THEN THERE they were at the heart of the maze, a perfectly square moss lawn and a statue of Puck from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was pitted with age, so worn that Puck’s smile was nearly gone and the inscription on its base was barely readable.
“‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’” Andrew crowed. “I think it was a joke by the maze designer, you know, about how silly people were to try to find the secret.”
Sorrel nodded, she didn’t trust herself to speak, certain she was going to throw up. This is so Patience, Sorrel thought and put her hands on her knees.
Andrew peered down at her. “Good God, Sorrel,” he said. “You are as white as anything. Are you all right?”
Sorrel shook her head and then stopped. “I’m going to be sick,” she whispered and was, directly into the roots of the hedge behind her.
Andrew came up and pulled her hair into his hands while Sorrel heaved.
After a bit she sat back on her heels. Andrew handed her the napkin he still held and sat down beside her.
“Poor thing,” he said. “If Delphine hadn’t been in charge of lunch, I’d think food poisoning.”
Sorrel ran her finger across her neck. “No food talk,” she whispered.
“Of course not, sorry,” Andrew said. “When you’re ready, I’ll lead you out and we’ll put you to bed straightaway. There’s been entirely too much excitement for one day.”
“I’m not a child, Andrew, but thank you,” Sorrel said and put her head down on her knees. “I could sleep right here, I swear.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Andrew said. “Give me your hand.” He stood and reached out to Sorrel. She took his hand and wobbled as she rose.
“This may be the most embarrassing thing ever,” she said. “Patience is the barfer, I’m the swollen glands one.”
“I hate that word ‘glands,’” Andrew said. “Lean on me, darling. I’ll bring us home.”
A feeling of absolute peace and trust stole over Sorrel. She couldn’t remember if anyone had ever made her feel safe like this. Certainly not her father in his last years, and more often than not, Sorrel found herself playing the role of rescuer. So she did as Andrew asked, leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, his arm threaded around her waist, and let him lead her back to the light. They emerged from the maze onto the wide green lawn. The terrace had cleared save for Delphine’s workers, who were busy clearing away the lunch.
“I can’t pass by the food,” Sorrel mumbled.
“Of course you can’t,” Andrew said and swung wide of the terrace under the weeping willow and around the house to the Tithe Barn.
After he settled Sorrel in bed, a ridiculously overwrought process that involved much protest on Sorrel’s part, Andrew sat down at the dining table to work through his consecration papers. He’d barely gotten past “When the Bishop and the Clergy (of which there shall be two at least) have entered the Church or Chapel in their several habits, let them, as they walk up from the west to the east end, repeat alternately the 24th Psalm, the Bishop beginning, ‘The earth is the Lord’s,’ with ‘Gloria Patri.’ ” when there was a rapid tapping at his door. Andrew dashed to it before the noise woke Sorrel to find Gabe holding a blanket bundle.
“Hello,” Andrew said in a whisper as he signed. “Sorrel’s ill so let’s be quiet.”
Gabe held out the bundle to Andrew. His face was nearly as white as Sorrel’s.
“Gabe?” Andrew asked as he held the bundle. The blanket fell away revealing Maggie, dead.
“Oh my God, Gabe! What happened to her?” Andrew couldn’t sign with his arms full.
Gabe spoke because his hands were shaking.
“The garden, the damn garden,” he said.
“That’s not possible,” Andrew said and wondered if it was.
Gabe shook his head. “You know nothing,” he hissed.
“Now that’s not on,” Andrew said. “When have I ever crossed you?”
“You had best watch over Sorrel,” Gabe said and, taking Maggie from Andrew, turned and left before Andrew could say anything. He tiptoed back into the bedroom to do as Gabe said. Sorrel was lying on her side, her hair spread out over her back like a wave, smelling of salt and sea. It took all he had for Andrew not to lie down beside, to keep her safe, to, in fact, believe that what Gabe said about the garden was true. But Sorrel was asleep, quiet and calm in the big bed so Andrew left her to rest.
He sat back down at the table and began taking notes. Whatever was going on in the garden, the chapel would be consecrated on the summer solstice, and the longest day of the year would end with a new church to serve the Kirkwood family and perhaps the village as well. For Andrew the real question was whether he would be their leader.
CHAPTER 19
Foxglove
Gabe ran with Maggie in his arms. He ran until he skidded into his cottage and then stood, chest heaving while he tried to understand why his dog was killed by the garden. He scoured his memory for the stories he’d heard over the years, how the garden refused to bear, how at night no one went near it because the unearthly sounds that rose from its shattered remains were too much like a woman crying, how, when Mathilde died, the village gossip had tried to convince everyone that the garden curse was real. He remembered when Delphine walked into the post office for the first time after losing her daughter. He was collecting the estate post and was bending over the box, pulling the last of the bills out when he heard Marta, the newsagent’s wife, suggesting that someone should bulldoze the place before it struck again. It was Delphine’s sharp intake of breath that made Gabe turn and stand so fast his head swam. He shoved the post into his bag and rushed over; taking Delphine’s arm he guided her quickly out of the post office.