Alistair grabbed Kip’s arm. “If he gets there before they’re done, he’ll bury them all. We have to stop him!”
Kip swallowed, barely able to stand. He needed to buy his sister more time. He searched the darkness for a weapon—something to swing or throw—anything that might stop the Night Gardener.
Over the roar of flames, Kip could hear the black river rushing behind him. He pushed past Alistair and grabbed hold of the man’s burning cloak. “We know you don’t like fire—let’s see what you think o’ water.” He charged for the edge of the cliff, sending himself—and the Night Gardener—into the river below.
he house crackled and roared like a giant’s funeral pyre. Molly shielded her face from the heat, watching with Master Windsor. Windows shattered and bricks crumbled as the flames engulfed the entire house, spewing black smoke into the air. But even as the fire roared, the tree remained unharmed. Icy wind whipped through its branches, beating back the flames as quickly as they could spread.
“It’s not working,” Master Windsor shouted above the din.
Molly flinched as something crashed down inside the house, sending sparks and flaming debris out the front door. “It’s no good,” she said. “That fire could burn for days and nothin’d happen to the tree.”
She glanced back at the forest, which was alive with thrashing wind. She wondered where Kip was and why he hadn’t yet returned. Bertrand rested a hand on her shoulder. “We have to run,” he said. “We tried, but there’s no more time.”
Molly glared at the tree. There had to be a weak spot somewhere—a soft underbelly, a chink in the armor—some way to hurt the tree. Her eyes fell on the tiny window on the second floor. “I think I know what to do,” she said. She broke from Master Windsor and ran toward the flaming house, matchbox clutched in her hand.
Close up, the fire was even more awesome. It blinded her eyes and sucked the air from her lungs. She felt Bertrand grab her arm. “I’m not letting you go in there alone!” he shouted.
“I’m not asking permission. You got a family that needs a father.”
She was right, and Bertrand knew it. “If the Gardener comes back,” he said, “I’ll slow him down.”
Molly turned and sprinted through the front door. Flames covered the walls inside, creeping along the rafters and floorboards. A veil of black smoke blurred the air, stinging her eyes. She covered her mouth and picked her way over a fallen beam to the staircase. She sprinted up the steps, jumping over spots where the runner had caught fire.
Molly reached the top of the stairs and ran through the open doorway. The heat was less intense there, and she could breathe without coughing. Compared to the rest of the house, the room seemed almost calm. The floor was thick with the ashes of burned banknotes. Little embers swirled gently through the air like snowflakes. In one corner, Molly saw two shapes that might have been the late Misters Fig and Stubbs, now corpses. She turned away, fixing her eyes on the knothole. It waited for her like an open gullet.
Molly clutched the matchbox in her sweating hand. She opened it and removed a single match. “Open wide.” She struck the match and brought it to the open mouth—
Phoof!
A sharp breath of air knocked the match from her fingers. It fell to the floor, disappearing into the ashes.
Molly took a second match and struck it—
Phoof!
Another gust of wind, this one stronger.
She peered outside through the shattered window. The Night Gardener emerged from the edge of the woods, staggering, his tattered cloak hanging from his body like a wet skin. The light from the fire reflected off his dripping face, making him look red, angry.
The Gardener waved a hand, and a gust of wind shook the house. Molly grabbed the wall to keep from falling. She heard a crashing downstairs and a scream of pain. She rushed into the hall and saw Master Windsor sprawled on the foyer floor. He staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his face. “Whatever you’re doing up there,” he shouted over the roaring flames, “I suggest you do it quickly!” He grabbed the axe lying beside him and charged back outside.
Molly searched the hallway for something bigger than a match—something the tree couldn’t blow out. She grabbed hold of a banister rail that was burning on one end like a torch. She ripped it from the floor and ran back into the room—
PHOOF!
This time the air hit her like a wave, knocking her hard against the wall. She shrieked, throwing the extinguished torch at the trunk. It was useless—the tree would allow nothing to pass.
Smoke filled the room, stinging her eyes. Molly stared at the tree, tears running down her cheeks. She had tried to kill a monster, and the monster had won. A black ember floated past her—the final remains of a banknote. She smiled bitterly, thinking how quickly dreams could be reduced to nothing. The little scrap spun and swooped and then disappeared into the knothole. Molly sat forward, blinking—
The banknote had gone into the knothole.
“Not a banknote,” she whispered. “A gift.” All at once she understood. The only things the tree would take in were its own gifts.
Flames swelled around Molly as wind coursed through the house. She heard a crashing sound from downstairs and a furious roar. The Night Gardener was coming.
Molly scrambled to her knees, searching through the rubble for another banknote. But as she raked her fingers through the char, she could find nothing. She shrieked again, throwing black ashes at the wall. The banknotes were gone—just like all the tree’s gifts.
And that was when Molly remembered.
There was one thing remaining.
She slid a hand into her pocket. Her heartbeat quickened. Nestled safely between the folds of fabric, she could feel them waiting for her—
The letters.
moke billowed in from the hall, stinging Molly’s eyes. She pulled the stack of worn envelopes from her pocket and stared at the word written across the top envelope—
Molly
She held the letters close, tears spilling down her cheeks.
The walls around her were consumed with flames. Molly touched the letters to the fire, and they caught almost at once. The paper crackled and curled as the flames spread. She raised the burning envelopes in her trembling hands and walked toward the tree. “Good-bye,” she said and dropped them into the knothole. The letters disappeared into the black abyss—
Falling …
Falling …
Falling …
Molly heard a cracking noise as the fire took hold somewhere deep inside the tree. The sound grew louder. Orange light flickered in the hollow darkness, growing brighter and brighter until hot flames burst from the knothole, consuming the tree.
She heard a wheezing breath in her ear and turned to see the Night Gardener in the hall. His pale skin was charred and cracked. His hat was gone, and from his tattered clothes wafted a thin trail of black smoke. He hissed at Molly, his lips pulled back in a hateful rictus.
She was trapped inside the room, flames on every side. She inched back from the man. The Night Gardener lunged at her—
Snap!
He howled as his foot broke off from his leg. He clung to the doorway, still staring at her, his eyes two smoldering embers of rage. Smoke now billowed out from his clothes, his mouth, his every pore. He pulled himself upright and took another step—
Snap!
He fell as his other leg broke off at the knee, turning to ash. He hissed, dragging his body toward her. He reached out a trembling hand.
Snap!
His fingers crumbled into fine dust, peppering the floor. With a final wheezing sound, the Gardener collapsed into a pile of ash.
Molly clutched her hands to her racing heart, staring at the remains of the Night Gardener.
They had fought the monster.
And they had won.
It took Molly a moment to realize that the house was coming down around her. She leapt back as part of the ceiling fell through in a shower of sparks. She coughe
d, covering her face, and ran to the shattered window. She hoisted herself up on the frame and clambered onto the roof.
Outside, the flames were even wilder. They roared like an ocean in her ears. She looked out over the eaves—the ground below seemed to twist and waffle in the blistering heat. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear Bertrand shouting her name. And more distant still, she thought she could hear her parents.
Through the quivering heat, she saw Master Windsor dragging his wife’s mattress across the lawn, feathers trailing behind him. He brought it below the house. Just below Molly’s feet. She took aim and jumped—
Molly hit the mattress with a hard crash. She rolled onto the grass, clutching her ankle, which felt sprained. A faint voice sounded in her ear. She opened her eyes to see Bertrand kneeling over her. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her upright. Master Windsor dragged her across the lawn, shouting something that sounded like “The house! The house!”
Suddenly she heard a tremendous ripping sound. She looked back to see the tree and house collapsing in a giant explosion of flames. Molly stared at the mountain of fire, tears filling her eyes. “It’s over,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Master Windsor held her shoulders. “It’s over!”
They held each other, hugging with everything in them.
Already the flames had begun to die down, the roar replaced by a low, crackling murmur. It was above this sound that Molly heard a new voice.
“Papa! Molly! Hurry!” Molly looked toward the road.
Penny was running toward them, waving her arms.
Molly clung to Master Windsor, both rushing to meet the girl.
“What is it?” Bertrand said.
“It’s your brother!” Penny stepped to one side, and beyond her Molly saw a heavy figure moving toward them. Alistair, his face and clothes dripping wet, and clutched in his arms was Kip.
“Kip!” Molly let go of Master Windsor and stumbled toward them.
Alistair fell to his knees and lay Kip’s body on the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, gasping. “He jumped in the river … He saved us …”
Molly stared at her brother who was limp and unmoving. His mouth was open, but Molly could hear no breath. A cry crept up through her chest and came out as a whimper. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no, no … Not Kip. Not him.”
She took his dripping body, pulling him to her chest. “You canna do this,” she whispered, a desperate, tuneless keen. “You canna die … Not you … Not you …” Molly could sense people standing around her, but she could not see them. She did not care. All she cared about was Kip. She buried her face in his wet hair and closed her eyes. She tried to find words, something she could say, something to bring him back. And in the darkness, the words came to her—
There … once … was …
Molly swallowed, and she spoke the words aloud. “There once was … a little boy named Kip.” She swallowed again, forcing back tears. “He was a very special little boy, like none other. He had red hair like his father, and green eyes like his mother, and a fightin’ spirit like the devil himself. But most of all … he had a sister who loved him more than anythin’ in the whole world.” She pressed her lips together. “But one day, that sister made a mistake … And she didn’t care for him like he needed, like he deserved. And she didn’t tell him the truth.” She closed her eyes, unable to go on. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear and then released him. “I’m sorry.”
Kip lay motionless, his face lit bright against the flames. His body shuddered. He coughed, his head lurching forward, gulping for air. Water spewed from his mouth, spilling over his chin and neck.
Molly leapt back, startled. “Kip!” She hunched over him, afraid to touch him, afraid that what she was seeing might not be real.
Kip gasped, shivering, blinking into the firelight. He swallowed, catching his breath. “Wha …?” His eyes met Molly’s, and a faint smile crept across his lips. “What happened next?”
he flames died down just before dawn. Where the house and tree had once stood, there was now only a mountain of black ashes that smoldered gently in the dewy light of early morning. Already the life of the valley had begun to encroach upon the long-decaying island, and all around her, Molly could hear birds and insects chirping and buzzing.
The fire had been bright enough to attract attention from the village. And with the morning light came a few brave locals, who marveled at what they saw. Even without knowing the truth about the tree, it was plain to anyone who set foot in this place that the sourwoods were cursed no more. Word spread quickly within Cellar Hollow, and soon men and women were appearing on the long-neglected road—to see the burned remains, perhaps, but also to leave baskets of food and blankets and clothes for the Windsors.
The gifts were welcome, for the great fire had consumed every last piece of the Windsors’ former lives—everything, that is, but their lives. And for that, they were all of them grateful.
Molly walked along the dew-kissed lawn, enjoying the warm, charcoal air. The smell of new beginnings. She smiled, watching Penny and Alistair play among the hills.
“Look!” Alistair shouted, pointing at what might have been a grasshopper or butterfly. “The fairy’s getting away!”
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Penny shrieked, hands swiping the air.
Molly knew that Alistair was too old to chase insects, let alone fairies. He was making believe for his sister’s benefit, and it was working: Penny leapt between hills with an almost manic glee—her cheeks flushed with color. Some might have thought it disrespectful for children to play among the dead, but Molly knew differently. She knew that among those hills lay Penny and Alistair’s own grandparents. Molly could almost picture them, resting underground—listening happily as the children of their child laughed and ran overhead.
Constance approached Molly’s side. The woman still looked thin from her sickness, but she was standing on her own. “Listen to them play,” she said, her voice touched with awe. “It’s like music.” She looked at Molly, her eyes creased as she smiled. “We have you to thank for that.”
Molly shifted her feet. “I’m just the help, mum.”
Constance laughed—the first real laugh Molly had heard from her in all their time together. She took a deep, hungry breath, surveying the world around her. “Things are going to be different this time. Better.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Molly said. “I suppose you’re movin’ back to town?”
The woman shook her head. “We’re staying here. Some people from the village have offered to let us stay with them until we can rebuild a home. Bertrand had a bit of insurance on the house. It won’t be much money, but it will be enough.” She turned to Molly. “We might even have room for a few more … not as servants, you understand. As family.” She took Molly’s hand, and Molly was surprised by the warmth coursing through the woman’s fingers.
Molly felt tears spring to her eyes. “Mum, I … I dinna know what to say.” A part of her wanted to say yes, to live forever in this new place. But she knew it wouldn’t be right. The Windsors needed time to rebuild themselves—time to be a family. And some things, Molly knew, had to be done alone. “It’s kind of you, mum, it is. But Kip and me belong somewhere else … and it’s my job to find that place.”
The woman smiled, and Molly could see that she understood.
“Look who I found!” called a voice from the trees. Molly turned to see Master Windsor emerge from the woods, Galileo in tow. The horse, who had run off in the fire, was covered in brambles and burrs and specks of mud.
Master Windsor caught up to them, a little out of breath but smiling all the same. “I found him in the woods by the riverbed. He was munching on these.” He drew a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and offered them to his wife. They were not magic glowing night flowers but plain spring wildflowers—and they were lovely.
Constance took the bouquet, pressing it to her nose. “Oh, Bertrand
…” She clutched them to her chest as if these flowers were more precious than all the diamonds in the world.
Molly looked between them and started to feel as if she maybe shouldn’t be there. And she was right—no sooner had she led Galileo away than Master Windsor pulled his wife close and kissed her, right there in broad daylight!
Molly walked the horse to her brother, who was standing at the remains of the house. Steam rose from the warm embers as they crackled in the early light. “It’s almost beautiful,” Molly said, standing behind him.
Kip nodded but did not move. “I keep thinkin’ about all of it. About the tree, these graves, the Gardener—”
“He canna hurt us.”
“I know, I just …” Kip shook his head. “He was once a regular gardener, like me. Them flowers in the woods, he planted ’em, cared for ’em. Then the tree came along, and he cared for that, too. What was his crime? Makin’ a wish? Wantin’ something that couldn’t be?” Kip blinked his eyes. “That’s no different than me. So why did I deserve to live?”
Molly put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll never know. And maybe that’s best. It’s a bad tale that has all the answers.”
Kip hopped back, looking at her. “I suppose there’s one difference between him an’ me. He didn’t have you protectin’ him. Ma an’ Da done right to trust you.”
Molly pulled her mouth tight, not wanting to cry. “Just you wait. There’s time for me to kill us both yet.” She mussed his hair and led him toward the wagon. She was surprised to feel his hand on her arm, using her for support as they went.
The Windsors assembled on the drive to see Molly and Kip off. Master Windsor had loaded up the back of the wagon with several baskets of food—telling Molly that it was far more than his family could want. He also gave them blankets and some clothes. Molly accepted the offerings with a polite nod.
“But why do you have to leave?” Penny said as they loaded up the last of their things. Her face was pinched and prickled with red, her fists clenched—an imitation of anger.