Garden Princess

by Kristin Kladstrup

  But she wasn’t coming after him. Krazo slowed, and then he stopped.

  The princess’s wrist was in her mouth, and she was crying. Foolish girl! She wasn’t even looking at the diamond! He could run back and grab it before she even noticed. He could grab the coral beads while he was at it.

  But he didn’t. For he could feel the familiar catch in his throat. And as the princess’s tears went on, the catch in his throat grew worse. It became a pain in his breast.

  Such a thing had never happened to him before. The girls he had seen cry had never cried this long. That was because Hortensia was changing them into flowers, and once that was finished, so was the crying. But now Hortensia was nowhere in sight, and Krazo was in agony; he felt as if an eagle’s talons were ripping at his heart. He opened his beak to cry out, but he couldn’t make a sound. A tremor ran through his body, and he closed his eyes.

  Stop crying, he thought.

  The princess didn’t stop.

  Stop crying!

  And then a strange thing happened in his mind. He seemed to hear someone else crying as well. It was a woman. And — Krazo stumbled sideways — he could see her in his mind! She was sitting huddled on a rough stool in the corner of a foul little room, the stub of a tallow candle on a table next to her. The room was freezing cold. Krazo knew without knowing how he knew that this room was often cold because there wasn’t enough money for a fire. He knew the woman, too. And he knew that someone had made her cry like that. Someone very close to her . . .

  Who?

  The pain in Krazo’s breast was killing him, but still he asked himself the question.

  Who?

  He felt as if he should know the answer, if only he could remember.

  Who?

  And then the pain overwhelmed him, and his mind went dark.

  Adela rarely cried. Perhaps that was why it was so hard to stop now. The tears kept coming, even as she wiped them away, even as she tried to convince herself that there was nothing to cry about. Nothing but a crazy magpie attacking her out of nowhere. As for the rest . . . “I must have imagined it,” she whispered as she rubbed her eyes against her arm. And yet the grotesque vision in her mind would not go away: Marguerite twisting and turning into a daisy, as if by . . . as if by . . .

  Resisting the word magic, Adela looked down at her hand. It was bleeding just below the thumb. She looked at the magpie. It had collapsed on the path a short distance away, a diamond earring clutched in its claw.

  Which made her think of the other earring. There it was, tangled up in the leaves of the daisy. Carefully, Adela worked it free, watching the white-and-yellow flowers bob on their long stems, staring up at the sky the way daisies always did. Day’s-eyes, Garth’s father called them. “I must have imagined it,” Adela whispered again. She closed her eyes and murmured a reassurance to herself: “Marguerite must have dropped the earrings. And the diamond necklace, too. That woman picked up the necklace, and here are the earrings, and poor Marguerite must be worried silly that she’s lost them.”

  Poor Marguerite. It didn’t matter that Adela’s eyes were closed. For with those words, the vision rose up again in her mind — ridiculous and horrible, impossible and yet real, because, after all, she had seen it. Feeling tears coming on again, Adela gave a low moan.

  “Don’t cry!” said a voice.

  “What?” Startled, she opened her eyes.

  The magpie was on its feet again, its head tucked low, its plumage puffed out as if it were trying to keep warm. Adela saw it open its beak: “Don’t cry!”

  She shook her head. She really was imagining things.

  The magpie shifted its head back and forth — fixing her with its left eye, its right eye, its left again. “Where is it?” asked the bird.

  Adela gasped. “Are you — are you talking to me?”

  “Give me the diamond!”

  One of Cecile’s ladies-in-waiting had a parakeet that could talk. The silly thing could say Hello and Pretty bird, but it couldn’t carry on a conversation. Adela looked at the earring in her hand. She looked at the magpie. “Do you mean this diamond?” she asked.

  “Give it to me!”

  She sat up, as shocked as if she had been hit in the face with a bucket of water. The word she had resisted earlier came more easily now. “Are you — are you a magic bird?”

  It lifted its head, stretched its wings out, and pulled them back in, smoothing its feathers as it did so. “I am a magpie!”

  I am talking to a bird, thought Adela. But birds don’t talk! Then again, she told herself, people don’t get turned into daisies, either. Excited now, she said, “I saw that woman turn Marguerite into a flower. Did that really happen?”

  “Give me the diamond!” said the magpie.

  “That woman was Lady Hortensia, wasn’t she? Can you tell me if she changed the others into flowers, too? You see, I found this, and I thought . . .” Adela held up the string of coral beads.

  The magpie regarded the necklace with one black eye. “How many?” it croaked.

  “How many? Well, there was Marguerite, and Bess, and those sisters, and that girl with the dark hair, and Garth, and —”

  “How many beads?” said the magpie.

  “B-beads?”

  “On the string! How many beads on the string?” The magpie stretched out its neck and opened its black beak as if it wanted to eat them.

  “What?” said Adela. “How should I know? What about the other guests? Do you know if any of them are left? Or did Lady Hortensia turn them into flowers, too?”

  The magpie looked at her with its other eye. “Give me the necklace, and I’ll answer.”

  Greedy thing, thought Adela. But she tossed the beads onto the grass between them.

  The magpie seized them in its claw and dragged them backward. “Yes,” it said once it was a safe distance away.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes is the answer to the question,” said the magpie.

  “To which question?” Adela said in frustration. “I want to know if I’m the only one left!”

  The magpie appeared to be counting the beads.

  “Well, am I?” she demanded.

  The magpie looked up. “Another question! Give me my diamond, and I’ll answer.”

  “It isn’t yours!”

  The bird went back to counting, but Adela saw it steal a look at the diamond earring. She tossed it to him. “Did Lady Hortensia change all the guests into flowers?” she asked.

  The magpie placed the new earring next to the other and said, “No.”

  Not all the guests . . . Did that mean Garth was safe?

  “Who?” asked Adela. “Who did she change?”

  “What else have you got?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Treasure,” said the bird.

  It wanted more jewelry; it was looking at her necklace. Adela undid the clasp and held it out. The magpie’s head waved back and forth as it followed the movement of the swinging chain. Adela pulled her hand back. “I want to know everything!” she said.

  “I’ll tell you what I saw.”

  She tossed the necklace onto the grass. “What? What did you see?”

  The magpie grabbed the stone in its beak and pulled the necklace into its pile of jewelry. “I saw her change that girl into a flower.”

  “Which girl? Do you mean Marguerite?”

  “Another question,” said the magpie. “More treasure.”

  “I haven’t got anything else!”

  The bird gave her one of its sideways looks.

  “I really haven’t!” said Adela. “You have to tell me what happened.”

  But the magpie made an angry noise: Ackkkk! Then, as she watched, it looped the coral beads around its neck. It picked up her necklace in its beak, grasped an earring in each claw, and hopped once, twice, three times down the path before launching itself into the air.

  “Wait!” cried Adela. “Come back!”

  Too late! The magpie was gone. />
  It was dark by the time Adela found her way out of the garden.

  By then she was tired and hungry and cold and — more than anything — filled with doubts. She couldn’t help wondering if she might have dreamed it all. Who ever heard of a talking magpie? How could Hortensia have turned Marguerite into a daisy?

  On the other hand, Adela couldn’t help recalling Dr. Sophus’s comment about keeping an open mind with regard to magic. Was it possible that Hortensia was some kind of witch? Adela tried to remember what she knew about witches in stories. Weren’t they always old hags with green faces and warts? No, that wasn’t true. Sometimes there were beautiful witches. King Ival had once faced one just like that. What if Hortensia was that kind of witch?

  Until she knew for sure, Adela decided, it was best to be cautious.

  She circled around to the front of the house and saw that there were lights on inside. Not only that, but she could also see shadows flickering on the walls. She could even hear muffled laughter. Hope quickened in her. Maybe she had imagined everything.

  Resolute, she walked to the front door and raised her hand to knock. Then she thought better of it and tried the knob instead.

  The door was locked.

  She put her ear to the door, straining to hear what was going on inside. She couldn’t pick out individual voices, only a lot of laughter — rather drunken laughter from the sound of it. People were having a good time. That was promising, wasn’t it?

  It was easy to believe that everyone was safe inside — Bess, Marguerite, and Garth — even if it wasn’t exactly comforting that they had forgotten about her. Still, under the circumstances, being forgotten was preferable to having everyone turned into flowers.

  Yes, Adela could almost believe that everything was fine.

  Almost.

  She decided that she needed to leave Flower Mountain. She would ride down the mountain, find the nearest village, and ask for help.

  The trouble was that there didn’t seem to be any horses to ride. Adela went back around the house and down the road she thought might lead to Hortensia’s stables, only to find that it ended at a high stone wall.

  Never mind, she decided. I’ll walk down the mountain.

  She returned to the front of the house. She found her shoes and stockings where she had left them beside the fountain. Tucking them under her arm, she ran barefoot across the lawn to the front gate.

  But, to her dismay, the gate was locked. It was also much too high to climb: she tried, but the long vertical bars provided no foothold. The walls encircling the estate were also too high. When Adela had noticed them earlier in the day, she had assumed they were there to keep wild animals out. Now it seemed as if they were there to keep her in. She grasped the bars of the gate and stared at the road on the other side.

  At last she turned back toward the house. The lights were still on. The shadows were still flickering on the walls. Adela had no doubt that the people inside were laughing and enjoying themselves.

  What she could not afford to doubt — at least, not at the moment, when it was dark and she was alone and the gate was locked — was what she had seen earlier: a beautiful witch, a daisy that wasn’t a daisy, and a talking magpie.

  Best to keep an open mind, Dr. Sophus had said.

  I’ll hide, Adela told herself. I’ll hide somewhere, and in the morning, I’ll know if it was all a dream. I can decide what to do then.

  There were no good hiding places on the lawn — only a few trees with branches too high to reach. No shrubs or beds of flowers. Adela’s only choice was to head back into the garden, where she chose the first hiding place she could find: a rhododendron with white flowers that seemed to glow in the moonlight. Putting aside the thought that it might not be a rhododendron at all, she pushed her way into its branches. She crept along the wall behind the bush until she found a space large enough to curl up in. She pushed her shoes together and wadded up her stockings for a pillow. I’ll never sleep, she thought as she lay down.

  But she did. And her very last thought before she dropped off was of the magpie: Thieving scoundrel! She hoped its conscience — if it even had one — would keep it awake all night long.

  Someone was singing a song Adela knew well. The singer’s voice, tuneless and flat, was also well known to her. She smiled at the song’s familiar refrain:

  “The bee and the rose, the bee and the rose:

  Soft petals, sweet nectar are all the bee knows.

  And oh, my lady, my lady and me,

  My lady, the rose, and I, the bee.”

  Adela stirred, rolled forward slightly, and smelled damp earth. Startled, she opened her eyes. For a moment, the green light around her was confusing. Then she remembered where she was. She sat up and hit her head on a branch. “Ouch!”

  The singing stopped abruptly. “Hello?”

  “Garth?”

  “Miss Adela? Where are you?”

  She tried to see through the branches. “Are you alone?”

  “I’m alone.”

  Adela crawled out of her hiding place, and Garth helped her to her feet. “What are you doing in there?” he asked.

  She saw that he was still dressed in his finery from the day before, though everything looked a little worse for the wear. There was a stain on his jacket.

  “I’m so glad you’re all right!” she exclaimed. “Where’s Marguerite?”

  “Marguerite?” Garth looked puzzled.

  “Marguerite! And the other guests! What happened last night? Did everyone go inside?”

  “Oh, right! Last night! You should have been there, Miss Adela!”

  “The front door was locked.”

  “Too bad for you! I had the best time of my life!”

  Adela frowned.

  Garth continued. “Here I was so worried about not getting along in fine society, but it wasn’t like that at all. She’s so wonderful, Miss Adela. I sat beside her during supper. She even let me hold her hand!”

  So she had been right about Garth and Marguerite. They had forgotten about her! Adela put her hand to her head; it was aching. “Was there food?” she asked.

  “Food? Well, I guess maybe there was — ham and beef and pies and cakes and such . . .” Garth laughed again. “Would you believe I was having such a good time I barely noticed?”

  “I haven’t eaten since our picnic yesterday.”

  “You should have come to the party.”

  “Well, I — I was worried.” Adela was too embarrassed to explain why. “I’m glad Marguerite is all right,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Marguerite. When I couldn’t find her yesterday, I worried something had happened to her.” Adela forced out a small laugh. “I nearly convinced myself she’d been turned into —”

  “Marguerite . . .” Garth interrupted, scratching his head. “Oh, her!”

  “What do you mean . . . her? You said you sat with Marguerite at supper.”

  “No, I didn’t! I sat with Lady Hortensia.”

  “But what about Marguerite?”

  Garth shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Wasn’t she with you at the party?”

  “No. I was with Lady Hortensia. I held her hand.”

  To Adela’s surprise, she saw that Garth was blushing. He ducked his head, then looked up. “I guess I can tell you, Miss Adela. I — I’m in love with her!”

  “With Marguerite,” Adela clarified.

  “No, Miss Adela!” Garth sounded shocked. “It’s Lady Hortensia I love!”

  “But you must have seen Marguerite!”

  Garth shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “If she wasn’t with you, then”— Adela felt as if her legs had turned to sand —“that means she’s missing!”

  “Is she, then?” said Garth without sounding as if he cared one way or the other.

  “Oh, Garth! This is going to sound ridiculous, but I — I saw something yesterday. At least I think I saw something. It was Lady Hortensia, and
—”

  “Lady Hortensia!” Garth interrupted. “Oh, Miss Adela, did I tell you about her? How she let me hold her hand at supper?”

  “Marguerite was in the garden with her,” Adela continued. “I was there; they didn’t see me. And Hortensia — well, she did something to Marguerite. She . . .” How, Adela wondered, could this not sound ridiculous? “Well, I thought I saw her turn Marguerite into a daisy!”

  She waited for Garth’s reaction.

  Which was a grin. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” said Garth.

  “What?”

  “Lady Hortensia! She’s so beautiful and kind and —”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “What?”

  “I said that I think I saw Hortensia change Marguerite into a daisy — using magic or . . . or something like that.”

  Garth chuckled. “You must’ve been imagining things, Miss Adela.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “At least I hope I was. Only, I saw other things, too. There was a magpie, and it talked to me.”

  Garth’s chuckle erupted into full laughter. “A talking magpie!”

  “Well, I know it sounds idiotic! But I can’t help but wonder if . . . Garth, what if Hortensia is some kind of witch?”

  “A witch!”

  “I might have imagined what I saw — maybe I’m going crazy — but what if I’m not?”

  Garth shook his head. “Lady Hortensia is not a witch, Miss Adela. She’s kind and beautiful and . . .” He paused, as if searching for the perfect word. “Did I tell you that she let me hold her hand?”

  Only about a hundred times, thought Adela.

  “She put her hand on my elbow, and I thought I would die, Miss Adela, right then and there. Then I got to lead her into the banquet hall, and I got to sit next to her the whole time. She let me hold her hand all through supper!”

  For a moment, Garth looked blissful. Then his face fell, and he gave a groan.

  “What is it?” asked Adela. Was Garth remembering something Hortensia had done? Something not right? Something . . . magic?

  “The thing is — I don’t know if she loves me! She wants me to be her gardener. That’s good, isn’t it?”